Covenant With the Vampire by Jeanne Kalogridis

inside.
    "I must see my uncle at once!" I managed in a trembling voice, to which she
responded:
    "Alas, young sir, that is not possible. He has not yet arisen."
    "Then rouse him!" I demanded, and her pale grey eyes widened.
    "Nor is that possible, sir," said she, in a tone that conveyed amazement at
my ignorance. "No one may disturb his slumber now, and none but Laszlo is permitted
to see or speak to him. But he shall be rising shortly, and I know he will see
you. Let me take you to his drawing-room, where you can await him in comfort."
    I was in such a nervous state that I did not protest, but let her escort me,
with her gentle hand betimes prompting my elbow, through narrow corridors and
up a winding stone staircase. For all the years I had played within the castle's
shadow, I had rarely been inside it, and the novelty of it added to my agitation,
leaving me quite overwhelmed.
    By the time we arrived within the drawing-room, which, though windowless, was
comfortably appointed and cheerfully warmed by a blazing hearth, I was so distracted
that I failed to hear her invitation, and the poor woman literally had to push
me down into a waiting chair near the fire.
    "Arkady Tsepesh," she said, leaning over me, and I started at the sound of
a strange voice repeating my name. At my look of surprise, she smiled faintly
and explained, "I knew your father, young sir. He was very kind to me, and spoke
of you often." Her expression grew somber. "It grieves me to see you so distraught
on his behalf. I cannot remain here long - the master will be coming soon - but
let me fetch you something to calm you. Tea, or perhaps something stronger…
?"
    "Brandy."
    "We have only slivovitz, sir."
    "Then bring me slivovitz," I said, but as she straightened and moved to go,
I reached out and touched her, she turned. "You knew my father well?"
    She gave a single sad, solemn nod. The mixture of sorrow and genuine affection
in her grey eyes reached through the layer of shock to touch my heart, and I
asked:
    "What is your name?"
    "Masika, young sir."
    "You speak with a Russian accent, Masika, but your name is Hungarian."
    "My father was Russian, sir."
    "And his name… ?" I said, prompting for her patronymic. As distressed as I
was, I wished to be polite to her, as she was so kindly towards me.
    Her round cheeks flushed rosy pink. "Ah, sir, just Masika. I dare not put on
such airs with you. I am just an old serving-woman."
    "You were my father's friend. Please. I would like to know."
    Her cheeks deepened to a ruddy colour, but she replied dutifully, "Ivan, sir."
    "Ah, Masika Ivanovna, you cannot imagine the horror I have just witnessed!"
At the memory, I put a hand to my face and struggled against tears. She knelt
beside me and took my hand as a mother might, while I chokingly relayed, without
detail, the fact of the desecration of Father's grave.
    Her expression hardened and became unreadable as her eyes grew moist. For a
time, she patted my hand in silence; at last, she spoke with passionate conviction.
"I know such a spectacle must tear at your heart, as it does mine. But you must
never forget, young sir: your father sleeps now among the blessed dead, and
no one, nothing, can disturb his slumber. He is with God."
    I would have objected to the latter statement, but the former gave me a modicum
of comfort, as did her sincere and maternal concern. She parted her lips as
if to speak, then hesitated, as if there were something more she wished to say,
but could not bring herself to voice.
    "What is it?" I asked softly.
    She glanced up at me with a start, and in her eyes I saw regret, mingled with
unmistakable fear.
    "Nothing," said she, lowering her eyelids to hide her fright, "nothing at all.
Now, let me go quickly, young sir, and fetch the slivovitz before the prince
comes." She rose heavily, with a groan, then hurried out.
    I wiped my eyes with my kerchief and struggled to compose myself