Nachtstürm Castle by Emily C.A. Snyder Page A

large man, sodden and imposing. Catherine gripped the weapon and closed her eyes, until she heard the welcome voice of her beloved husband.   She called to him, ready for him to teaze her about the poker, and surprised when – without removing his wet things – he took her face in his hands, his eyes wide and frightened, and searched her face as though afraid she were not real. Then satisfied that indeed here was his beloved, he bent towards her, to brush his lips against her own.   His sweet breath, tinged with tobacco, swept over her and she drew back, touching the locket about her throat. She shook her head, and gave him her hand to kiss – then lay down; her eyes squeezed shut as though to forget the night’s events.

Chapter XII
     
A Diversion, which
May
Prove Enlightening, Concerning Henry’s Mysterious Affairs.
    Although Henry had spent the better part of the week in the library, he had not found anything which might afford a clue to the various hints the several people connected to Nachtstürm had let drop regarding the heritage of the doomed Barons of Brandenburg. Oh, he had found a volume on “The Sundry Uses of Arsenic” next to “The Book of Courtly Love,” which juxtaposition afforded him some half–hour of diversion and speculation. Divers rare volumes he also came upon – alas, most in foreign tongues until those of a more modern binding. This, too, bore some modicum of significance he could not quite grasp. No family Bible did he discover, wherein the names of all the Barons and their late wives might be recorded – or, even better, certain names inexplicably crossed out. That such a volume might once have existed he did not doubt – for the empty pedestal with its broken chain alone convinced him, if the small illuminated volumes of the Gospels, the Psalms and the Hours had not also been in attendance.
    With Colin’s begrudging assistance (begrudged because it took time away from his Betty, with whom he’d grown quite close, and whose own nocturnal visits to the gardens were as ardent if less tortured than Will and his lady’s), he had managed to translate most of the largest document from among the letters: the one with the Baron’s and Cecelia Durande’s signatures.   That this proved, indeed, to be a record of their marriage – although one without any witnesses besides a local priest – piqued Henry’s curiosity, especially in regards to Edric’s reliability.   Regrettably, no birth certificates were on hand to legitimize William nor were there records of any deaths either officially or in the journals of the barons.
    Since the library could afford no further knowledge of this mountaintop mystery, and although Henry was loathe to quit the place of so much learning and no few enjoyable hours, he had at last returned to the portrait gallery to examine the curious tombstones.   And there , amongst those misplaced markers, he had at last heard the lowing of the Minotaur in that historical labyrinth: one gravestone was missing.
    Could it be? Henry wondered, pacing the length of the room and counting the barons and the stones. Was it possible? Could – was – but no, perhaps he had been…. Thorough examination proved Henry correct. One of the barons had not been remembered among his ancestors – and that young William Wiltford’s father.
    It was at that moment that Henry determined to explore the family graveyard as soon as the rain let up. But upon returning to his room he had discovered two curious things that caused him to place the time of his proposed expedition to that very evening. The first incident happened as he passed the corridor where his beloved, not two hours later, would find herself so mistakenly imposed upon. The sepulchral chill had given him pause and he had turned to glimpse the face of his bride emerging from the shadows.
    He called Catherine’s name; she fled, crying “Mater, pièta!” The reacquaintance with his wife’s doppelgänger had caused him