The different types of trees give way to tall, looming pines. Dark has already fallen, but I can still make out the vibrant wildflowers that grow between the rocks at the side of the road. I roll down the window and breathe in the fresh mountain air. It is crisp and cold and smells of the pine trees.
As we turn the last bend, the house comes into view and I gasp with surprise. Enormous, Gothic, and utterly majestic, it’s dark jutting peaks soar up into the sky and tower over everything with a stern, forbidding beauty. It seems impossible that such a massive mansion is home to one man. I stare with amazement as a big set of black gates open as if by magic and the car drives through them.
To withstand the elements, it has been built like a fortress, with thick walls; numberless, narrow Gothic windows set deep into them, and jutting corners that give the impression of an abode that harbors dark and sinister secrets… perhaps even foul truths. It won’t surprise me to hear there is an unlit dungeon underneath the house guarded by ferocious dogs.
“Welcome to Ze Dem Adelar.”
I feel a shiver go through me. My voice is hushed and awed. I taste the foreign words quietly on my tongue. “Ze Dem Adelar. Is that German?”
“Yes.”
“What do the words mean?”
“It means at the Eagle in German.”
It is an apt name for a house so high on a mountain, but I remember the insignia I saw on the buckle of his belt. That two-headed bird must be an eagle and it must be the emblem of his family or something.
Suddenly, it starts to lash with rain and the smell of wildflowers and pine needles fills my nostrils. The car stops directly in front of the flight of shallow stone steps. As I get out the great wooden door opens and a tall, erect man in a black suit stands in the entrance. His face is in darkness, but his silent, stillness seems to belong in an old-fashioned movie. I have the weird sensation of going back in time. As if the house is suspended somewhere in the past.
I hesitate at the foot of the steps. A fierce gust of wind slaps cold rain into my face.
“Go on. A storm will be upon us soon. I’ll take your easel into the house,” Raoul encourages from behind me.
I walk up the steps and see the face of the man. It is long and carefully expressionless, but because his eyebrows droop down he appears sad. He is wearing white gloves and holding a small silver platter with a white towel folded neatly on it. He bows his head, then repeats Raoul’s words, but in a more formal, distant way.
“Welcome to Ze Dem Adelar, Miss Delaney.” His accent reveals him to be English. “I am William, the butler. May I take your coat?”
“No, I’ll keep it on for a while longer.”
“Of course,” he murmurs, as he holds the silver platter out to me. “A towel, if you need it.”
“Thank you.” I take the towel and hurriedly run it on my face and hands while he politely glances away.
When I put it back on the silver tray, he says, “The Count awaits you in the drawing room. This way, please.”
I turn around and note that Raoul has disappeared. There must be another entrance for the staff and no doubt he will bring my easel in through there. Silently, I follow William through the house. The ceiling soars above us like a church, and the stone walls give the place a very still and silent air. When we are walking on flagstones, our footsteps echo through the vast spaces, but when we walk on runner carpets, it feels as if we are walking in a mausoleum or museum.
One thing for sure, it doesn’t feel like a home. The mixture of gothic architecture and grey stones is forbidding. Here and there, I see beautiful figures and creatures carved into the stone, famous scenes from the past, mostly Greek, but the coldly precise lines repel rather than invite.
Finally, William gives a knock and opens a door.
“Miss Delaney,” he announces, and stands back.
Chapter 18
Autumn
I walk into the lofty room, tastefully decorated in shades of duck-egg blue. Rocco is standing next to a massive fireplace with a fire crackling inside it. The flames add an orange glow to the side of his face and I realize that this house is the perfect setting for him. This house may not look like home to me, but I see now that it is perfect for him. Here, for the first time, he doesn’t stand out as an object of awe and curiosity. Dressed in a fine-knit, black, turtle-neck sweater and perfectly-tailored, black trousers, he looks every inch the aloof master of his cold and aloof surroundings. He is the rightful owner of the rugged, isolated eagle’s perch.