sister. 'It is indeed a
terrible day.'
'If there is anything more I can do, please name it.'
'I believe . . . I do not know if I ask in the right quarter. But
I believe that my mother might expect a letter from His
Highness.'
His Highness? The Prince-Bishop?
She must have seen his surprise.
'He is godfather to all of us,' she explained.
No doubt he was – and to the sons and daughters of half the
gentle houses within twenty leagues of Erzberg! And that was the
problem.
'I fear so many families have suffered in this last action that the
Prince may not yet have been able to write to them all.'
He saw her face change. 'We had not heard,' she said.
'It was kept secret to begin with.'
'Then – our loss has been greater than I understood.'
'Indeed, Lady Maria.'
Indeed.
'Nevertheless,' he said, 'I will see that the Prince's secretaries
are reminded. And if there is ever any other way in which I may
be of service, I beg that you will ask it.'
They walked the few paces to the door together. And with
each step he took Wéry felt that their talk was incomplete.
Something more could or should be said to make the silence
between them a little more whole. He racked his brains for it.
Nothing came. Death was unanswerable. The man should not
have died, and he had done.
On the steps he turned to her, and tried again.
'If I may say one thing more to you, it is that it was an honour
and a privilege to be acquainted with your brother. I know he
loved this house, and he loved his family. And also he loved his
friends. These were the things he died for. And if you have
nothing to die for, you have no reason to live. I truly believe this.'
She hesitated. Perhaps she tried to smile. But all she could say
was: 'You must look after your hand.'
'I will. Indeed,' he lied, 'it has stopped hurting already.'
V
Written in Grief
Then he was gone, the messenger of Death. Maria watched
him as he rode down the track towards the village. She
could see him, huddled in his greatcoat under the rain showers,
but she could demand no more of him – not one word more of
explanation, apology, compassion, nor any of the million things
she needed and that would never be enough. She was left in the
confines of the world she knew, which was now so horribly
changed.
She turned and entered the house.
Once, years ago, Albrecht had taken her to an ants' nest he had
found. He had lifted the great stone that had covered it. She had
watched curiously as the little creatures scurried to and fro in
their tunnels, some with eggs in their jaws, some apparently aimless,
and all frantic with the catastrophe that had suddenly laid
them bare.
Albrecht had been going to stir them up with a stick for her,
but out of pity for the ants she had stopped him. 'I suppose you
are right,' he had sighed. 'It is a city, for them. One would have to
have a horribly important reason to destroy a city.'
Carefully he had put the stone back in its place.
Now the memory of all that hurrying and scurrying flooded
back to her. The house echoed with unusual noises. People
bustled 'when they should have walked in calm. Servants came to
her for orders, which they had never done before while Mother
was at home. She told them to prepare supper at the usual hour,
not because she felt any appetite, but to give them something to
do. Icht, who had been banished by Mother in a fit of weeping,
came to take his leave of her instead. Franz wanted to tell her that
Dominus had known him and liked him and would she please
tell Mother so? And everyone was anxious that, when things
righted themselves, they should not be blamed for whatever their
part had been in what had happened.
'. . . It was not – really, Lady Maria, it was not my fault that he
went to the library! I gave him my lady's message most distinctly.
I told him – I told him very firmly, Lady Maria – that she was not
to be disturbed. But he tricked me, Lady Maria. He sent me for
his hat and gloves. So it was not my fault that he
terrible day.'
'If there is anything more I can do, please name it.'
'I believe . . . I do not know if I ask in the right quarter. But
I believe that my mother might expect a letter from His
Highness.'
His Highness? The Prince-Bishop?
She must have seen his surprise.
'He is godfather to all of us,' she explained.
No doubt he was – and to the sons and daughters of half the
gentle houses within twenty leagues of Erzberg! And that was the
problem.
'I fear so many families have suffered in this last action that the
Prince may not yet have been able to write to them all.'
He saw her face change. 'We had not heard,' she said.
'It was kept secret to begin with.'
'Then – our loss has been greater than I understood.'
'Indeed, Lady Maria.'
Indeed.
'Nevertheless,' he said, 'I will see that the Prince's secretaries
are reminded. And if there is ever any other way in which I may
be of service, I beg that you will ask it.'
They walked the few paces to the door together. And with
each step he took Wéry felt that their talk was incomplete.
Something more could or should be said to make the silence
between them a little more whole. He racked his brains for it.
Nothing came. Death was unanswerable. The man should not
have died, and he had done.
On the steps he turned to her, and tried again.
'If I may say one thing more to you, it is that it was an honour
and a privilege to be acquainted with your brother. I know he
loved this house, and he loved his family. And also he loved his
friends. These were the things he died for. And if you have
nothing to die for, you have no reason to live. I truly believe this.'
She hesitated. Perhaps she tried to smile. But all she could say
was: 'You must look after your hand.'
'I will. Indeed,' he lied, 'it has stopped hurting already.'
V
Written in Grief
Then he was gone, the messenger of Death. Maria watched
him as he rode down the track towards the village. She
could see him, huddled in his greatcoat under the rain showers,
but she could demand no more of him – not one word more of
explanation, apology, compassion, nor any of the million things
she needed and that would never be enough. She was left in the
confines of the world she knew, which was now so horribly
changed.
She turned and entered the house.
Once, years ago, Albrecht had taken her to an ants' nest he had
found. He had lifted the great stone that had covered it. She had
watched curiously as the little creatures scurried to and fro in
their tunnels, some with eggs in their jaws, some apparently aimless,
and all frantic with the catastrophe that had suddenly laid
them bare.
Albrecht had been going to stir them up with a stick for her,
but out of pity for the ants she had stopped him. 'I suppose you
are right,' he had sighed. 'It is a city, for them. One would have to
have a horribly important reason to destroy a city.'
Carefully he had put the stone back in its place.
Now the memory of all that hurrying and scurrying flooded
back to her. The house echoed with unusual noises. People
bustled 'when they should have walked in calm. Servants came to
her for orders, which they had never done before while Mother
was at home. She told them to prepare supper at the usual hour,
not because she felt any appetite, but to give them something to
do. Icht, who had been banished by Mother in a fit of weeping,
came to take his leave of her instead. Franz wanted to tell her that
Dominus had known him and liked him and would she please
tell Mother so? And everyone was anxious that, when things
righted themselves, they should not be blamed for whatever their
part had been in what had happened.
'. . . It was not – really, Lady Maria, it was not my fault that he
went to the library! I gave him my lady's message most distinctly.
I told him – I told him very firmly, Lady Maria – that she was not
to be disturbed. But he tricked me, Lady Maria. He sent me for
his hat and gloves. So it was not my fault that he
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