Once Upon a Summer Day by Dennis L. McKiernan Read Free Book Online

served, and Borel groaned but faced them heroically.
    Albert stepped forward with yet another fresh goblet and a bottle of wine. “A sparkling, bit-off-dry white, my lord. It will enhance the sweetness of Madame Millé’s splendid pastry.”
    Once again Borel nodded his appreciation and managed not one but two of the éclairs.
    When that was cleared away, Albert served a snifter of cherry brandy, this from a very dusty bottle Albert held back for special occasions, “. . . a refreshing tartness to clear the palate, my lord. Would you care for some cheese as well?”
    Satiated, Borel waved off the cheese, but he took up the brandy and groaned to his feet and headed for the kitchen, Albert trailing after. When the prince entered, all work stopped, and stepping to the fore of the kitchen- and wait-staff came a white-haired man in somber black, and a small woman wearing a chef’s hat and a full, white apron over a dove-grey dress. The man in black bowed, as did all the men, Albert now among them, and the woman doffed her hat, revealing red curls, and she curtseyed, as did all the women.
    Borel raised his glass on high and called out, “I salute you, Monsieur Paul, Madame Millé, and Monsieur Albert, as well as all who had a hand in the preparation and serving. Never has a finer meal graced Winterwood Manor.” Borel then tossed down the drink, much to Albert’s dismay, for this brandy was meant to be savored—slowly, and in small sips—else one might just as well guzzle straight from the bottle.
    The rest of the staff, however, looked at one another and beamed in pleasure, and then bowed and curtseyed again.
    Albert stepped forward, the dusty bottle of cherry brandy gripped tightly, but Borel smiled and shook his head, then set down the snifter on a nearby counter and turned on his heel and headed for his quarters, while behind voices were raised as the staff returned to whatever they’d been doing ere the prince had come: Madame Millé snapping out commands; Monsieur Paul’s words less intense; men and women scurrying about.
     
    “Nightshirt, Sieur?”
    “No, Gerard.”
    The valet looked at the bed curtains and shook his head and sighed. Lord Borel never wanted them drawn good and proper, but instead required them left open—“the better to hear the household” he said, as if at any moment something wicked might come crashing in.
    “Good night, then, my lord,” said Gerard. “Sleep well.”
    “So I hope,” said Borel, crawling into bed.
    Candle in hand, Gerard slipped out the door, taking the light with him, even as Borel eased under the down covers.
    It seems somewhat strange, sleeping in my own manor again.
    Ah, but it is good to be home.
    Two or three days hence, I will head for Hradian’s cote and see if there she yet dwells, but for now . . .
    Borel fell aslumber ere he could finish that thought.
    Long did he sleep, dreaming not at all . . . not at all, that is, until a candlemark or two beyond mid of night. . . .
     
    With stone walls all ’round, beyond the windows Borel could see daggers floating in the air, threatening, ever threatening. A young, golden-haired lady stood across the chamber, her head bowed.
    I’ve been here before, but when?
    From somewhere nearby there came a persistent squeaking, though perhaps it was music instead.
    “Oh, s’il-te-plaît aidez-moi, mon seigneur,” whispered the demoiselle, a band of black across her eyes. “Il ne reste qu’une lune.”
    “What do you mean, my lady, when you say there is but a moon left?”
    “Il reste peu de temps, mon seigneur. Il ne reste qu’une lune.”
    “Time grows short?”
    “S’il-te-plaît aidez-moi. Aidez-moi.”
    “Do I know you, mademoiselle?”
    Before she could answer there came a long, low, sustained cry, as of pain or grief or displeasure, and it slowly rose to a shriek, and the stone walls faded, and she was gone, and—
    Borel startled awake in the night, a wind wailing about the mansion, and then it fell to a