Chapter 20
Kellerhof stood above the river road, set back from it by a rise of stone and scrub. No lamp marked the entrance. Fitzwilliam dismounted where the track ended and handed the reins off without a word.
The door opened on the first knock.
Fitzwilliam took the man in at once. Height within an inch of his own; two stone heavier. Brown hair pulled back. Broad shoulders; broader chest. Hands the size of dinner plates.
Empty. They flexed.
The man who stood there filled the frame. His eyes moved first—not to Fitzwilliam’s face, but to his collar. Then to his wrists. Then to the line of his shoulders. They paused at the hands. They returned to the face only after the count finished.
Fitzwilliam allowed it.
The man did not ask for a name. He did not step aside.
He turned and walked inward.
Fitzwilliam followed. The space behind the man had already been measured and granted.
The door closed without sound.
A man waited, seated at the head of the table. He did not rise.
Another man did.
The room held no ornament beyond use. A single candle burned between them. Bread lay broken. Meat had been carved already and left to rest. A bottle stood uncorked. Two glasses waited.
“You travelled from Vienna,” the seated man said, his consonants precise and foreign.
Fitzwilliam nodded. Once.
“You were not detained.”
He shook his head.
The man nodded. “Who directed you to this table?”
“Der Metzger von Trettin.”
The other man’s expression changed. “Ja. Markov.” His words rang with disgust. “An entire hamlet.”
Fitzwilliam said nothing.
“Very well,” the seated man said. “I am your host.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head. “Herr Keller.”
He turned to the other man, who bowed slightly. “Herr Albrecht.”
No further explanation followed. The man resumed his chair.
Keller cut the bread and passed the nearer piece across. Fitzwilliam marked the economy of the gesture—no offering, no test. A placement.
He took it and sat.
They ate without speech for a time. The knife moved clean. The man from the door poured the wine. Both he and the bottle withdrew.
Keller raised his glass. Fitzwilliam mirrored him. Albrecht did not.
“Markov taught you what society forgives.”
Fitzwilliam held Keller’s gaze. Keller’s eyes moved up and down, then up again.
“You are not a soldier.”
It did not land as an insult. Fitzwilliam took it as a measurement. “No.”
He did not qualify it.
“Good.” Keller’s mouth moved once. Not quite a smile. “Soldiers require permission.” He lifted his glass and set it down again, untouched.
“I shall teach you what Markov could not.”
“License,” Fitzwilliam replied.
Keller inclined his head a fraction. The acknowledgement passed as courtesy.
“Not licence.” A pause. “Method,” Keller said. “Licence is what boys call it.”
Fitzwilliam waited a beat. Then he chose the smile—slight, deliberate—not offered, but returned, and held Keller’s gaze.
Keller’s eyebrows lifted. “We shall see if the smile is that of a hunter.”
He drank his wine glass empty. He set it down. Keller folded his napkin and rose.
“Drinks shall be in the library,” he said, “when you are ready to continue.”
The man from the door appeared at Fitzwilliam’s side.
“Szárcza will show you to your rooms.”
Keller departed. Albrecht hesitated, then followed his host.
Fitzwilliam followed Szárcza up the stairs without looking back.
* * *
The large fireplace dominated the wall by deliberate excess, built for halls rather than rooms, its span wide enough to swallow a man whole.
The stone was pale limestone, veined faintly with ash-grey, cut in massive blocks and left only partly dressed, edges softened by time rather than tool.
The hearthstone bore old scars—darkened crescents, hairline fractures, the memory of heavier winters.
The flames danced, their movement easy and unhurried, the smell of wood smoke settling, familiar rather than welcoming. The fire did not snap or hurry; it held, as the room held, heat pushed outward in slow authority rather than demand.
Keller sat in an oversized wingback. Fitzwilliam took the chair adjacent, near enough for courtesy, far enough for choice. A small table stood between them.
Above the fireplace, animal heads hung as trophies.
Stag and boar, a wolf set highest, their antlers and tusks catching the light.
The hides had been stripped close; no flourish remained.
The mounts were plain. The work precise.
Glassy black eyes stared outward, fixed in that moment of mute astonishment which followed the end.
Szárcza poured from a glass carafe. The cut crystal caught and fractured the firelight, throwing shards across the walls, a kaleidoscope of colour never quite still. The deep amber colour of the spirit rippled, then settled at two fingers in height.
Keller held up his glass. “Prosit.”
Fitzwilliam replied in kind. “Prosit.”
He drank. His teeth met once. He did not cough.
Keller made a sound, low in his chest.
“You will learn,” Keller said, without looking at him, “to release your initial reactions.”
Fitzwilliam stared. Set down his glass.
“There was a child once,” Keller said, “who did not cry.”
His boot turned once beneath the chair. Leather pressed. Steel held.
“When he fell, the room rushed to him. When he cut himself, hands closed around him. When blood appeared, voices rose.”
Keller lifted his eyes briefly, as if recalling a detail he had once verified.
“The child learned early that other people reacted before he did.”
Fitzwilliam’s fingers stilled on the arms of the chair.
“They told him he was hurt,” Keller went on. “They told him to be careful. He learned the words. Not the reason.”
Keller drank. Set the glass down.
“Over time, he grew diligent.”
A pause.
“He watched for signs. He obeyed instruction. He learned that injury was something inferred.”
Fitzwilliam’s jaw set once. It did not change again.
“When he was older, they tested him,” Keller said. “They wished to prove he was not made of iron.”
Keller’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “They succeeded.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
“Later, they showed him what broke and bled. What failed. How it announced itself. The signs that appeared before the body failed.”
Silence lengthened. Fitzwilliam breathed once, slow and even. His thumb touched each finger in turn. Then stopped.
“But by then,” Keller said, “the lesson arrived late.”
Fitzwilliam lowered his gaze to the table.
“The young man learned only what did not stop him.”
The candle hissed softly.
“I do not believe they did this young boy any favours.”
Keller rose. Looked down at Fitzwilliam.
“Do you?”
Fitzwilliam lifted his glass. Drank. Set it down where it had stood before.
“He is what he is.”
The fire held.
* * *
Morning came clean. The fire had burned down to a bed of ash. Light entered from the east and lay where the night had left it, undisturbed. Fitzwilliam dressed without haste. The house remained quiet.
A small writing table stood by the window. Paper waited. Ink had been set out already.
The window stuck when he tried to open it. He adjusted his grip, lifted again, and the frame gave with a low complaint.
He sat and wrote without drafting.
The nib caught once on the paper’s grain.
He corrected the angle and continued without breaking the line.
He did not pause to consider phrasing. When the line ended, he sanded the page once, then again.
He tipped the sand away. He folded the missive, dripped wax from the candle, and pressed his thumb into the centre.
He addressed it to Villiers.
No explanation followed. No apology. He named the cottage where they had lodged. Return there. Finish the work already begun. The stables first. Then the roofs. See that the timber held. Keep the men employed through the winter. He would be engaged in business for the nonce.
That was sufficient. Nothing else required arranging.
He took his gloves and left the room. He closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked.