in his neck and a stiffness inhis back. He can’t believe he’s slept into evening, but the sky is dark, and he can hear, far off, the grind of thunder. He’s hungry now, even if he wasn’t earlier, and gulps the food on the table like a man famished, before going to the window and throwing open the shutters. Unfallen rain hangs heavy in the clouds, and the air crackles with sulphur, even though the storm is still miles away. Charles is rather idly wondering why that should be—some strange atmospheric phenomenon? The direction of the wind?—when there is a distant flare of blue lightning. And then there is another flash and a heavy roof-tile hurtles spinning down and smashes into splinters on the courtyard below, only this time the light is directly above him, somewhere to his right. Charles leans out as far as he can, and thinks he catches a movement on the parapet. He looks down at the windowsill and realises that it’s wider than he thought—hardly a balcony but wide enough, just, for him to get a footing. But he’d be mad to try it without some sort of anchorage. He looks back into the room and lights on the tasselled cord holding back the curtains. He ties one end quickly to the bedpost and the other round his waist, then ventures out—with some trepidation—onto the ledge. The stone isn’t just narrow but slippery, and Charles slithers twice as he turns slowly round to face up towards the roof. The rain is plunging down now and sheeting headlong into his eyes and mouth, but as the lightning flares again Charles sees the scene above him with the acuity of fever or a diseased dream. On the edge of the parapet, a few yards from the tower, the Baron is outlined against the sky, a dark shape against the greater dark, his long coat whipping and cracking about him like the wings of some vast crow, his silver hair plastered black against his skull. Charles tries to call to him—tell him he is recklessly risking his life—but his words are lost in a detonation of thunder and a bolt of lightning that explodes in a boom of white electric glare. And when the darkness descends once more, the Baron has gone.
Charles edges back down into his room, and then turns to scan the courtyard below. But as he suspected, there is no body, no corpse. Then on some impulse he cannot explain, he opens the door and goes downto the gallery. But as always, it seems, the hall is deserted and only one small lamp burning below. Charles is just about to start down the stairs when he notices that one thing, at least, is not as it was when he last passed here. The little door he noticed before—the door he saw the Baron appear from and then carefully lock—is now standing open. Charles looks around, then moves as swiftly and silently as he can towards it. It’s the entrance to a staircase, and Charles realises that it must give access to the tower rooms. He hesitates, then pushes the wooden door a little wider and starts up the steps, only to stop a moment later. He can hear voices. One, the Baron’s. The other, a girl’s. Light, young, and almost—hard as this is for Charles to absorb—
joyous
. They speak in German, but it seems more formal than a casual conversation—in fact, the only comparison in Charles’s experience is the question and answer of the catechism classes he attended for a little while as a boy. But that was before Elizabeth was taken; before his mother lost interest in everything, even her own son, in the abyss of her grief. He listens awhile longer, and concludes it must indeed be some form of interrogation, though what the subject can possibly be, Charles has no idea. Sometimes the girl replies with confidence, and receives affirmation in return; at others, her voice is less sure. No more than ten minutes have passed since the Baron was clinging to the roof in the rain, and yet his voice drones on now, soft, and hoarse, and low. Charles is starting to wonder if the man was ever on the roof at all, or whether the
Charles edges back down into his room, and then turns to scan the courtyard below. But as he suspected, there is no body, no corpse. Then on some impulse he cannot explain, he opens the door and goes downto the gallery. But as always, it seems, the hall is deserted and only one small lamp burning below. Charles is just about to start down the stairs when he notices that one thing, at least, is not as it was when he last passed here. The little door he noticed before—the door he saw the Baron appear from and then carefully lock—is now standing open. Charles looks around, then moves as swiftly and silently as he can towards it. It’s the entrance to a staircase, and Charles realises that it must give access to the tower rooms. He hesitates, then pushes the wooden door a little wider and starts up the steps, only to stop a moment later. He can hear voices. One, the Baron’s. The other, a girl’s. Light, young, and almost—hard as this is for Charles to absorb—
joyous
. They speak in German, but it seems more formal than a casual conversation—in fact, the only comparison in Charles’s experience is the question and answer of the catechism classes he attended for a little while as a boy. But that was before Elizabeth was taken; before his mother lost interest in everything, even her own son, in the abyss of her grief. He listens awhile longer, and concludes it must indeed be some form of interrogation, though what the subject can possibly be, Charles has no idea. Sometimes the girl replies with confidence, and receives affirmation in return; at others, her voice is less sure. No more than ten minutes have passed since the Baron was clinging to the roof in the rain, and yet his voice drones on now, soft, and hoarse, and low. Charles is starting to wonder if the man was ever on the roof at all, or whether the
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