“Well, then.” His smile was tender. “I know my wife. Soon, they will too...and then, there will be no lack of welcome.”
It was a hopeful thought. But as Margaret absorbed the full, affectionate faith that shone in his gaze, she couldn’t help but fear that it was entirely misplaced.
The next morning,her husband’s breath stopped as usual with the arrival of dawn’s light, and Margaret found herself hesitating with uncharacteristic indecision before their bedroom door, her leather case firmly held in one hand but her other hand still hovering in the air above the handle.
On the first day of their stay here, she had set to work as had been her firm habit for over fifteen years now, bent over papers and ink. During all the years she’d spent trapped in England, first as a child under her guardians’ control and then as a respectable unmarried lady scholar, that sort of research had been her only option. However, her parents’ old adventuring journals in the case she held were a burning reminder of their dynamically different approach to the great mysteries in life—and now that marriage toa supportive husband had freed her own steps, she had the opportunity to follow them.
She still hadn’t properly resolved any of the clues she’d uncovered in the Paris archives...
But now that she was finally here, in the setting of some of the continent’s most intriguing mysteries, was she really going to ignore her first chance at active fieldwork in years?
Enough. Letting out her held breath in a sigh of irritation, Margaret gave the door handle a quick twist and dropped her case to the floor. She would return for it later.
As she set out down the long and twisting corridor that led towards the staircase, she felt a cold chill brush past her left shoulder. In this dim light, the eyeballs of her spectral host had not been visible, but the sound of his mournful sigh was unmistakable.
“Doomed...”
“And a good morning to you too,” Margaret said crisply, without slowing for an instant.
There. She could be sociable, after all.
Only a disgruntled sniff sounded behind her in response.
Still, the interaction usefully stiffened her spine. By the time she reached the inn’s front door, she was moving with brisk confidence. Even the sight of the lowering grey sky that hovered with tangible pressure above the inn’s small clearing before the dark and leaning press of giant trees could nottarnish her mood.
Shedidtake a moment to regret leaving her umbrella in the carriage, which must be currently locked somewhere inside the stables of a more traditional inn in the closest town—but never mind. At least she understood now why this inn had so stubbornly refused to house any human servants—and both Thomas and their coachman would certainly enjoy their near-holiday for the duration of the Rivens’ stay here. Each evening at dusk, when Lord Riven first rose from his slumber, they would hold themselves ready for an hour, just in case they received a message that their services would be required after all for a night-time outing. However, with no balls or soirees likely to disrupt this splendid isolation, it was understood that both staff members would generally have their time all to themselves, to devote to their own interests and concerns for the duration of their stay, with the carriage and horses at their personal disposal. It was Margaret’s own fault that the umbrella had been forgotten underneath her seat.
But if nothing else, the last decade and a half in England hadcertainlyprepared her to withstand a bit of rain.
As she let the heavy door fall shut behind her, she caught a flash of dark, blurred movement in the corner of one eye. A gust of air shifted against her back, as if something were moving with impossible speed just behind her?—
But when she turned around, all she found was a single, extraordinarily large black feather—raven-likein coloration, if not in size—lying on the ground between her feet and the closed door, still wobbling gently in place after its fall.
“Hmm,” said Margaret, and made a mental note about another of her fellow guests.
Leaving the feather respectfully untouched, she strode forward into the shadows between the trees.
It felt like stepping into another world. Even the air tasted different here, infused with the scent of the giant, looming fir, spruce, and pine trees. Margaret had visited other pine forests as a child, but none of them had held quite this unearthly quality of light. The deep, dark green of the Black Forest lent nuance to the sunlight that filtered through the trees’ thick canopy, and if it weren’t for the cheerful call of birds in the near distance, Margaret might have wondered superstitiously if she had stepped through a mythical fairy portal.
Fortunately, she was a rational nineteenth-century scholar who knewfarbetter than to imagine any such nonsense—there was only one world, no matter how many supernatural creatures walked within it—but still, she did feel a jab of sudden sympathy for earlier travelers who’d thought these woods enchanted and made up impossibilities to explain it.
Itwasan acknowledged truth, among scholars, that more supernatural creatures had found their origin in the Black Forest than in any other geographical area of all the various Germanic principalities combined. However, every legendhad a rational explanation at its core. Thus far, Margaret had spent most of her own academic career focusing on the Rose of Normandy, the infamous supernatural artifact that had brought both werewolves and vampires to Britain before being lost to the world’s knowledge; now that she had resolved that particular quest, it was time to turn her attention to other mysteries.
She had spent ages poring over maps of this landscape yesterday; now, she narrowed her eyes as she looked around the deep green expanse, full of scattered branches, pinecones, and moss, but bare of any visible walking paths. In her enthusiasm to set off, she had accidentally left behind the expensive new pocket compass she had bought in Paris, but if she was right about which direction was north...
There.Scooping up a fallen branch from the damp, moss-covered ground, she turned to her right and set off briskly through the trees in the direction thatoughtto lead her towards the first spot that demanded personal investigation.
Unfortunately, every one of the maps that she’d managed to acquire had been lacking in detail. There were a number of fallen silver birch trees that Margaret had to clamber over along the way, as well as stands of spruce too thick for her to pierce, unexpected slopes, deceptively boggy patches, and other precarious dips in the hilly ground that forced her to take a more circuitous route than she had planned. More than once, a sudden rattling or rustling close behind made her pause to peer warily around in a slow circle,imagining what wilder sorts of animals might be watching, camouflaged in that thick greenery.
She had never considered herself to have a poor sense of direction, but she was beginning to feel a sense of real unease about how, exactly, she would find her way back to the inn.
The unmistakable burbling sound of water ahead summoned her like a beacon, removing all her doubts and quickening her steps despite all the obstacles in her way.
“Aha!” Scarcely ten minutes later, nearly out of breath but entirely triumphant, Margaret scrambled and slid over a tall and slippery stack of moss-bedecked boulders tofinallydiscover the source of that inviting sound of water...
Only to find her fellow guest, Fräulein Leonie, kneeling on the grassy bank before a small and sheltered waterfall, washing her face in the rock-studded stream that rippled gently past.
“Oh,no.” The young nachzehrer lurched backwards and flung her dripping hands before her in self-defense. “Are you actuallyfollowingme now?”
