Zuzana stopped. The silence drew out and then, in spite of herself, she told him something she didn’t want to say. She knew that there would be no turning back once she said it.
“Janos, I…” She forced herself to go on. “I overheard a conversation between the Countess and the dark stranger, through the door of the alcove.”
“What dark stranger?”
“A tall man who visits her, always at night. All the servants fear him and he never shows his face. She was saying that the blood of Slovak peasants has not the purity to perfect her complexion. Three noblewomen from impoverished families are to arrive in the next few months, one is already on her way. They have been invited to learn the manners of high nobility from the Countess herself.”
Janos stared at Zuzana, his jaw slack. “Would she dare to kill nobility?”
“She is mad, Janos!” she shouted, now able to say it at last. The wind snatched her voice. “Do you not understand?”
Janos pulled her close, looking over his shoulder. His warm breath whispered in her ear. “If she harms a member of a titled family, the King could proceed against her.”
Zuzana drew back, her spine rigid.
“The first young countess will arrive any day. The Countess Zichy of Ecsed. She is of ancient noble blood from the Countess’s homeland, but her family is impoverished. The Countess chose Vida to be her handmaiden.”
Janos nodded grimly. A gust coming off the river lifted his sandy hair.
“Vida will be avenged. They will all be avenged, I swear before God.”
Chapter 38
ASPEN, COLORADO
THE SOLSTICE
DECEMBER 21, 2010
It snowed hard on the solstice. The wind roared up the valley, ripping the remaining leaves from the aspen trees, leaving groves of white skeletons behind.
Main Street was a blur of swirling white. Peering through the windshield of his car, Kyle crept along, looking out for drunken tourists. He slalomed around a staggering man with his skis over his shoulder, clearly a casualty of too much après ski activity, screaming at his pretty, much younger woman companion mincing behind him in furry snowboots.
At the stoplight on Cemetery Lane there was an accident involving three cars. Nothing more than damaged sheet metal—and maybe a couple of DUIs in the offing. Kyle maneuvered slowly around the mess.
“Park here,” said Daisy, a block before the cemetery. “Pull way off the road.”
“Why here?”
“The cops will get suspicious if we park too close.”
“It looks like they have their hands full with traffic accidents. I doubt they can spare anyone to go looking for kids in the dark.”
“Come on. Just do it.”
They parked and Daisy showed him a break in the wrought-iron fence.
“Wow!” he said shining his flashlight on the tall cottonwoods.
Daisy smiled at him in the darkness.
“Normally there would be dozens of Goths here for the solstice. I guess the snowstorm is keeping everyone home.”
They wandered through the quiet of the falling snow. It was snowing more gently under the tangle of branches.
Daisy knelt by a gravestone, brushing off the snow so that Kyle could read the inscription.
“ ‘Dena May Moyers, born 1882, died 1884.’ God, how sad,” Kyle whispered.
Daisy withdrew a carnation from under her coat. The plastic floral sleeve crackled, breaking the stillness.
“May you rest in peace,” she said quietly.
Kyle shone the flashlight at her for a second. Tears streaked her cheeks. “Hey. Are you OK?”
“So many children. So many died. Defenseless.”
“What do you mean, defenseless?”
The sound of scraping startled them. They heard voices.
“Shh!” said Daisy.
Kyle knelt behind the tombstone.
“Shut off your flashlight.”
In the snowfall, it was difficult to see. But they could hear picks and shovels clang against the frozen ground.
“Someone’s digging,” said Kyle.
“A grave robber!” whispered Daisy.
They crept closer, shuffling along the snowy path in a crouch.
They hid behind an enormous cottonwood just close enough to see three men. Two digging and one standing in a black coat and black hat, watching.
He uttered an order in a foreign language.
Daisy saw exactly the spot they were digging. She had knelt at the tombstone only days before, reading the inscription.
The men grunted. One of them cursed as he tried to dig the frozen ground. The pick handle ricocheted out of his hand.
“I know that grave!” whispered Daisy. “That’s Betsy’s father.”
Chapter 39
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 21, 2010
Grace stared out the window as the rain blew hard against the warped panes. She adjusted her glasses on her nose, focusing on the black wrought-iron gate and stone guard station in the distance.