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meet my gaze. Even so, I perceive a certain innate boldness in her, so when
I wanted to determine whether the servants’ fearful attitude was a Transylvanian
characteristic or whether it was inspired by something else, I chose to confront
Dunya as she was tidying the bedroom. She jumped slightly as I called her name;
I had to hide my amusement.
    She speaks a little German, and so do I, and so I said, "Dunya, it is my custom
to have a friendly relationship with my domestics. Please… Do not be so afraid
of me." My uncertainty with German required that I be brief and direct.
    To this, she curtsied and replied, "Thank you,
doamna."
(I have learned
this is Roumanian for "mistress.") "But I am not afraid of you."
    "Good," I replied. "But clearly you are afraid of someone. Who?"
    She blanched a little at that, and glanced over her shoulder as if afraid someone
were spying on us. And then she neared - a little too near for English manners,
but I have learned from watching my husband and his family that Transylvanians
prefer to be physically much closer to each other when speaking than we British
do - and whispered: "Vlad. The
voievod,
the prince."
    I felt I knew the answer to my own question, but I asked it nevertheless, lowering
my voice to the same volume. "Why?"
    In reply, she crossed herself, and breathed into my ear, "He is
strigoi
."
    "Strigoi?""tt
was clearly a Roumanian word, but one I had never heard.
"What is this?"
    She seemed surprised at my ignorance and would not answer, only pressed her
lips tightly together and shook her head. When I repeated my question, she hurried
from the room.
    Zsuzsanna Tsepesh's Diary
    8 April.
    I am evil, evil! - a wicked woman with wicked thoughts. Sweet Papa is scarcely
cold and laid to rest, and already P have had the most shameful dream.
    I do not even know how to properly pray. Papa so despised the Church, he would
never permit his children to learn its rituals. Perhaps he and Kasha are right
that there is no God. They are both so intelligent, but I am not (sometimes
I think my poor brain is as twisted as my spine) and I desperately need the
comfort of the Divine.
    And so this morning I knelt at the foot of my bed, as I have seen peasants
do at roadside shrines, and tried to ask forgiveness. I do not know whether
I was successful - the very act of kneeling made me dizzy; I have felt so weak
the past few days, drained no doubt by sorrow - but I felt I could not face Kasha
and good, strong Mary without first easing my conscience in some manner.
    When I rose (so light-headed that I had to clutch the poster to keep from dropping
again to my knees), I felt an overpowering urge to write everything down - to
make confession, as it were. I have no priest; this diary shall serve as my
confessor, even though my cheeks flame at the thought of recording such wickedness.
    The night before last we celebrated Papa's
pomana.
It was the first
time in weeks I had seen Uncle, and the experience of his kindness and loving
attention doubtless triggered the dream. I have been so lonely in the years
since Kasha left. Papa had been so miserable, too, and then so sick, and always
too preoccupied with the dealings at the castle, that I have felt very, very
alone; were it not for Kasha's letters and Uncle's occasional visits, I feel
I should have gone mad.
    Perhaps I have, a little. For a time after Kasha first left, I used to speak
to him as if he were still there (always, out of earshot of the servants! They
are too frightened of us to be trusted as confidantes; and they always find
enough to gossip about). As of late, I have begun to speak to little Stefan.
Sometimes I imagine he walks alongside Brutus and me through the halls, and
sits beside me, Brutus curled at our feet, as I embroider. (If anyone overhears,
I can always maintain I was speaking to the dog.)
    Sometimes I pretend he is the child I shall never have.
    Oh, it is