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Bodger had been both angry and aroused, insisting that he would take the satisfaction she had earlier denied him. She had kicked and struggled, but he was stronger than she.
“And then—” She shrugged. “Poof. He stops what he is doing, and makes a sound.”
“What sort of sound?”
“How should I know? Men make all kinds of sounds. Farting, groaning, belching…pff.” She bunched her fingers and flicked them sharply, disposing of men and all their doings with the gesture.
At any rate, Bodger had then dropped heavily to his knees, and still clinging to her dress, had fallen over. The gypsy had rapidly pried loose his fingers and run, thanking the intercession of St. Orgevald.
“Hmm.” A sudden weakness of the heart? An apoplexy? Keegan had said such a thing was possible—and there was no evidence to belie the gypsy’s statement. “Not like Private Koenig, then,” Grey said, watching carefully.
Her head jerked up and she stared hard at him, lips tight.
“Me lord,” said Tom softly behind him. “Ha
“It is not!” the gypsy snapped. “It is Mulengro, as is mine!”
“First things first, if you please, madam,” Grey said, repressing the urge to stand up, as she leaned glowering over him. “Where isHa
“Sister,” she said, biting the word off like a thread. Her lips were tight as a seam, but Grey touched his gorget once again.
“Life,” he said. “And freedom.” He regarded her steadily, watching indecision play upon her features like the wavering shadows on the walls. She had no way of knowing how powerless he was; he could neither condemn nor release her—and nor would anyone else, all being caught up in the oncoming maelstrom of war.
In the end, he had his way, as he had known he would, and sat listening to her in a state that was neither trance nor dream; just a tranquil acceptance as the pieces fell before him, one upon one.
She was one of the women recruited by the Austrians to spread the rumors of the succubus—and had much enjoyed the spreading, judging from the way she licked her lower lip while telling of it. Her sister Ha
Bearing in mind the gossip regarding Siegfried’s paternity, Grey nodded thoughtfully, motioning to her with one hand to go on.
She did. Koenig had gone away with the army, but then had come back, and had had the audacity to visit the Schloss, trying to rekindle the flame with Ha
“Only this time, a fatal dose, I suppose.” Grey had propped his elbow upon his crossed knee, hand under his chin. The tiredness had come back; it hovered near at hand, but was not yet clouding his mental processes.
“I meant it so, yes.” She uttered a short laugh. “But he knew the taste of opium. He threw it at me, and grabbed me by the throat.”
Whereupon she had drawn the dagger she always carried at her belt and stabbed at him—striking upward into his open mouth, and piercing his brain.
“You never saw so much blood in all your life,” the gypsy assured Grey, unconsciously echoing Herr Hьckel.
“Oh, I rather think I have,” Grey said politely. His hand went to his own waist—but, of course, he had left his dagger with Franz. “But pray go on. The marks, as of an animal’s fangs?”
“A nail,” she said, and shrugged.
“So, was it him—Koenig, I mean—was it him tried to snatch little Siggy?” Tom, deeply absorbed in the revelations, could not keep himself from blurting out the question. He coughed and tried to fade back into the woodwork, but Grey indicated that this was a question which he himself found of some interest.
“It can’t have been; Koenig was already dead. But I assume that it was you the boy saw in his chamber?” What did this witch look like?he had asked. Like a witch,the child replied. Did she? She did not look like Grey’s conception of a witch—but what was that, save the fabrication of a limited imagination?
She was tall for a woman, dark, and her face mingled an odd sexuality with a strongly forbidding aspect—a combination that many men would find intriguing. Grey thought it was not something that would have struck Siggy, but something else about her evidently had.
She nodded. She was fingering her ring, he saw, and watching him with calculation, as though deciding whether to tell him a lie.
“I have seen the dowager princess’s medal,” he said politely. “Is she an Austrian, by birth? I assume that you and your sister are.”
The woman stared at him, and said something in her own tongue, which sounded highly uncomplimentary.
“And you think Iam a witch!” she said, evidently translating the thought.
“No, I don’t,” Grey said. “But others do, and that is what brings us here. If you please, madam, let us conclude our business. I expect someone will shortly come for you.” The Schloss was at di
“Well, then.” The gypsy regarded him, her awe at his perspicacity fading back into the usual derision. “It was your fault.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was Princess Gertrude—the dowager. She saw Louisa—that slut”—she spat casually on the floor, almost without pausing, and went on—“making sheep’s eyes at you, and was afraid she meant to marry you. Louisa thought she would marry you and go to England, to be safe and rich. But if she did, she would take with her her son.”
“And the dowager did not wish to be parted from her grandson,” Grey said slowly. Whether the gossip was true or not, the old woman loved the boy.
The gypsy nodded. “So she arranged that we would take the boy—my sister and me. He would be safe with us, and after a time, when the Austrians had killed you all, we would bring him back.”
Ha
“She is with our family,” the gypsy said, with another shrug. “Safe.”
“The ring,” Grey said, nodding at the gypsy’s circlet. “Do you serve the dowager? Is that what it means?”
So much confessed, the gypsy evidently felt now at ease. Casually, she pushed a platter of dead doves aside, and sat down upon the shelf, feet dangling.
“We are Rom,” she said, drawing herself up proudly. “The Rom serve no one. But we have known the Trauchtenbergs—the dowager’s family—for generations, and there is tradition between us. It was her great-grandfather who bought the child who guards the bridge—and that child was the younger brother of my own great-grandfather. The ring was given to my great-grandfather then, as a sign of the bargain.”
Grey heard Tom grunt slightly with confusion, but took no heed. The words struck him as forcibly as a blow, and he could not speak for a moment. The thing was too shocking. He took a deep breath, fighting the vision of Franz’s words—the small, round white skull, looking out at him from the hollow in the bridge.
Sounds of banging and clashing dishes from the scullery nearby brought him to himself, though, and he realized that time was growing short.
“Very well,” he said, as briskly as he could. “I want one last bit of justice, and our bargain is made. Agathe Blomberg.”
“Old Agathe?” The gypsy laughed, and in spite of her missing tooth, he could see how attractive she could be. “How fu