Nachtstürm Castle Read Online Free PDF

them into the castle, instructing – at least, they supposed it was instruction – the servants to take the trunks and other travelling cases upstairs, while she brought them to another wing entirely. Catherine clung close to Henry – who was gallantly attempting to appear attentive to their morbid guide – staring with great joy at the ancient tapestries and sconces. The corridors were properly shrouded, affording the occasional broken mirror or tattered hanging. Through innumerable dark passages, past two courtyards and one garden, up five sets of stairs – several of which wound tightly – Fräulein Helga led them, directing them in the ways of Nachtstürm as they went.   No Tudor Cotswold home, half-sunken and twisting, could compare to the labyrinthine passages of Nachtstürm.
    A few words they picked out, “Herr Wilhelm” being foremost among them. Only once did she repeat that gentleman’s strange cry of “Fortuna,” the Romantic word stumbling stiffly off her tongue, and that when Catherine tarried a moment to glance down a hall that seemed more still and cold than the others and which reminded her – silly enough, she supposed – of Mrs. Tilney’s room in Northanger Abbey. “Donna…Fortuna,” the lady had said, sucking in her breath, then snapping, “Kommen Sie!”
    At last they came to what they supposed were to be their own rooms, for Fräulein Helga’s disapproving gaze and direct gesture could mean no less. The presence of their trunks and belongings also seemed to affirm their surmise. A moment’s glance was enough to comprehend the room’s general tenor. It was large and high ceilinged, with many cheerful red hangings, which – Catherine suspected – might look ominous once the multitude of hearty candles were extinguished. The furniture was made of an elegant cherry wood, comfortably upholstered in a similarly warm hue, and admirably situated for Henry’s unfortunate habit of leaving coats and stockings everywhere.
    “Yes – the room would do very well,” Henry declared amiably to Fräulein Helga.
    “I dare say it does well, love,” Catherine said, removing her pelisse. “I would expect no less from you!”
    Henry gave her a puzzled glance, and then turned to Fräulein Helga, asking her in broken German when they might expect Old Edric or Mr Wiltford. She replied, “Bald,” and closed the doors with great ceremony.
    There was very little to be done except to stare out at the flashing rain, rifle through their belongings, explore the suite – which was more extensive than their initial glance had led them to believe – and wonder aloud at the strangeness of Nachtstürm’s inhabitants. And if a few connubial kisses were exchanged, who was there to tell?
    After some three–quarters of an hour, by which time Catherine and Henry had conveniently forgotten the outside world altogether, a sharp crack sounded at the door. Henry rose swiftly to open it, motioning Catherine to stay within. He need not have feared though, for the man at the door was none other than Colin who came “to tell thee that we’ve been put just down an round the corner, iffn tha’d need us.” Henry thanked his man and closed the door with great relief, leaning against the wood and smiling foolishly at Catherine. He had not time to bar the door as well, though, before another rap came, this one knobbly and rat–a–tat–tat. “Alt Edric,” was the answer to Henry’s, “Wer ist?”
    Once more the doors opened to reveal not Fräulein Helga’s melancholy countenance, nor Colin’s rugged, good–humoured one, but a rather the hunched and bitter form of Old Edric himself, standing in all his ghostly splendour in the dark shadows of the corridor. He must once have been a tall man, but age had bent his shoulders as time had bent his soul. Still, he was large and strong for a man of sixty, and his clear, blue eye was as sharp as his tongue. His hair reflected the castle – sleek and grey, with hints of