The Snow Vampire by Michael G. Cornelius Page A

explained that he’d seen the error of his ways—that he’d come to understand that his father was right, and he placed himself and his future wholly into his father’s hands—then all, or at least much, was forgiven. The household was still disquieted that the reconciliation between the two would disintegrate into violence at any moment, but Hendrik proved true to his word, at least as far as his father or the rest of my family were concerned. But, once we were alone, he was the most ardent and devoted of lovers, and I—I was his, all for him, just as I had pledged in the ruined monastery courtyard.
    Still, I was daily reminded that we must hide even a passing affection for one another, let alone our great and tumescent love. I had foolishly thought that nights with Hendrik in my bed would be spent in fervent passion. But they were mostly just chaste whispers, a quick caress and a soft kiss good night. We were cautious, he and I, lest we be discovered. But in that caution was great frustration. Only when we were alone—usually somewhere high up on the mountain—were our true feelings ever let out.
    It was torment to me to sit at our dinner table and look across at Hendrik and not declare my undying devotion to him. So are the affections of the young, forever bursting at some unseen seam. And my feelings only grew stronger—and the chasm of my despair wider—when Uncle Sandor announced that it was time for his and his family’s extended stay in our village to come to an end.
    I knew of course that Hendrik would not stay forever or, indeed, even for very long. But that last night I wept fiercely though silently on Hendrik’s shoulder in bed.
    “We will write to each other, my beautiful one,” he whispered to me over and over.
    “But how can we?” I whispered back. “What if your father were to discover the letters?”
    Hendrik smiled. “Then write to me in English. Father cannot speak or read a word of anything other than Hungarian and German.”
    “Won’t he be suspicious?” I asked.
    Hendrik shook his head. “I’ll tell him that you are practicing your language skills with me. That will be my excuse to write every day,” he added with a grin. “Father will not be suspicious. On the contrary, he will probably think it a good thing that I am maintaining such excellent relations with my future brother-in-law!” At the thought of Hendrik’s upcoming marriage, my face fell again, overcome with sadness not only at the thought of his leaving but also at how things had to be between us. “You will see, dear one,” Hendrik whispered, consoling me as best he could. “I will write you so often that you will not have an opportunity to miss me. Pages and pages, each and every day.” But what are pages to one who has felt such love as this? And what desire had I for pages when I would hold the man of my heart in my arms each and every night? I vowed to stay awake that entire night and do all I could to forestall the dawn. But alas, the spirit of the young is often greater than the flesh. I awoke the next morning to Hendrik still stroking my hair.
    We watched them all go, the entire family, waving as their motorcoach pulled away from the edge of town. I wanted to run after the car, but Hendrik’s words of warning rang in my mind, and I watched as silent and still as possible, waving only a fraction of a second longer than the rest of my family. Then we walked back to our home, my parents seeming nervous but hopeful, my grandmother quite weary, and my sister, my beloved little sister Alona, appearing for all the world as if it held no cares for her or for anyone else.
    As for me, I did the best I could to hide my heartache. I was moody and petulant, but I had so often been this way before Hendrik arrived that no one gave me much notice. Besides, my parents, as I now knew, had other concerns.
    There are only two seasons in high mountain villages such as ours: winter and those blessed months when the town is