THE IMPALER'S WIFE

8

Prince Vlad cocks his head and gives me an inscrutable look. "That's for you to decide, my lady."

"I have confidence in Hungary's military strength."

"A noble but an unfortunately naïve belief." Dracula flicks his hand at the blank canvas. "King Matthias fights my greatest enemy while I sit for a portrait." He grabs a goblet from a small velvet-draped table and hurls it against the wall.

As the red wine drips down the stone, an odd tremor runs through me. Part alarm. Part excitement. I feel his anger and resentment as if it were my own. I understand his rage. I felt the same upon learning Sultan Mehmed had tortured Father for days before sawing him in half.

Dracula fixates on the broken goblet, lost in thought. What horrors has he seen? What horrors has he endured?

He squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, shaking his head as if dispelling awful memories. "Will you soothe my vile mood by keeping me company? I always enjoy our conversations."

"If you wish." My cheeks aflame, I look away and spy his red mantle on the chair. "Are you wearing this for the portrait?"

"I suppose." He tosses it over his shoulders, sets his pearl-trimmed cap on his head, and sits down.

"Excellent." The portraitist picks up his brush. "The prince is ready to proceed."

Dracula fastens the gold button at this neck. "Am I presentable?" His eyebrows lift and he appears ill at ease.

"Not quite." With trembling fingers I adjust his cap and align the topaz broach. An awkward silence descends, our nearness tantalizingly forbidden. I should step back. Increase the distance between us. I cannot, instead my fingertips brush the ostrich plumes glittering with jewels at the top of his cap.

He looks up and grins, his eyes warm and inviting. "Better?"

I flush with pleasure, his steady gaze sweeter than honey, and tug an errant lock from his collar. "Almost." I arrange his dark smooth hair over the fur collar and inhale his enticing scent—rosemary and leather and man. "Portrait perfect."

He lets out a barely audible sigh, and with that the impossible attraction between us thickens, coils, and knots.

The portraitist breaks the spell. "My lady, may I offer a chair?" He places one at a right angle to Prince Vlad's.

"I...I...thank you." I sit; clasp my hands to keep them from shaking. "What shall we talk about?"

"Anything you like." Prince Vlad tilts his chin, his lopsided grin like someone with a delicious secret.

"Anything?" I chew on my lip. I am only an innocent young maiden. What could I possibly discuss that would interest a man of his renown? Idle chitchat will never do. Venery, weather, politics...my mind gathers and discards many possible topics until finding one that will entertain us both. "Explain why you, an Orthodox, are compelled to protect Catholic doctrines."

"Not one for trite conversation, are you?" Prince Vlad rubs his freshly shaved jaw. "Both religions share many similar beliefs. Their differences are simply philosophical."

"Aren't all religions—even Islam—a matter of different philosophies?"

Prince Vlad throws back his head and howls with laughter. "Your intellect is charming, Lady Ilona."

His unrestrained glee fills me with a kind of pride. "Aunt Orsulya says men prefer silly-minded women."

"Not all men. Certainly not me. My future princess will be clever and witty."

I shift in the chair. Do I tell him I am already betrothed? Or am I a fool to believe he is talking about me? "I expect nothing less from a man of your talents."

"Expectations are dangerous, my lady." He wags his finger. "Let's see, you asked me a theological question." He brushes a bit of lint from his mantle. "Orthodoxy believes knowledge of God resides in a person's nature. Catholics believe it is inferred by logic."

"Logic? Not faith?"

A slow grin melts across Prince Vlad's face. "It will take more than one afternoon to answer if you insist on asking the very same questions pondered by ecclesiasts and philosophers for hundreds of years."

His expansive smile is infectious, the stern-looking angles of his face stretched wide into playfulness. It is a child's honest grin and it makes me grin in return.

"I have every confidence that together we can solve all life's questions by the time your portrait is complete." My lips pucker into pretended seriousness.

The artist pokes his head around the canvas. "Should I use a smaller brush?"

"Do you have one with only three bristles?" Prince Vlad asks the portraitist but quirks an eyebrow at me.

"I shall make one for you, Prince Vlad." The portraitist lifts his thinnest brush and yanks out a few hairs.

Prince Vlad and I burst out laughing.

The hours pass with laughter and excellent conversation, as we discuss the tenets of the Orthodox Church, debate doctrine, and examine the beliefs of other faiths.

"The good light is gone." The portraitist gestures to the sun hanging low in the western sky.

So soon?

"Thank you for a delightful afternoon." I stand, my heart suddenly banging against my bodice. I have been sitting with him much too long. I can almost hear the ladies tittering criticisms. "Our conversation was more enlightening than a day spent in Matthias's library." I glance over my shoulder as though expecting to see my aunts. "I must be going."

"Will you come again tomorrow?" Dracula regards his unfinished portrait with indifference.

My eyes sweep over the courtyard. Is the guardsman paid to spy? Why is the old woman still sitting in the corner?

I should not come back. I am betrothed. And even if I was not, Prince Vlad's Orthodox faith prevents a wedded union with our family.

"If you desire," I say despite myself.