Nachtstürm Castle by Emily C.A. Snyder

thoughtfully, “I confess I quite thought she was you . I’m afraid I must have given her quite as much a fright as she gave me.”
    Catherine started, turning abruptly from the window. “You didn’t...that is...Henry, you did not....”
    “I only called her by your name, darling.   And took her hand.   She drew back and spoke – and that was quite enough to convince me of my error. That, and William was growling.   I might ask you ,” he said, “how you ever managed to find yourself in such a predicament?”
    “The wall was open,” Catherine said, and laughed. “Oh, but let’s not talk of this. I am quite befuddled, Henry!”
    “As am I, my love,” he responded.
    “I doubt that.”
    “You are much too kind,” he bowed. “But even my mind is whirling. Look, here, dearest,” she obliged, returning to his side and glancing at pages he held out, including the one with the Baron’s signature. “Do you not see something rather odd?”
    “A smudge by the edges, but nothing else. You know I do not read German.”
    “But you can distinguish between one language and another, by sight?”
    “Indeed.”
    “Then look again.”
    Catherine was no dull woman, and after a few minutes of inspection cried, “There is the repetition of several Italian phrases, if that is what you mean.”
    “And a singular phrase, that seems to me suspiciously like a name.”
    “I see no Fortuna, love,” Catherine smiled.
    “She may be smiling on us yet,” Henry rejoined, the colour rising in his cheeks. “What name do you read?”
    She answered, Cecelia. “A common enough name.”
    “Common, true.   But, look, here,” producing the first sheet with the Baron’s name, “it is Cecelia Durande, and here,” rifling back to a sonnet, “it’s Cecelia Wiltford!”
    “Young Will’s mother, do you think? Oh, but Old Edric said that the old Baron never married.”
    “It might be the other way around, my love. She might have been a Wiltford, wooed by these sonnets to exchange her name for Durande.”
    “How very odd,” Catherine agreed. Then casting a sidelong glance at Henry she added, “But perhaps I should cleave to my own opinions, lest you spoil the game!”
    Henry’s brow drew together as he said, “This is as much a mystery to me, Catherine….”
    “Of course it is, my dear. Of course.”
    “Catherine,” he began, the strangest thought creeping to his mind. “Do you suspect that I ….”
    But alas, there came a knock at the door and the visage of Old Edric, looking more sour and dreadful in the half–light of the ill day than he had in his customary environs of the evening.

Chapter VIII
     
Containing a Pleasant Tour of the Castle, and Further Mystery.
    The human mind is a strange thing, wont to summon ghouls as soon as the sun has fled, and just as ready to laugh at its own misgivings when the light is returned. But it is peculiar in this regard as well – for the mind so often fools itself, that when presented with a reality, it supposes there a fantasy, rather than believe the oddity before it. Thus the stony gargoyle is given credence and the angel much disputed.
    No angel greeted our heroes now though – no, nor gargoyle dismissed by waking, but Old Edric whose sharp eyes flit around the room as his thin lips mouthed greetings. “I had been informed you were awake,” he began, bowing. “I had no thought of interrupting you.” They assured him he had done no such thing and that it was far past time for them to rise as it was. He smiled in an attempt at similar joviality – an effect ruined by his sudden focus on the opened letters. For a moment, but a moment only, his face blanched – but perhaps that was a trick of the rain – for he bowed quickly, inviting them for a more thorough tour of the castle once they had breakfasted. They agreed, and quickly set about their long–delayed toilettes.
    A half–hour found them following Old Edric down the winding passages to the “lesser” dining