Page 61 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

A few final hair-raising bends, and we reach a village. The village. The bus grinds to a halt in a modest square, where a scattering of folk are wandering about.

“We’ve arrived!” Marina is standing up now, facing the rest of the passengers. She speaks in English. “We’ll be walking up to the castle from here. They’ve sent a vehicle down for the bags; Radu will transfer them. Radu, we all say thank you for your remarkably good driving.”

* * *

The castle is set high on the hilltop, and around it is deep, dark forest. I’ve seen photos, of course: the brochure for the residency makes excellent use of them for publicity, and I imagine whoever handles the region’s tourism does the same, though the accommodation there is only for the visiting scholars and the staff who keep the place running. The Foundation provides four residencies per year. The rest of the time, this vast building must be home to only a handful of people.

In the foyer, we get instructions from another Foundation staffer: Stefan, who’s in charge of household management. He has the manner of a butler, courteous but capable. There’s something about him that makes people shut up and listen.

“Welcome, all. You’ll be tired after the trip here, so we’ll leave the guided tour until tomorrow. One rule you all need to be aware of. Don’t go exploring out in the grounds. Beyond the castle gardens, the terrain is wild forest and it’s easy to become disoriented. There are bears and wolves, and other dangers. That rule exists for your own safety. For now, our staff will show you your accommodation.” He introduces two women whose dark blue uniforms, with the Foundation’s logo on the pocket, match his blazer. They’ve come in very quietly behind him. This is a well-practised performance. Stefan’s English is perfect. He repeats the speech in French, which sounds to me equally perfect.

The staff members are Ioana and Livia. Ioana gathers up the women, but gestures to me to stay where I am. Livia does the same with the men and this time it’s Gabriel who is left behind. We get a few funny looks as the rest of them follow their guides out of the lobby.

“You look startled, Sophie,” observes Stefan. “May I call you Sophie?”

I nod, not quite prepared to ask why the two of us have been separated out.

“As scholarship students, you will be accommodated in the tower,” Stefan tells us. “It’s an excellent place for study, though of course you’re free to use the library as well. Gavril, you are on the top level, and Sophie the one beneath. You’ll find every thing you need there.” Stefan’s look is quizzical; I suspect that when off-duty, this is a man who allows himself to laugh. “It is a long way up.” His glance moves from Gabriel’s long legs to my some what shorter ones.

“I’m a dancer,” I say. “I’ll manage.” It’s the truth. I may not have the ethereal figure of a classical ballerina, but dancing is my life, and it’s made me strong.

* * *

We’re up here in the tower, just Gabriel and me. Stefan’s gone away to tick off another duty from his no doubt lengthy list. When the Foundation took over this place, they did a massive renovation. Now it’s a blend of old and new, elegant and comfortable, with plenty of quirky old touches. On the same level as my tiny but cute bedroom there’s a study area for two: decent-sized desks, bookshelves, a small electric heater, even a counter with a tiny fridge, a sink and a kettle. At the bottom of the spiral staircase there’s a little bathroom with basin, shower and loo all somehow tucked in. The renovation must have cost a fortune, all for the worthy cause of supporting scholarly research. And, of course, spreading the word about the Foundation’s good work internationally. If the late Daniel Lupescu, an academic renowned for his comprehensive writing on Transylvanian history, is looking down on all this, I think he must be well pleased.

I’m investigating the tea and coffee possibilities when Gabriel comes in. “How’s your room?” I ask. And can’t resist adding, “Gavril?”

“The bed’s on the short side, but I’m used to that. How’s your room?”

“Nice. Getting our own private space is great. It’ll be much easier to concentrate up here. Quiet.”

“Mm.” He draws a breath. “Gavril is my birth name. I mostly use Gabriel back in Australia. It’s easier for people. Same roots, different branches.”

“And you’re Gabriel in the brochure.” He’s looking awkward. Doesn’t like talking about personal stuff, I bet. “Gavril suits you better.” It’s softer. Subtler. I don’t ask the obvious question about family, but he answers it anyway.

“It is a Romanian name. My mother’s antecedents came from here. A long way back.”

Wow. “From here, as in Transylvania?” It explains his research topic.

“Mm. I spent some time as an exchange student at the university in Braşov. They run a Master’s course in diachronic linguistics.”

“Some time, I’ll get you to explain what that is. Right now, I doubt my brain is up to it. Cup of tea?”

Gavril nods. “Thanks. I’ll make it next time.”

I assemble tea bags, milk, some clean mugs. All the time debating whether I should ask another question, or whether it’ll make him clam up and destroy the fledgling trust between us. When he said his mother’s people came from here, did he mean right here, in this small community? If his mother knows this place, she may have some insights into the strange old story. Not that I can demand to meet his mother when we get home to Australia. But there are possibilities.

“Sophie?”

I’m jerked back into the here and now. I pass him a mug. “What?”

“I want to show you something. Bring your tea.”

I follow him up the narrow spiral staircase to his room, and although it’s directly above mine, I see that it’s not quite a twin. His bedroom has a second door. The heavy bolt has been drawn aside. He pulls the door open to reveal a balcony, just big enough for two folding chairs and a little table. The view out over the forest is spectacular. Just as well there’s a guardrail. It’s a long, long way down to the pebbled path. From the nearby roof of the main building, various gargoyles glare at us. I think they’re meant to be creatures from the local folklore – an owl-faced Striga, a fearsome Căpcăun, a scaly Balaur with the regulation seven heads. Every weird face is turned in our direction, as if to say, What do you think you’re doing here? But it’s the forest that draws my eye.

“Is that the lake of the nymphs?” There’s a big body of water there, well shielded by trees, but catching the light of a rising moon and glinting here and there through gaps in its dark cloak. The moonlit pathway. As I feel the touch of magic, sudden tears come to my eyes. If that’s the lake mentioned in the descriptions of this place, it has its own stories. Folk once believed forest nymphs – Iele – lived close by. Their song was irresistible to men. But they also loved to play tricks, and those tricks could lead folk down dangerous paths. Perhaps that’s why even today’s tourist info warns people off the place.

“Yes,” my companion says.