16

Agnes

Peter woke late to find that his father had already left the hut. Pulling on his boots and coat, he stamped out into the snowy morning and looked around. The river flowed slowly by as usual, there was no sign of anything strange. No sign even of the hoofprints of the other horses from the previous night. He looked into the stable and saw that Sultan was gone too.

After watching the Gypsies leave, Peter had waited awhile, shivering in the stable. Then he’d gone back to find Sultan, who’d seemed perfectly happy to come home. He had stabled the horse, and gone in.

That was when the trouble began.

More arguments, more drink.

It seemed reasonable enough to Peter to ask why they, or rather why Tomas, had received a visit from Gypsies they had never met before. And what it was the Gypsies wanted, so late at night.

Tomas, however, was saying nothing.

He flung himself around the hut, jar of drink in hand, spilling most of it, drinking some. Peter had never seen him this bad, but for once he was not afraid of his father. He could see something was really wrong. Tomas was agitated as well as drunk, and Peter demanded to know why.

That was when Tomas hit him.

There had been no more talk after that. Peter had gone to bed.

 

Now he stood in the morning air. Where was his father? He felt the side of his head, where Tomas had struck him, but it didn’t occur to him to feel sorry for himself, just as it didn’t occur to him to be angry with his father.

Finally he thought to check the toolbox in the hut. Tomas’s axe and the best saw were missing. So he had gone to work, that was something, though he was likely to be still drunk from the night before. Well, the cold and the work would sober him up soon enough.

There were sudden footsteps on the bridge, light and fast.

“Peter! Peter!”

Agnes.

She ran to him, right into his arms, without saying another word.

“Agnes! What is it? What’s wrong?”

She said nothing, but trembled against him, her arms clutching him tightly.

“Have you run all the way from Chust?”

At last she lifted her head from his chest and stared up into his eyes. Her face was full of fright.

“There’s—” She broke off and began to sob.

“What?” cried Peter, infected by her fear.

“Another death. Last night,” Agnes wailed.

Peter grabbed her shoulders and held her away, needing to see her face, to see her speak, in order to understand, to believe.

“Another death?”

“Stefan,” she cried. “You know Stefan? The miller’s son? They found him in the street this morning. I saw—Oh, Peter.” She stopped again and began to cry, burying her face in Peter’s jacket.

“That’s terrible,” Peter said. It was all he could think of to say. Poor Stefan. But at least…

At least what? He was dreaming of a girl, and not the one who stood in front of him now. He forced himself to think clearly, to try to help Agnes.

She was mumbling now, almost incoherently, and Peter caught only two words.

“The blood!”

He steadied himself, knowing he needed to calm her down, though he felt far from calm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re safe. You’re all right. It’s terrible about Stefan, but you’re safe. And I’ll make sure it stays that way. I’ll come to your house and stay through the night. Nothing will hurt you.”

“No, Peter, no!” Agnes pushed herself from him, almost screaming. “You don’t understand.”

“What? What is it?”

“Stefan wasn’t married.”

“So?” asked Peter.

“Stefan wasn’t married. There’s to be a Wedding of the Dead.”

“I know,” said Peter. “I know, but that’s normal—”

“But Peter,” she cried, “I’m to be the bride!”