Juliet Marillier - Wildwood Dancing

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“I expect that one of us will stay at Piscul Dracului, married or unmarried,” I said, struggling to stay courteous. “We love the house, we love the forest, and we love Father. Of course we wouldn’t leave him all alone.” It was interesting that our aunt never raised one obvious possibility: that one of us should wed Cezar. Not that any of us would want to. My sisters dis-liked him and I—I was not sure I wanted to marry anyone at all.

Not without love. And whatever I felt toward my cousin, it was not the kind of passion I had heard about in tales, the feeling that swept you off your feet and into a different world. It was foolish to expect that, of course. In choosing a husband, practical considerations almost always came before the inclina-tions of the heart. This was something Aunt Bogdana had explained many times before.

A certain expression had entered my aunt’s blue eyes, one I knew from experience meant she was planning something. “I’ll have a word with Nicolae on the party question,” she said. “It’s not yet too late in the season, if we move quickly. It is a long time since Vârful cu Negur˘a has seen a night of celebration.”

“There’s no need, Aunt Bogdana.” My heart sank at the thought of yet another complication in my busy existence.

“Believe me, Jena, there’s every need. What if the worst should occur? Nicolae is hardly in a position to support the five of you indefinitely. Of course, we must hope poor Teodor recovers from this terrible malady and that he returns to us by springtime. But, as good daughters, you are duty bound to prepare yourselves—”

Behind Aunt Bogdana, the door of the chamber opened a 84

crack. I glanced up, surprised that Daniela had been so quick.

Instead my eyes met Iulia’s, and I turned cold. She was standing just beyond the doorway, motioning frantically for me to come out. We had not expected the hunt back before dusk. My sister’s face was pinched and strange, her eyes dark with shock.

She stayed out of view of both Paula and our aunt.

“Excuse me a moment,” I said, putting down my handiwork and going casually to the door.

The moment I stepped out, Iulia clutched violently at my arms. She was babbling something about the snow and an arrow. “The blood,” she kept saying. “So much blood.”

I drew her along the hallway, out of Aunt Bogdana’s earshot. “Take a deep breath, Iulia, and tell me slowly.” I was starting to hear noises from outside now, horses’ hooves, men calling out, doors slamming, running steps on gravel. “That’s it, good girl. Now tell me. What’s happened?” My heart had begun to race.

“The man couldn’t see—the light was funny in the woods, like dusk, almost. . . . It was the deer he was supposed to hit, but the crossbow bolt—it went straight into his chest, Jena!

The blood, I’ve never seen so much blood. . . .” Iulia was stammering and shaking.

“Who?” I gripped her shoulders, my heart pounding.

“Who’s been hurt, Iulia?”

“Uncle Nicolae,” she whispered. “Oh, Jena—Uncle Nicolae’s dead.”

A moment later the burly figure of Cezar appeared in the hallway, still in his outdoor woolens and his hunting boots, the 85

front of his tunic soaking wet. And red; all red. I felt sick.

Uncle Nicolae—kindly, smiling Uncle Nicolae—who only this morning had hugged us in welcome and made jokes as the hunt rode off.

“I must talk to Mother.” Cezar’s voice was cold and tight.

“Paula’s in with her,” I said, struggling to be calm. “You can’t walk in like that—you must change your clothing, at least.”

My cousin looked down at his blood-drenched garb. It was as if he hardly understood what he was seeing. “I must tell Mother,” he said blankly.

“Cezar,” I said, blinking back tears. “Wait, while someone finds you a clean shirt.”

“Oh.” Cezar seemed to shake himself, to force himself into the here and now. “A shirt . . .”

“I’ll ask someone to fetch one.” Iulia was making an effort to help, even as she wept.

“Tell them to hurry,” I said. Noises from the hall suggested they were bringing Uncle Nicolae in. Someone was crying.

“I’ll stay, if you want,” I offered. My hand was still on my cousin’s arm. He felt as tightly wound as a clock spring.

“No,” Cezar said, frowning at me as if he’d only just noticed I was there. “No, you must take your sisters home.” Then, after a pause during which he stared at the wall: “Thank you, Jena.”

We stood there in silence until a servant came with the shirt, which Cezar put on. The servant bore away the tunic.

There was a trail of red droplets on the stone floor. I wondered if our uncle had bled to death in his son’s arms. The awfulness 86

of it made it difficult to say anything. If this had been someone else, I would have put my arms around him and held him—but Cezar was not the sort of man folk embraced. I hugged Iulia instead, and she clung to me.

“Go now,” Cezar said, squaring his shoulders. Watching him, I saw a frightened eight-year-old about to give his parents the news that their elder son would not be coming home.

“There’s nothing you can do here.”

He opened the door of Aunt Bogdana’s sewing room. A moment later Paula came scurrying out, workbasket over her arm, an expression of surprise on her face. The door closed. I gathered my sisters and led them away, muttering the terrible news to Paula as we went. Somewhere deep inside I was willing my aunt not to make a sound until we were out of the house. I put a hand in my pocket, feeling for Gogu. He was all scrunched up tight in the bottom corner, as closed in on himself as Cezar had been.

Uncle Nicolae was lying on a board. They had brought him into the hall and laid him across two benches. There was a blanket over his still form with a creeping bloodstain on it.

His dog stood nearby, tail down, shivering. There were men everywhere—grooms, villagers, friends of Cezar’s who had come for the hunt—standing about, grim-faced and quiet. I just wanted to go. I wanted to be home, to be with Tati and Stela, to be able to lie on my bed and cry. I made myself stop beside Uncle Nicolae. Part of me was still refusing to believe we had lost him. He can’t be dead, he can’t. It must be a bad dream. . . .

I touched his ashen cheek with my finger. It was cold; cold 87

as frost. This was no dream, but the worst sort of reality. I muttered a prayer; my sisters echoed the words. We had reached Amen when Aunt Bogdana’s scream tore through the house.

My stomach churned. A wave of dizziness passed through me. You’re fifteen—nearly grown-up, my inner voice reminded me. I took my sisters’ hands in mine. “Come on, then,” I said. “We’re going home.”

Dear Father, I wrote, by now Cezar’s messenger will have brought you the terrible news of Uncle Nicolae’s death. They held a poman˘a seven days later. Florica and Petru came with us, as well as Ivan and his family. There were lots of Uncle Nicolae’s friends, and folk from all over the valley, including Judge Rinaldo and, of course, Father Sandu, who spoke very well. The winter has already begun to pinch, and many people are in need of warm clothing and other supplies. All of Uncle Nicolae’s things were given away.

Aunt Bogdana wanted you to have his best embroidered waistcoat and his special writing materials; I have put them away for you. We have not seen Aunt since then, but Cezar has been at church. He told me his mother is prostrate with grief and wants no visitors.

I paused, quill between my fingers. It was cold in Father’s workroom. Outside, snow lay everywhere: piled up in drifts around Piscul Dracului, frosting the trees with white, blanketing the many odd angles and planes of our roof. Icicles made delicate fringes around the eaves, and the ponds were frozen solid. It was almost Full Moon again—two months since Father had gone away—and we still hadn’t received a single message from him.