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“Usturoi,” Anastasia whispered, eyes wide.
“What is that?”
“Garlic. I’ve read it’s placed in the mouths of those believed to be… the English call them vampires.”
“That’s actually from a gothic novel.” Ileana snorted. “Strigoi are disposed of differently here.”
I thought back to the organic substance. It definitely fit the description of garlic, and it explained the scent. “My friend said strigoi are burned,” I said carefully. “And all those affected drink the ashes.”
“How vile.” Anastasia sat forward, ravenous for more information. She reminded me of my cousin, except where Liza was obsessed with danger dashed with romance, Anastasia seemed excited solely by the danger part. “Do peasants still do such things here? In Hungary, some villagers are stuck in the old ways. Very superstitious.”
“You’re Hungarian?” I asked. Anastasia nodded. “But you also speak Romanian?”
“Of course. We’re taught it along with our own language. I also know Italian quite well. Not that I get to use it with your classmates.” She shifted her focus to Ileana. I watched the way the maid twisted her napkin in her lap, doing her best to avoid noticing Anastasia’s intent gaze. “How do villagers identify strigoi in town? Or is it like a secret society? Like th
at of the dragonists?”
My attention snapped back to Anastasia. I could have sworn the illustration was burning a hole in my skirt pocket. For a moment, I felt the need to protect this drawing, keep it hidden from everyone until I discovered its origins. Which made absolutely no sense. I withdrew the parchment and set it on the table. “Someone left this in my train compartment after the murder. Do you know what it means, if anything?”
Anastasia stared at the drawing. I had a hard time reading the expression she was guarding. A moment passed.
“Have you ever heard of the Order of the Dragon?” she asked. I shook my head. “Well, they’re—”
“It’s late.” Ileana jumped to her feet and indicated the clock on the mantel. “Moldoveanu will toss me out if I don’t get to work.” She quickly gathered up our breakfast napkins and shoved the lid back on the tray with a clank that set my teeth on edge. “You both should go to the sala de mese. Moldoveanu will be watching.”
“You mean the headmaster doesn’t lock the dining hall doors after a certain time?”
Ileana gave me a pitying look. “He makes threats but doesn’t follow through.”
Without uttering another word, Ileana hurried from the room. Anastasia shook her head and stood. “Peasants are so superstitious. Even the mention of supernatural things makes them jumpy. Come”—she linked her arm through my own—“let’s introduce you to your esteemed peers.”
“Sounds as if a small herd of elephants are charging about the dining hall,” I said to Anastasia as we loitered outside the doors. Feet stomped and lids clattered, the sound of carefree conversation droning over the din.
“They certainly act like a bunch of animals.”
Anxiety twisted its way through the corridors of my innards. I peered inside the great oak doors. A few young men sat at tables, and others lined up to gather breakfast trays along the broad back wall, but Thomas wasn’t among them. I had no idea how so few men could make that much noise in such a large space. The dining hall was grand enough—with the all-white cathedral ceilings and walls trimmed with dark wood that composed the rest of the castle’s interior.
My thoughts turned to fairy tales and folklore. I could see how a castle like this would be inspiring to writers such as the Brothers Grimm. It was certainly dark enough to invoke a macabre atmosphere. I tried not to think about Father and Mother. How they’d read those stories to me and Nathaniel before bed. I needed to write to Father soon; I hoped he was feeling better. His recovery had been slow, but steady.
Suddenly I was bounced against the wall, startled from my reverie and shocked someone had not only bumped into me but also chuckled as if it weren’t an affront to a young woman.
Anastasia sighed. “Miss Wadsworth, allow me to introduce you to Professor Radu. He’ll be teaching you local folclor to round out your assessment course.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t see you there.” Professor Radu fussed with a napkin and inadvertently dropped a piece of bread off his tray. I bent to retrieve it the same time he did, and our heads knocked together. He didn’t even blink. His skull must have been made of granite. I massaged the lump on my own head that was already forming, wincing with the throbbing. “Imi pare rau. I do apologize, Miss Wadsworth. Hope I didn’t spill my porridge on that lovely dress.”
I glanced down at myself, relieved there was no offending porridge on my skirts. With one hand I held out the fallen bread and cautiously prodded the bruise forming under my hairline again with the other. I hoped it had knocked more sense into me than out. It certainly ached enough to make me wonder, though.
“Please don’t trouble yourself, Professor,” I said. “The only thing that’s harmed is your bread, I’m afraid. And perhaps your head, thanks to mine.”
“I’m not sure it was ever all right to begin with,” Anastasia whispered.
“Er… what was that?” Radu asked, focus darting from the bread to Anastasia.
“I said I’m sure it’s still delicious,” she lied.
Plucking the dirt-speckled bread from my fingers as one might snatch a grape from the vine, he took a bite. I hoped my lip wasn’t curling the way Anastasia’s was; I didn’t want to reveal the disgust roiling in my stomach.
“Langosi cu brânza,” he said around the mouthful of bread, bushy brows raised appreciatively. “Fried dough with feta cheese. You must try some—here.”
