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upward. I liked this woman immensely.
“Traveling tonic. For motion-related illness,” she said. “Helps with a fragile constitution. And miserable weather.”
Thomas snorted, but I noticed he checked her freshly changed foot brick to be sure it still produced heat. Snow was coming down a bit heavier the higher we climbed in the mountains, and our carriage was quite frigid.
“Mrs. Harvey also uses her traveling tonic before retiring to her room. Some nights after I come in from Dr. Wadsworth’s laboratory there are fresh biscuits laid out in the foyer,” he said. “With little recollection on her part of how they were made.”
“Oh, hush,” she said, not unkindly. “I was prescribed this tonic for the trip. Don’t go spreading half-truths, it’s unbecoming. I always recall my baking and only take a nip afterward. And I make those biscuits because someone has quite the sweet tooth. Don’t let him tell you otherwise, Miss Wadsworth.”
I chuckled as the friendly old woman took another sip of her “traveling tonic” and shifted back beneath the thick wool covers, her lids already drooping. That explained her awe-inspiring ability to sleep through most of this journey. She would get along with my aunt Amelia quite well. Aunt was rather fond of sipping spirits before bed herself.
Thomas stretched his limbs out across the way, encroaching on my bench seat, though for once he seemed unaware of his transgression. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet most of the ride. Traveling never sat well with him, and this part of our excursion wasn’t doing him any favors. Perhaps I needed to slip him some of Mrs. Harvey’s tonic as well. It might offer us both a bit of peace before we arrived at the academy.
I studied him while he was otherwise preoccupied. His eyes had a far-off glaze to them—he was here with me, yet his mind wasn’t anywhere close. I was having a particularly difficult time not thinking about the victim from the train myself. Or the strange drawing of the dragon. I wanted to speak to Thomas about it but didn’t want to do so in front of our chaperone. The last thing poor Mrs. Harvey needed was to be exposed to any more frightful situations. When we’d stopped to refresh our horses and have a quick luncheon a short while back, she’d hardly eaten a thing and flinched at each noise from the inn’s busy kitchens.
Thomas stared at the woods and the falling snow outside. I wanted to gaze out at the massive trees but was afraid of the images my disturbed mind might conjure up. Animals loping through the underbrush, decapitated heads stuck on pikes. Or other horrid tricks and illusions.
“Feeling unwell?”
He flicked his attention to me. “Is that your way of saying I don’t appear my best?”
Without meaning to, I dropped my gaze to his cutaway coat. The midnight hue of both it and the matching waistcoat offset his dark features well, though I had a feeling it was something he was quite aware of. The way his own gaze lingered on my lips confirmed that thought.
“You seem off, is all.” I didn’t bother pointing out that it was freezing in our rented Growler and, if he wasn’t sick with fever, he ought to wear his overcoat instead of using it as a blanket. Letting that observation go, I lifted a shoulder and proceeded to ignore him. He shifted forward, focus drifting away from Mrs. Harvey.
“Haven’t you noticed?” He tapped his fingers along his thigh. I could have sworn he was creating some epic saga using Morse code but didn’t interrupt him. “I haven’t touched a smoke in days. I find the excess nervous energy to be… a nuisance.”
“Why don’t you try to sleep, then?”
“I can think of a few more intriguing things we might do to pass the time other than sleep, Wadsworth. Brasov is still hours away.”
I sighed heavily. “I swear, if you came up with something a bit less repetitive, I’d kiss you for the intellectual stimulation alone.”
“I was speaking of something else entirely. Something of myths and legends and other noteworthy topics to assist with your Romanian studies. You’re the one who assumed I was talking about kissing.” He sat back with a satisfied grin and resumed his inspection of the forest as we slowly ambled by. “Makes one wonder how often you’re thinking about it.”
“You’ve discovered my secret. I think about it constantly.” I didn’t so much as crack a smile, enjoying the confusion playing over his features as he silently puzzled out my sincerity. “You were supposedly saying something worthy of note.” He blinked at me as if I’d spoken a language he couldn’t identify. “Hard to believe, I know.”
“I, noble specimen that I am, was going to tell you about the strigoi. But I enjoy unearthing your secrets much better. Let’s hear more about your thoughts.”
He allowed himself a full scan of my person, seeming to pluck up a thousand details. A smile slowly curved his lips.
“Judging from the way you’ve straightened up and the slight intake of breath, I’d say you’re at least considering kissing me this moment. Naughty, naughty, Wadsworth. What would your pious aunt have to say?”
I kept my focus fixed on his face, avoiding the desire to glance at his full mouth. “Tell me more about the stri-guy. What are they?”
“Strigoi, like ‘boy,’” Thomas said, his Romanian accent perfect, “are undead that take the form of those you trust. Those you’d be only too happy to invite into your home. Then they attack. Usually, it’s a relative who’s passed on. It’s hard for us to turn away those we love,” he added quietly, as if he knew how deeply those words might cut.
I tried—and failed—not to recall the way my mother’s limbs had twitched when the electricity snaked through her body. Would I have welcomed her back from Death’s Dominion, no matter how frightened I was? The answer disturbed me. I did not believe there was any line one wouldn’t cross when it came to those one loved. Morals crumpled when faced with heartache. Some fissures within us would forever remain irreparable.
“There must be some explanation for this,” I said. “I highly doubt Vlad Dracula has risen from the grave. Undead are simply gothic stories told to frighten and entertain.”
Thomas turned his gaze to mine and held it. We both knew that sometimes stories and reality collided, with devastating effects. “I agree. Unfortunately, some villagers do not. When strigoi are spotted, the entire family—or anyone who’s been affected—travels to the grave of the offender, digs them up, rips their rotting heart out, and burns them on the spot. Oh,” he added, leaning forward. “I almost forgot. Once they’ve burned the undead ‘monster,’ they drink the ashes. It’s the only way to be sure the strigoi can’t come back or inhabit another host.”
“Sounds a bit… much,” I said, scrunching my nose.
A grin slowly spread across Thomas’s face. “Romanians never do anything halfheartedly, Wadsworth. Whether it’s going to war, or fighting for love.”
I blinked at the sincerity in his tone. Before I could comment, the driver whistled to the horses and drew back on the reins, halting the carriage. I sat forward, heart pounding as thoughts of roving bands of thieves and murderers swept through my mind. “What’s happening? Why are we stopped?”
