Wildwood Dancing Page 6

  There was too much to attend to—too much to think about. I longed for a whole day on my own with Gogu and absolutely nothing to do. It was hard not to let this show in my letter. I must not worry Father; if he believed we were coping well, that would surely help him recover more quickly. Foolishly, I had hoped to hear from him by now, but no message had come. I had expected the impossible. Constanţa was far away—letters took many weeks to travel such a distance, even supposing there was someone to bring them.

  Paula and Stela are helping Florica around the house, I added, and Iulia has been doing her best. These days, Iulia’s best was falling a little short of what it might be, but I didn’t tell Father that. Now that the nights were growing longer and colder, it was a trial getting her out of bed in the mornings. She hated outside jobs like filling the wood baskets and raking out the chicken coop and feeding the pigs.

  “Why can’t one of you do it?” she would whine, her nose red with cold, the rest of her face icy-pale under her rabbit-fur hat.

  And I would tell her what Father would, if he were home: “We all do our share.”

  We are in good health, I wrote. Florica and Petru ask to be remembered to you. Father, I hope very much that your own health is improving in the warmer air of the seacoast. If you are well enough to write, it would be wonderful to hear from you. We send our fondest love. We all miss you, even Gogu. Your affectionate daughter, Jena.

  I sealed the letter, put away the quill, and replaced the stopper on the ink pot. Delivery must wait until Uncle Nicolae had a man traveling in the right direction. I hoped that would be soon.

  The day before Full Moon, a cart came with Father’s goods from the east. Somewhat grudgingly, the two men who had driven the cart up to Piscul Dracului unloaded the bundles and boxes. They carried them into our storeroom, then dropped them unceremoniously on the stone floor. Paula and I had weighed out the correct payment in silver pieces some time ago and stored it in a box with a very good lock. The men tried to argue with me over the amount, but I flourished a document with both Father’s and Salem bin Afazi’s signatures on it. After a while they took the silver and left, their tempers much improved by the appearance of a smiling Tati with a bottle of ţuicǎ and a cloth full of spice cakes for the road.

  The rest of the day was spent checking the consignment in full and making sure everything was safely stored until it was time for each item to be sold. Fabrics had to be kept dry and protected from dust and moths; spices had to be tightly sealed and out of the light. Carpets were best unrolled and layered with padded cloth.

  The chamber we used for storage was huge. We imagined it had once housed grand entertainments in the early days of Piscul Dracului. But the polished marble of the floor had been badly damaged long ago, and the slender, vine-wreathed columns rising gracefully to the painted ceiling bore their share of cracks and chips. Practical shelving had been erected where once elegant lords and ladies might have sat on benches, listening to fine music.

  All five of us unpacked the boxes and crates. Hard work as this job was, we loved it. It was like the best kind of treasure hunt. Salem bin Afazi’s consignments were always full of exotic surprises.

  Stela found a box full of tiny glass phials and flasks filled with a variety of sweet perfumes: spicy, floral, musky, pungent. She began to set them out in a row by color, handling each with careful fingers.

  Paula had discovered books destined for the monastery near Sibiu: a most precious cargo. Now she sat cross-legged on the marble, spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, engrossed in an old text bound in dark leather.

  The rest of us were working together, for there were rolled-up carpets in this consignment, and each had to be checked in its turn and set away. They were long and heavy. By the time we reached the last of them, our backs were aching.

  Stela had packed away the bottles and put the box on a shelf. Now she was investigating a basket of curious toys—wooden bees, and dragonflies, and bats, that whirred and buzzed and flapped their wings when they were pushed along. Gogu was by her side, enthralled. His eyes bulged with fascinated apprehension. “They’re not real, Gogu,” I heard my sister say. “Not really real.”

  “Oh, look at this!”

  Iulia had begun emptying a crate of fabrics. Tati had unwrapped the protective covering of the first bundle to check for imperfections and water damage.

  “Oh, it’s so lovely, like cobweb!” Tati lifted a length of the silk cloth between her hands. It was not-quite-white—the color of a pale spring flower with the smallest hint of sunshine to soften its stark purity. The cloth was exceptionally fine and clung to Tati’s fingers. The whole surface was closely embroidered with a pattern of butterflies done in the same subtle color as the background, so they showed best when light shone through the sheer fabric. Here and there an eye or wing or antenna was accented by tiny pearls, by miniature crystals, by odd glass beads with swirling patterns in them.

  “Just wait,” I said. “As soon as the wife of one voivode appears in this, the others will be knocking down our door, wanting something just the same, only better.”

  “Oh, Jena.” Tati was holding the silk up against her cheek; it was plain to me that she had fallen in love. “This is so …”

  “There is quite a lot of it,” Iulia remarked, eyes thoughtful. “And it’s been ages since Tati had a new gown.”

  “If we all worked on it, we could get it finished for tomorrow night,” Paula said without taking her eyes off her book.

  “Oh, yes!” declared Stela, clapping her hands and making Gogu jump.

  “What?” asked Tati, who had been standing there in a daze.

  “How many yards do you need?” I asked her. “Iulia, pass me the shears.”

  “Oh, we shouldn’t—” Tati protested, but her eyes were alight.

  “Iulia’s right, there’s plenty of it,” I said. “Father won’t mind, and I’ve already signed for the cargo. We won’t be taking much. You’re not exactly a big girl. You’ll need an under-dress with this, it’s almost transparent.”

  “I have an old silk shift we can use,” Tati said, coming back to herself. “Are you sure, Jena? Four yards, I think. It’s a lot of sewing in one day. We have to unpack the rest of this first.”

  “A project will be good for us,” I said, wielding the shears. This would make a nice change from staring at columns of figures and worrying. “Let’s hope we have no unexpected visitors before tomorrow night.”

  Tati went off with Paula and Stela to make a start while Iulia and I got the rest of the cargo unpacked, labeled, and stored. By the time we’d finished, Tati had cut most of the pieces and Paula was busy altering the silk shift. The sun set early and fine work was difficult by lamplight. When we went down to eat supper, our minds were elsewhere, and both Florica and Petru gave us funny looks.

  “We’re worn out,” Iulia said, helping herself to a second bowl of ciorbă. “That must be some kind of record, unpacking a whole shipment in one day. Tomorrow I’m going to do absolutely nothing.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” I snapped, picking up her cue. It was essential to cover our tracks by acting as we usually would; we always made sure that Petru and Florica got no inkling that the days leading up to Full Moon were different from any others. This time, with the need for a full day’s intensive sewing, we required additional cover. In Florica’s mind, there would be no reason for us to spend so long on such a frivolous creation. When would Tati need a dancing dress? With Father away, the most exciting outing we could expect was a trip to Uncle Nicolae’s to take coffee with Aunt Bogdana.

  “We have mending for you to do,” Tati said calmly. “I’m planning to go right through Paula’s and Stela’s things, letting down hems, repairing broken fastenings, adding a few trimmings.…” As Iulia began a protest, she added, “It’s only fair. Paula and Stela always get clothes last, so they should at least be able to wear them without needing to worry about holes. There are probably one or two more garments of y
ours that Paula could be wearing, Iulia—you’re really shooting up this year.”

  “I’ll help,” Stela piped up, understanding what this was about.

  “So will I,” said Paula. “I wouldn’t mind that skirt of Iulia’s with the braid around the hem. I’ve noticed she can’t do up the waistband anymore.”

  “Are you calling me fat?” Iulia’s eyes flashed outrage and Paula flinched.

  “A man likes a woman with a bit of flesh on her,” Florica said, a little smugly. Her own form was ample. “He doesn’t want an armful of skin and bones. You’re growing into beauties, all of you, in your different ways.”

  Iulia had pushed her bowl away with the soup half eaten.

  “You’re not fat,” I told her. “You have the same kind of figure as Mother had—and Father thought she was the loveliest woman in all Transylvania. He told me so.”

  “Early to bed tonight,” Tati said briskly. “You all need a good night’s sleep so you can work hard for me tomorrow. Florica, I think we’ll do the mending in our room. We can sit around the little stove and keep our fingers warm, and we won’t get in your way.”

  “If you’re sure,” Florica said. All of us knew she would be happy to have her kitchen to herself for once. Since Father’s departure, we had taken all our meals there. The formal dining room with its silk carpet and gleaming oak table seemed cold and unwelcoming without him.

  Petru was not at supper. When questioned, Florica said tersely that he had gone to bed early. “He’s tired, Mistress Jena. We’re none of us getting younger. He says the fences around the eastern side of the woods won’t last the winter—they’ll need mending, or wolves will be at the sheep. It’s a big job.”

  I said nothing. This was the kind of work for which Dorin would have hired extra help, the help I did not seem to be able to secure. Petru had been looking gray and exhausted even at breakfast time. He was so much a part of the fabric of Piscul Dracului, I had forgotten he was an old man. Guilt gnawed at me.

  Tati made the younger ones go to bed straight after supper. Without a good sleep tonight, we’d be blundering through Full Moon, dancing with our eyelids half shut. She and I stayed up a little later, working on the shaping of the new gown.

  “Jena?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I wonder if that young man will be there again tomorrow night.”

  “You mean the one in the black coat?” I had almost forgotten him; I’d been too busy even to think about the Other Kingdom. “Who knows? I don’t know why you’re interested. All he did was stand around looking mournful and showing how long he could stare at you without blinking.”

  “Maybe he’s shy.”

  “Shy people don’t go out of their way to look different. Besides, he was with the Night People. I wish they’d go back where they came from. I don’t like the stories I’ve heard about them. They disturb me.”

  “Oh well,” said Tati dismissively, “it doesn’t really matter. What do you think about the sleeves, Jena? Narrow at the wrist, or cut in a bell shape?”

  Tati sewed the last stitches in the hem at about the same time the following night, surrounded by the rest of us in our dancing finery. It was piercing cold outside. I had felt winter’s bite earlier, when I had taken a break from sewing to perform some essential tasks. Petru was out on the farm, and Florica could not do everything. By the time I had replenished the wood baskets, taken a steaming mash out to the huddled chickens, and ascertained that the storeroom was staying dry, my teeth were chattering and my ears ached with cold. Tonight we wore fur hats, heavy lined cloaks, and outdoor boots. We carried our dancing slippers. In our bedchamber the chill wind was slipping in through every crack and chink it could find. Shivering, Tati stood close by the stove to take off her day dress and put on the new gown.

  “Come on!” urged Iulia.

  I gave my elder sister’s hair a quick brushing. The gown floated around her like a cloud of mist; her eyes were bright. I helped her put on her thick woolen cloak, blue-dyed, and pull up the fur-lined hood. In the pocket of my green gown, I had tucked Gogu into an old glove made of sheepskin. He did rather spoil the line of my skirt, but I couldn’t have him catching cold.

  A freezing draft swirled and eddied up the spiral staircase; it tangled and teased its way along the Gallery of Beasts, seeking out victims. The gargoyles had retreated into whatever niches and cavities they could find between the stones. I spotted a group of them clustered together like bats, up in a corner. Nobody wanted to come out tonight.

  On the shores of the lake, we stamped our feet and rubbed our gloved hands together, our breath turning to vapor as we watched the line of small lights draw closer. A thin layer of ice crusted the lake’s surface. We could hear its shifting music as the boats broke through. By next Full Moon, the water would be hard frozen.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” muttered Stela. “I’m turning into an icicle.”

  One, two, three, four boats nudged in to shore. One by one, my sisters stepped in: Stela with a blue-bearded dwarf, Paula with a gap-toothed wizard, Iulia with tall Grigori. As Sten stepped from the fourth boat and reached out his hand to help me in, I cast my eyes about, confused. Tati was still standing beside me on the shore, waiting. Gogu began to tremble. I could feel it even through the thick sheepskin.

  “What about my sister?”

  Sten mumbled something. I got Gogu out, glove and all, and held him close to my chest under my cloak.

  “What did you say?”

  “Late,” said Sten. “He’s running late. Step in, young lady. And the young master there. That’s it.” Without further ado, the troll shoved his pole hard into the mud and we shot off across the water in a tinkle of swirling ice, leaving Tati all alone on the shore. I was opening my mouth to protest when I saw the last boat coming. As the craft emerged through the layers of mist, I saw the pale length of the willow pole first, and the white hands holding it—then the black-coated form and ashen, solemn features of that young man, the one who had spent the night of last Full Moon standing unnaturally still with his eyes on my sister. I only got a glimpse, because Sten seemed to think he was in a race and must win; he dug the pole deep and we surged forward, making an icy wave.

  “Perhaps we might wait for the others?” I suggested shakily as we stepped out on the opposite shore—so far ahead of the rest that even Stela’s boat had not yet emerged from the mist. Then I whispered, “It’s all right, Gogu, we’re there now.”

  My boatman bowed low. For a troll, he had exceptionally good manners.

  “That young man,” I said, “the one poling the last boat … do you know who he is?”

  “Night People,” Sten grunted. “Rubbish. Should go back where they came from, if you ask me. Heard nothing but bad about them.”

  “If he’s rubbish, how is it he was chosen to be my sister’s boatman?”

  “Ileana tolerates them. Our visitors. He probably went to her. About our dance—can I have that one where we toss our partners up in the air? I was a champion back home.” Sten had traveled far to settle in this forest. His home was to the northwest, in a land he had told me was even more icy than ours—though that was hard to believe. “I made a bet with Grigori.”

  “What bet?” I asked suspiciously, all the time watching as my sisters came into view, one by one.

  “Who can throw who highest. I’ll win, of course.”

  “All right.” I grinned; I never could resist a good bet. Then my grin faded. All my sisters were now arriving—all but Tati. “He’s so slow,” I murmured. “And he’s strange. He never says a word. He never even opens his mouth.”

  “Uh-huh,” the troll said. “That’d be the teeth.”

  “What?”

  “The teeth. You know, Night People teeth. He doesn’t want you to see them. In particular, he doesn’t want her to see them.”

  This terrified me. Surely the Night People could have only one reason for showing interest in human girls, and it was nothing to do with dancing or making polite co
nversation. I drew breath to call out for Tati. But at that moment, the last boat came into view. The pale young man guided it without ever taking his eyes off his passenger, who was sitting very still in her hooded cloak. They glided to shore. He stepped out and offered her his hand. Tati disembarked with her usual grace and spoke what must have been a polite thank-you. There seemed nothing untoward about it at all. Teeth or no teeth, perhaps I was just being silly to feel such misgivings. This was Tati, after all: my big sister. At sixteen, surely she knew how to look after herself.

  “Come on, then,” I said briskly. “If we’re going to win this bet, maybe we should get in some practice.”

  It was a good night. The magic of the Other Kingdom made my weariness fall away. I was enveloped by the sound of the music, the tantalizing smells of the sweetmeats, and the glorious whirl of color under the ancient oaks. In the human world autumn was well advanced, but here in Dancing Glade we could shed our hats and cloaks, take off our boots and put on our party slippers, for the air was balmy and on the lush grass flowers bloomed.

  There was a particular tree whose inhabitants looked after items of apparel until it was time to go home. It was full of odd, small folk with snub noses and long arms, who simply reached out, donned cloak or hood or boots, and settled in the branches to wait. Some items were fought over—Iulia’s rabbit-skin hat seemed to be a favorite. I wondered how well it would survive the tug-of-war that was taking place, high off the ground, to an accompaniment of screeching and spitting.