The Moonlit Pathway | Juliet Marillier #4
The steps are easy to pick up, and all the locals seem to know the dance.
Nobody cares if an old man is rather slow, or a boy decides to throw in a few extra moves, or someone turns left instead of right.
At first Madalina, who’s next to me in the women’s circle, gives instructions as we go, but she soon sees I don’t need them.
As for Gavril, I lose track of him quite quickly, which is a worry, because I know he’ll be way out of his comfort zone.
But when the pattern of the dance brings us face-to-face again, his smile says a whole lot more than I’m surviving.
And the way he holds my hand as we turn wakes up something deep inside me.
As the steps of the dance draw us apart again, I catch the sweetest look on his face, and wonder if I’m blushing.
In return, I show the locals a Scottish country dance, explaining that my ancestors come from there, which they do, on my father’s side.
Belle and Mandy are still watching, though they’ve moved to the terrace outside the café and are sitting there drinking what look like cocktails and eating tiny cakes.
I feel as if I’m being sized up, and it’s uncomfortable.
But I go ahead and teach the basic steps, then call for eight volunteers to make up a set.
The musicians soon pick up the beat and the pattern of the dance, and they improvise an accompaniment.
The crowd claps along, keeping time. When we’re finished, there’s riotous applause.
Gavril and I are swept up to the café and offered free drinks and cakes.
People have lots of questions for me. Gavril is kept busy translating.
I’m not going to get any of the information I really want now.
I’ll need to see Liana again, without an audience.
* * *
The day after that, there are guests to lunch at the castle, academic guests, and afterwards half of us get up and in turn give a fifteen-minute talk about our research topic.
I acquit myself well enough, I think, though I have dance music going through my head the whole time.
Once or twice, I catch Gavril’s eye and he gives a nod or a little smile.
I bet he’s shuffling his feet in encouragement.
I wonder how he’ll manage his own presentation, but once up there he sounds both expert and very much invested in his work.
I learn later that one of the distinguished academics in the audience was his supervisor at the university in Brasov.
I still haven’t asked him about his mother’s family.
We may have become friends, but we’re not ready for that conversation.
Belle’s presentation surprises me. She’s really engaged with her topic, which relates to biodiversity, and in particular bioluminescent fungi, which are apparently found in this forest. I’d have thought she’d be the last person to be passionate about conservation.
Clearly, I’ve misjudged the woman. Mind you, her manners haven’t improved.
After the presentations, all I want is to collapse on my bed and switch off.
Another part, more insistent, is telling me, No time to spare.
You’re not here for long. Do what you need to do.
Be brave! Find the magic! Across the reception area, I see Gavril engaged in deep conversation with his former supervisor and a couple of other learned-looking people who were in our audience.
“First, coffee,” I mumble to my annoying inner voice.
I go back to our shared study area and make a pot.
Enough for two, just in case. Then I go via Gavril’s room out to the balcony.
What with the festive lunch and the presentations, it’s late in the day.
“Nearly moonrise,” I murmur, not quite sure if I’m talking to myself or the gargoyles.
It may be close to summer, but the evenings get cold.
I look down over the forest, wishing Gavril would come back, wondering how he’d actually feel about breaking sensible rules.
Seems like he’s a bit of a golden boy in the academic world.
I hear a plink! like a pebble dropping. When I turn my head, something’s changed.
This is the exact spot where we stood yesterday, with all the gargoyles looking at us.
Now, every strange head – horned, hatted, snake-haired, bulging-eyed, long-toothed – is turned toward the place where the first trace of moonlight is touching the edge of the forest. But…
I jump, as someone right behind me says something in Romanian that my instincts tell me is equivalent to Holy crap! I turn, and there he is, with a mug of coffee in his hands.
“Sorry, did I startle you?”
I grimace. “Not as much as they did.” I jerk my head toward the gargoyles, who keep their stony gaze on the forest. “Unless I’m imagining things.”
“I was wondering,” Gavril says, then falls silent.
“So was I. About whether to break rules or ask for permission. The folk here seem to trust you.”
He sips his coffee, looking out over the forest, not at me. “Ask for special privileges? Or just assume breaking rules won’t have consequences? Only you can answer that, Sophie.”
I make myself breathe before answering. “To do what I need to do, I’ll have to break a rule. I’d be stupid to think there’d be no consequences. Besides…”
Now he’s smiling. It’s the sweet, warm smile that makes my insides melt. “Besides, you’re breaking the rule because you want consequences?”
“Not the consequence of me being booted off the residency and sent home in disgrace. Something different. Oh!”
There’s one gargoyle on our tower, just above the balcony, a thing that looks like a winged pug. And it just moved. I only caught the briefest glimpse, heard the tiniest of grinding sounds, but it now has its eyes firmly on me. There’s a metallic clink…
Gavril looks at me. I look at him. I put my coffee down on the little table and approach the spot.
“There,” says Gavril, pointing.
A key. On the balcony floor, just below the gargoyle in question. I crouch down. Reach out. Then pull my hand back, not touching.
“Probably some words,” Gavril murmurs.
This feels deeply weird. A privilege. A dangerous privilege. Something odd happened in this place, generations ago. A story that never seems to be fully told. Something mysterious and magical. With dancing in it. Ah!
I motion to Gavril to put his coffee on the table.
I get to my feet and take his hand. With heads held high and eyes on the gargoyle, we do the basic right foot tap, left foot tap, and one, two, three.
He whistles a little tune that fits the rhythm perfectly.
We repeat the steps a few times. Not much of a dance.
But it’s a symbol of trust, of good intent.
“We thank you,” I say, and bend to pick up the key, which feels curiously warm in my hand.
“We will use this wisely, and when our business is done, we will return it to you, its guardian. All honour and respect to you.”
“All honour and respect to you,” echoes Gavril.
No response from the stone pug. But as we turn to go back indoors, there’s a glint of light out in the forest. Not yet the moon; but some thing has touched the waters of the lake to brightness.
* * *
The next day, I’m heading for the library when I hear Belle screaming at someone, a rant about how ridiculous it is that she can’t go into the forest, how is she expected to do her research if she can’t observe the fungi, take photos, make notes…
? Which sounds fair enough to me, but I’m pretty sure yelling won’t help her.
Then comes the measured voice of Marina, saying there must be areas nearer the village where those fungi grow, perhaps on the very edge of the forest, or beside tracks used by farmers.
Or maybe if a staff member was available to escort her, she might go a little further in…
But Belle isn’t listening. She’s totally lost it.
There’s a crash as something gets thrown or toppled over, and then her voice fades. She’s still cursing as she stamps away.
I look up some references in the library, then head back to the tower.
At the entry to the study area, I stop dead.
Gavril is sitting at my desk, headphones on.
He’s looking at my special document, which I never, ever leave out where people can see it.
But I must have left it out this time, because there it is.
Words burst from me before I can stop them.
“What do you think you’re doing? That’s private!
It’s secret!” I don’t say, this is a betrayal. But that’s probably in my voice.
Gavril doesn’t get up, though he must have heard me, headphones or not.
He doesn’t apologise. He’s holding a pen, making notes on a pad.
“Sorry,” he says, but his eyes are still on the cryptic writing and his tone is distant.
Clearly his mind is on something else. Like solving a puzzle.
“This is… remarkable,” he adds, slipping the headphones off. “Where did it come from?”
“Did I ask for your help?” I hear my own voice, harsh as a slap, and I hate it, but I can’t stop myself. “Did I ask you to meddle with my stuff?”
Now he looks at me and rises to his feet. A long moment passes. I make myself breathe slowly.
“It might have been wiser to leave this at home,” Gavril says. He sounds perfectly composed, which makes me even angrier. “If this is the original, I hope you’ve made a digital copy.”
“I’m not stupid, whatever you may think.
Yes, I have it in digital form, both here and at home.
And most of the time the original is kept in a hard folder, protected by acid-free paper.
But… I do wonder if the power, the magic, is in the physical document.
I can’t read it. I haven’t found any clues about what script it is. ”