What is your life? It is even a vapor,
that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.
James 4:14
It was dark outside. Basti leaned back and stretched out his feet, yawning. Araciel and Danti sat on stools by the hearth, talking quietly while Naich brought his own stool over next to them. Sheets of music rustled. Alrune perched in a large leather chair, his feet curled under him. Beside him, in a wooden chair, Albrecht yawned. Signore Johannes and Signora Elisabeth conversed softly on the davenport, while Dietrich and Caterina laughed softly at some private joke.
Basti had hurried back up to the workshop after taking his leave from Caterina, finding Danti looking half-asleep as he slouched in a chair staring at his statue. The sculptor had listened intently to Basti’s story, eyes clearing.
“So, it’s starting,” he said at last, rubbing his beard, which was starting to look untrimmed. “Well, mind what the old woman said, and be careful. We’ve never had much trouble with the ghost, but you never know.”
“I don’t understand how you can all pretend everything’s normal, with the Erl King around!” Basti burst out.
“Oh, we’re old hands at pretending everything’s normal,” Danti said, with a strange expression. Then he blinked and thumped Basti on the shoulder. “Cheer up, lad. We’re going to have a concert tonight; something Naich wrote for us. You play any instruments?”
“No.”
“Too bad. You should learn.”
Now Danti and Araciel came to an agreement and Naich began blowing softly into an ivory recorder, filling the wood-paneled sitting room with a rippling melody like wind in the leaves. Dietrich and Caterina moved over to join the musicians. Danti softly joined on a mute cornet, and Araciel played a lute. When the music from the instruments merged, Araciel lifted his voice in song, joined immediately by Dietrich and Caterina.
Basti drew in a breath, deeply impressed by the small household’s talent, and let himself be swept away by the frottola.
Firelight flickered over the singers’ faces as they sang, and the shadows gradually lengthened around them.
Then the frottola ended, and Araciel began an unusual Bavarian song about a weary soldier stumbling through the twilight realms of Death in search of his liege lord, slain by treachery. Basti had never heard the song before, but all of the elements in it were familiar, as if he’d dreamed them once. Half-asleep, he watched mist curl from the corners of the paneled sitting room and wrap around the musicians’ legs, saw twisted trees sway in the darkness behind the lord and lady. Red and gold moved faintly through the trees, the soldier’s tattered livery. He shivered as Araciel sang of circling rooks that harried the soldier, and dropped his gaze from the dark shapes in the sky. Beneath his feet, patterns in the Persian rug shifted into blood-red poppies and dark, shiny grass.
The marble of the fireplace crumbled and turned grey as Araciel described the cold ruins that dotted the landscape over which the soldier made his stumbling way. Flames became the gleam of armor and weaponry.
“My lord…” the whisper floated on the cool wind that ruffled Basti’s dark hair and shifted the hanging tapestries.
Araciel’s voice remained steady as he sang about the great wolf in the crumbling ruins, the wolf that guarded its secret with flaming eyes and steel-sharp teeth. Basti felt his skin prickle with fear as the shadows over the mantle ran together in an evil, half-seen lupine head.
“My lord!”
The musicians played on, captivated. The cool wind grew stronger as Araciel sang of the wolf’s winter breath and night-black pelt, and Basti shifted, unconsciously rubbing his arm.
“That’s enough!” Alrune leaped in front of the fireplace, before the wolf, and grabbed Araciel. With a sharp crash, a window was blown open and wind and snow swept over the parlor. Johannes and Elisabeth started up, snapped out of their reveries. The shadow-wolf bared its gleaming teeth at the dwarf.
Dietrich leaped up to face the creature, his arms upraised as though to hold the vision back barehanded. Araciel grabbed Alrune’s wrist before the dwarf could strike him. The music still wove around them.
“Begone! Talionis per malis!” Signore Johannes lurched forward to shake Naich out of his trance. The mute flautist stared at him, gray eyes blank. Signora Elisabeth knocked the cornett from Danti’s lips and shook his shoulder. The sculptor looked up, dazed, then scanned the metamorphosed room with horror.
“The window!” Johannes snapped. Basti shot to his feet, racing to the banging casements. He grabbed them, struggled a moment against the snow-bearing wind, and slammed them shut. Standing close behind him, Caterin yanked the latch down. The windows rattled furiously, but held.
By the time they turned back to the room, everything was normal again. The fire crackled, low but bright, and the three nobles and Araciel were lighting lamps and candles around the room to exorcise the shadows. Naich stared at the fireplace with a trace of apprehension in his grey eyes.
“What happened?” Basti asked, heart still beating quickly. Flakes of snow melted on his hair and face.
“It’s the damn Erl King!” Dietrich swore.
“This is his second manifestation today,” Signora Elisabeth said, looking at her husband. Her face was pale, and Johannes touched her lightly on the shoulder.
“All will be well, my lady.”
“Thanks, Alrune,” Danti said, running a hand through his hair. He still looked a little dazed. “Thank God one of us kept his head.”
“Est mea cunctorum terror vox dæmoniorium,” Alrune said with a mocking smile. Basti looked at Caterin, who tilted her head toward him. “My voice is the terror of all demons,” she whispered.
Danti gave the scholar a wry, strained smile.
“What would you have us do, milord?” Araciel asked, turning to Signore Johannes. The alchemist walked to the window and stared into the curtain of white outside.
“The storm is coming,” he said quietly. “The one that closes the trail.”
“Father?” Caterina asked, her voice steady but her eyes wide. “Are we safe here anymore?”
“Of course we are,” Johannes said, still gazing out the window. His voice was brusque. “As long as we stick together and put our faith in God, the Erl King can have no power over us.”
“And even if the paths are snowed in, we have enough food to last,” Albrecht assured the group. “I don’t suppose a ghost can do anything about that.”
Johannes kept his back turned on the group, looking out at the darkness. Elisabeth walked to him, placing a hand on his arm. Everyone else looked at each other, seeing their own apprehension mirrored in their companions’ eyes.
Pounding filled the keep.
Basti froze, chills racing up his spine, his wounded arm suddenly aching terribly. As if one, Dietrich and Araciel reached for the Spanish swords hung over the fireplace, lifting them from their hooks.
“It’s just the door,” Signora Elisabeth said softly, turning. “We have a guest.”
“I’ll get it, Mother,” Dietrich said. “Araciel, come with me.”
The two young men hurried out of the parlor, carrying their matched swords.
“Elisabeth, stay here,” Signore Johannes said, reaching out to touch her arm as his wife began to follow her son. “It could be dangerous.”
“My lord,” she said reproachfully, glancing over her shoulder. He returned her look sternly, but she didn’t flinch, waiting with her arms folded.
“Then, at least, walk with me,” he said with a sigh. She smiled and they left together, side by side.
Basti looked uncertainly at Danti.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” the sculptor muttered. “They might need some help.”
Dietrich helped the stranger inside as Araciel vanished through the door to stable his horse. Shivering, nearly slipping on the snow that blew through the open door, the visitor pulled off his leather hat and gloves and bowed deeply to Signor Johannes as he appeared.
“God’s blessings on you, my lord and lady,” the thin, brown-haired youth said in German. He looked weary and solemn as he straightened. “I am Christian Linde, from Munich.”
“I recall your name from my son’s letters,” Signore Johannes said, his expression growing still. Signora Elisabeth nervously laid her hand on his arm, the other rising to clutch the crucifix around her neck.
“Forgive me, my lord, for my haste and late arrival, but I bear ill news.” Christian met the lord’s eyes bleakly. “Your son Alfons was killed a week ago, dueling with one of the duke’s bastards.”
Elisabeth gasped, and Caterina cried out. Basti felt Danti’s hand fall on his shoulder, as though the sculptor needed steadying.
“Why was Alfons dueling with this young man?” Johannes asked, the color draining from his face.
“It was a just fight, my lord, incited by Philipp, not Alfons. I was there, and would have gladly stood in your son’s place, would he have let me.”
“What were they fighting over?” Elisabeth asked, faintly. Christian wrung his hat and gloves in his hands.
“Nothing dishonorable, my lady. Philipp was jealous of Alfons’ political allies and had been attempting to defame him for some time. Alfons did his utmost to avoid a foolish quarrel as long as possible, but….” Christian shrugged hopelessly. “Finally he had to take action or be shamed.”
Caterina threw her arms around her mother’s waist, sobbing. Basti looked away, unable to watch their grief. He felt out of place, unable to mourn a man he’d never met.
“You must warm yourself and have something to eat and drink,” Johannes said dully. “Araciel?”
“He’s gone out to tend the horse,” Albrecht said, voice hushed. The thin cook turned to Christian. “Come, I’ll take you to the kitchen and bring you food and wine.”
“I’m sorry,” the youth said softly, bowing once more to the lord and lady before following the cook down the hall.
Elisabeth sobbed, turning to her husband’s embrace. He held her tightly as Danti pulled Basti away. In a moment, the hall was empty of everybody but Alfons’ family.
“Is there anything we can do?” Basti asked his master, as they turned toward the kitchen. Danti shook his head.
“No. There’s nothing anyone can do at a time like this.” He ran a hand through his graying hair. “What a waste. Alfons had such promise….”
They entered the kitchen, where Albrecht looked up from stirring the fire. Christian sat on a stool by the fire, his damp cloak spread out on the hearth.
“I really am sorry,” he repeated in German, sadly. “Alfons was a good friend.”
“You said the duel was fair?” Danti asked, pulling two more chairs closer to the fire and collapsing into one. His German was fluent, although strongly accented. “You were a witness?”
“I was a witness, and I believe the duel was justly fought. The duke’s bastard was simply the better swordsman. He’d been trained to warfare, and Alfons spent most of his time with a book in his hands, instead of a weapon.”
“Where’s his body?”
“With his cousins, until I return to instruct them.” Christian gratefully took the goblet of spiced wine Albrecht handed him and drank deeply. “They would have come with me, but it would have taken them several days to prepare, and Alfons used to tell me how the snows closed the trail to the keep each winter. I feared any delay would make passage impossible.”
“You barely made it,” Albrecht muttered, setting more wine aside to warm and pouring the remainder of the first jar. Basti carried a goblet to Danti, and sat in the other chair with his own. “And if you aren’t careful, you’ll be trapped here all winter.”
“I hope not,” Christian said, looking somewhat alarmed. “I have much to do in Munich….”
“Don’t worry,” Danti said. “Even if the storm continues, you’ll be able to get out tomorrow. It won’t be pleasant, but it will be possible.”
“That is well,” the student sighed, relaxing again. “I should not care to ride down this trail at night. I wasn’t certain I would make it all, the last half-hour.”
They sat silently until Araciel walked in, snow melting on his shoulders and face. He looked windblown and stricken, the Spanish sword dangling half-forgotten from one hand.
“It be true? Master Alfons be dead?”
Christian nodded. The apprentice turned away, running a hand over his face.
“The wolf was an omen,” Albrecht said superstitiously. “A warning.”
Basti’s eyes widened. In all of the turmoil over Alfons’ death, he’d almost forgotten what had just happened in the parlor.
“I fear me so,” Araciel whispered. “I fear me so.”
“What wolf?” Christian asked, looking puzzled.
“An apparition,” Araciel sighed, placing his useless sword next to the fireplace. “Be not afraid; the haunt be a private burden and no threat to you.”
“Alfons told me he lived in a haunted keep, but he said a man haunted it, not a wolf.” Christian looked around the kitchen, curiously. “Do you believe in the ghost, too?”
“Absolutely.” Danti sipped his wine.
“How could the Erl King know, and I not….” Araciel dropped into the chair by the door. “I would that I had been there with Alfons, to protect him.”
“There was nothing you could have done,” Christian said. “Alfons tried to avoid the fight. He might have put up with the slurs Philipp was throwing at him, but then Philipp drew on him and he had no honorable alternative but to defend himself.”
“Honor is nothing but pride,” Alrune declared, walking in with Naich beside him, “and pride goeth….”
“Be silent,” Araciel snapped. “You know nothing of the difference betwixt the two.”
“What about this Philipp?” Danti asked, ignoring them. “Will there be any repercussions from the law, or Alfons’ friends?”
“I don’t know. The duke was fond of Alfons, so he may punish Philipp, but I left before the news went far.” Christian shrugged. “Philipp will have a few more enemies now, which won’t make his political career any easier, but that hardly makes up for Alfons’ death. He was good friend, and a fine scholar.”
They sat in silent a moment.
“I should go,” Araciel said, at last, “and offer what solace I may to my lord and lady. Pray, excuse me.”
“Tell them you’ll pray for his soul,” Alrune chuckled. “That should comfort them.”
Anger flashed over Araciel’s expression as he turned. Basti leaped from his chair, wine spilling, certain Araciel was finally going to lash out.
But Naich stepped between the two first, his expression stern. Araciel halted as the flautist’s long fingers came to rest on his chest, as though that gentle touch had jarred him to a stop. Basti saw that Alrune hadn’t moved, not even to flinch.
“You two take your childish argument outside,” Danti growled. “This isn’t the time or the place for it!”
“Thou be right, of course,” Araciel said after a moment, stepping back from Naich and bowing briefly in Danti’s direction. “Thank thee, Hubert. I should have recalled that the heart of fools be in their mouth.”
“Oh, very nice,” Alrune grinned, his dark eyes dancing. Araciel gave the dwarf a long, hard look, then turned and walked off.
Basti glared at Alrune, who winked and climbed into the chair Araciel had abandoned. His legs swung against the rungs. With a disgusted look, Danti sat back down. Christian diplomatically remained silent.
“More wine, anyone?” Albrecht asked, breaking the tension. The carafe was handed around, cinnamon and cloves filling the air with their sweet scent.
“Well,” Danti said after a long, silent lull, “I guess we’d better get some sleep tonight. Has anyone doused the lamps in the parlor? No? Alrune, Naich, maybe you should see to that. Basti, we’ll prepare a room for Christian.”
“Thank you,” the visitor said, sincerely. Albrecht began collecting the goblets and straightening the chairs as everyone set off in different directions.
“What will happen now?” Basti asked, as he and Danti opened a room in the south hall of the third floor, pulling blankets from the wardrobe and shaking them out.
“I don’t know, but this news will be hard on Johannes and Elisabeth. I don’t think the family’s going to get much sleep tonight. At least some of us should be well-rested.” Danti stared at the bed a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. Basti sighed and gathered up the blanket again, re-making the bed with the blankets on correctly. “It’s a pity, but I don’t see how they could possibly decide to have Alfons’ body sent back here for burial. The journey would be too dangerous in this weather, and the ground would be frozen, anyway.”
“Why do you think it would be dangerous?” Basti asked, quickly wiping dust from the table and chairs with a spare sheet. With no servants to speak of in the keep, the spare rooms weren’t cleaned very often. He bundled the sheet into a ball and tossed it under the bed. He didn’t think Christian would notice.
“The mountain trails are steep, the storms fierce, the rivers half-frozen. Oh, it wouldn’t be impossible, but….” Danti shrugged. “I wouldn’t care to make it.”
“Well, that’s that,” Basti said, stepping back and tossing his hair out of his eyes. “Do you want me to go down and bring Christian up?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll get him; I want to make sure the lord and lady won’t need anything, anyway. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to,” Basti admitted. “Not after everything that’s happened today.”
“Try anyway,” the sculptor said firmly. “Tomorrow will be just as busy.”
With a reluctant nod, Basti walked through the gallery to his bedroom. He was asleep within minutes of sliding beneath the blankets.
Voices awoke him early the next morning. Basti dressed quickly, hopping from foot to foot on the cold floor before he slid on thick woolen stockings. The sky was still dark outside, but as he stepped into the shadowy halls with a lamp, he saw Araciel closing the laboratory door.
“Good morning,” he said softly. The apprentice turned. For the first time since Basti had met him, Araciel looked tired. He was as richly dressed as usual, but he’d added his French saber to his outfit, its soft leather sheath visible below a short coat of wine-colored velvet.
“Good morning, Basti. Thou be up early.”
“I heard someone talking, and I thought I’d overslept.” Basti looked up and down the hall as Araciel joined him. “Is everyone else up?”
“The family be up, and I believe I did see Albrecht lighting lamps in the kitchen.” They walked down the northeast stairs to the breakfast room.
“How’s the family?”
“My lady has made herself gravely ill,” Araciel said painfully. “The recent haunting of the keep has overstressed her already, and this news has taken a grim toll on her well-being.”
“She seems very strong,” Basti ventured. Araciel shook his head.
“She has great reserves, but Signora Elisabeth be only human, and this, the loss of her firstborn, has overcome her. Nor be my lord of any better cheer, for he, too, had great love for Alfons. He has spent much the night in thought and grief, attempting to decide what he must do.”
“You didn’t get much sleep either, did you?” Basti asked, looking up at his friend with concern. “Are you going to be all right?”
“I shall not falter while my lord and lady have need of me.” Araciel gently laid a hand on Basti’s shoulder. “But, if thou would, my lord has called me to the parlor to discuss Alfons’ death. Would thee lend me thy company?”
“Do you think he wants me there?” Basti asked, hesitating. “I haven’t even met Alfons, and I’m new here….”
“I would be grateful for thy presence at my side,” Araciel replied simply. Unable to think of anything to say to that, Basti nodded and walked with his friend down the hall.
When they arrived at the small room, Basti uncomfortably slid into a chair in a corner while the lord faced his children and apprentice. Nobody remarked on his presence. A lamp had been lit on the table, the hour still too early for light to trickle through the unshuttered windows. Signore Johannes looked tired, sinking heavily into a soft chair.
“Your mother’s taken ill, and I don’t think the keep will be the best place for her to stay this winter. The trails will be closed soon, so if we intend to leave, we must do it now. Christian and I will take your mother to Anna and Eckart in Munich, and then continue to Vienna to make arrangements for Alfons. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
Caterina bit her lip, looking down. Her eyes were red, and Basti suspected she hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, either. He felt guilty to have slept so soundly.
“How long will you be gone?” asked Dietrich.
“Maybe two months.” Johannes rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “I am sorely tempted to take you both with me and leave you in Munich.”
“We’ll be all right here,” Dietrich said, immediately. “I can take care of Caterina.”
“I thought she might take care of you,” their father said, with wry humor. Dietrich scowled. “She is your elder, Dietrich.”
“You can trust me to defend the keep, sir,” Dietrich said stiffly, meeting his father’s eyes. “And everybody in it.”
“I know.” Johannes sighed. He leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Finally he glanced at his children, then at his apprentice. “Araciel?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I’m charging you with the protection of Dietrich and Caterina while I’m gone.”
Dietrich started to object, but curbed his response as Araciel inclined his head.
“I be at your command, my lord.”
“Shouldn’t he go with you?” Dietrich asked, quickly.
“No. You’re far more likely to need him here.” Johannes gave his son a steady look. “You’re a fine alchemist and a good hunter, Dietrich, but Araciel has skills you don’t.”
“He’s your servant, not mine,” the youth said, resentfully. Johannes lifted an eyebrow, a trace of warning in his expression.
“The matter is closed,” he said firmly. Dietrich strangled on his words, jaws tight. Basti glanced at Araciel, who looked pained.
“We’ll be all right,” Caterina said. “You just take care of Mother for us.”
“And be ye careful on the road,” Araciel added.
“We will,” the scholar promised. He leaned forward and kissed his daughter on the cheek. “Now, Caterina, why don’t you help your mother pack for the journey. I’d like to leave soon after it grows light.” He looked up, for the first time acknowledging Basti’s presence. “Sebastiano, see that Albrecht prepares food and wine for the journey. Araciel, will you see that there is grain for the horses? Dietrich, wait here a moment. I want to talk to you.”
The others scattered, Basti relieved to be out of the room. He touched Araciel’s arm briefly as they left.
“He’s just jealous,” he said softly, before they separated down different halls. “Because the lord relies on you.”
“I would it were so simple as that,” his friend murmured, looking away. “But thank thee.”
Basti watched him leave, frowning. Then, suppressing a yawn, he entered the kitchen. Albrecht was setting out a fresh loaf of bread.
“Good morning, Basti,” he said, looking as tired as the rest of the keep.
“Morning, Albrecht. Signore Johannes said you’re to prepare food for a journey to Munich. My lord’s taking his wife there, then continuing to Vienna with Christian.”
“They’re going out in this weather?” Albrecht groaned, his thin face almost comically dismayed. “They’ll be lost in a storm for sure! Has the lord lost his mind?”
“Signora Elisabeth is ill. They’re leaving in a few hours.”
Albrecht groaned again, abandoning breakfast and swiftly throwing more wood into the stove. Basti watched with fascination for a few moments as the cook became a blur of motion, pots and pans clanking, spice jars rattling, knives clattering.
“Take that tray to Danti,” Albrecht ordered, looking up from his preparations for a split second to point to the forgotten breakfast. “I saw lights in his studio when I came down here.”
“Oh, no,” Basti sighed. “Not again.”
As Albrecht had assumed, Danti was still engrossed in his work. Basti set down the plate of bread, butter and honey and the mug of small beer.
“You have a cruel muse, Maestro,” he said, smiling. The sculptor jerked, then took a deep breath as he turned. His skin looked pale and unhealthy beneath his dark hair and beard.
“Basti!” Danti sagged against the table, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his seat-dampened shirt. “You startled me.”
Basti narrowed his eyes, examining his master with care. “You haven’t been working all night again, have you?”
“No. No, I woke up early this morning and heard someone walking around. I couldn’t go back to sleep again.” The sculptor sat down and took the mug Basti handed him. “Thanks. So I decided to get up and start working.”
“You look exhausted,” Basti said critically, buttering a slice of bread and setting it and the honey before his teacher. “Do you feel all right?”
“I’m fine,” Danti assured him. Basti was relieved to see him relax a little as he broke his fast. The deepened lines in his tutor’s face and the shadows under his eyes were alarming, but as Danti ate they smoothed away.
“How’s your work coming along?” Basti walked around to face the sculpture, lit only by lamplight in the shuttered room. The shutters rattled in the wind.
Now the resemblance between the statue and the arrogant, wolf-eyed huntsman was unmistakable. From the riding boots and coiling cloak to the smirking lips and high forehead, he could see the Erl King watching him through the marble mask that encased him. Shadows from the flame danced alarmingly over the rough stone.
“What do you think?” Danti asked, watching Basti’s face.
Basti turned away. His back prickled, and he moved so the statue wasn’t directly behind him.
“He terrifies me,” Basti confessed.
“Ah.” Danti turned away, sipping at his beer. “Yes, me too, actually.” Danti gazed at the statue with a haggard expression. “I hope the lord and lady can do something about him. Or Araciel.”
“Signore Johannes told Araciel to protect the keep while he’s gone. But … that seems like a lot of responsibility, doesn’t it? Araciel’s still just an apprentice.” Basti walked back around the statue to sit at the table across from Danti. The sculptor looked up at him, and for a moment Basti thought he was going to say something; then he glanced away, as if changing his mind.
“Oh, he’s that,” Danti admitted, standing. “But he’s talented. My lord and lady are better instructors than I am, I’m afraid.” He smiled and made an obvious attempt to bring them back to normality. “Speaking of which, how are they?”
“Signore Johannes said his wife is very ill. He’s taking her to her family in Munich, and then he’s going to go on to Vienna with Christian.”
Danti frowned, absently chewing the bread Basti had prepared. “He’ll be gone most of the winter, then.”
“Will we be safe, without him?”
“We don’t have any choice. The lady needs him more than we do, and he’s not the kind of man who can remain patient after his son has been killed. I expect he’ll get to Vienna and start raising a fuss.” The sculptor shook his head. “I don’t fancy waiting out the winter here without him, though. Araciel’s powerful, and Dietrich’s well on his way to becoming an alchemist in his own right, but….”
“But Lord Johannes is a magus,” Basti finished, sitting and taking one of Danti’s slices of bread for himself. The sculptor reluctantly nodded. “And Dietrich and Araciel aren’t?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Danti looked troubled. “Dietrich doesn’t have the patience for reading and research that Johannes or Alfons has. Had. Araciel … well, I’m not sure about Araciel.”
“Not sure about what, sir?”
“Not sure if I’d call him a magus.”
“Why?”
“Mm, I just don’t know enough about his talents,” Danti muttered, setting his cup down. “Did Johannes say when they’d leave?”
“Soon after sunrise, he said.”
Danti glanced at the shuttered window, and shrugged.
“I’d better go down and see if there’s anything I can do, then.” He yawned and rubbed the bridge of his nose with dusty fingers. “Is anyone else going with them beside this Christian boy?”
“No, sir.”
“They should get someone else. Maybe they can get a man from Gestern to ride along, at least as far as Munich. I’d go myself.” He stretched. “Suppose I’ll ask.”
“But –-” Basti bit back his words, dismayed at the thought of his master leaving for the winter just when his arm had healed enough for him to start carving again. “Yes, sir.”
Sighing, he picked up a broom and grimaced as he looked around the dusty, cluttered room. Haunts or deaths, he thought with resignation, some things never changed.