Free Borne in Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

road, his head resting on his paws, ears slightly perked. “I shouldn’t fear him, I know, but he is so large.”
    “And he is trained to protect Herr Kleinerhoff’s property,” Ragoczy added. “A task for which he is truly apt.”
    As if in agreement, Behemoth let out a rumble deep in his chest, although he did not move from where he lay.
    They reached the walk-way to Herr Kleinerhoff’s house. “It is just beyond that copse of trees,” said Ragoczy.
    “I’ve seen it from your laboratory window,” she reminded him. “Or the western half of it, at any case.” She walked a bit more quickly, her face showing no emotion at all. Finally, as they passed into the shadow of the yews and larches, she said, “This is just the sort of place I always imagine my boys playing.”
    “Herr Kleinerhoff’s children sometimes play here,” said Ragoczy kindly.
    “I know,” she said. “I’ve watched them.”
    “From my laboratory,” said Ragoczy.
    “Yes.” Her head came up sharply as if in anticipation of a reprimand. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
    “Nor do I,” he said as they emerged from the cluster of trees onto a broad swath of flagstones that fronted on a large, hundred-year-old farmhouse slightly in need of repair. Halfway along the front of the house the midden steamed ripely in the morning sun.
    “Will Herr Kleinerhoff be here?” Hero asked.
    “He and his wife and mother, and his children. Today only his hired hands work in the fields, clearing weeds and preparing for plowing.” He approached the front door, made of thick planks of pine painted blue and banded-and-hinged in iron. An old bell hung on a rusted rocker with a frayed cord attached to the clapper; Ragoczy pulled this and set off an unmelodious clang. “One of the privileges of being head-man in Sacre-Sang.”
    “I hope they won’t be offended by my presence,” said Hero in a sudden wash of uncertainty.
    “Why should they be?” Ragoczy asked, expecting no answer, which was just as well, for before Hero could speak, the inner bolt was drawn back and Herr Kleinerhoff himself threw open his door, bowing respectfully and beaming with painful determination as he welcomed Ragoczy and Hero to his home.
    His wife, a substantial woman with a sagging face that spoke of many hungry days, hovered in the arch between parlor and kitchen, flapping the ends of her long, embroidered apron, flushed with excitement. When her husband barked an order for wine, she hastened away, glad to have something to do.
    “I know you foreigners like wine more than our beer,” said Herr Kleinerhoff.
    “A glass for my companion would be welcome,” said Ragoczy, “but I, myself, do not drink wine.”
    Herr Kleinerhoff’s expression showed that he did not believe Ragoczy, but he said, “If you would prefer beer? I’m afraid what we have isn’t the best—the harvest being so …” He gestured to show his disappointment.
    “Neither is needed. Just the wine for Madame von Scharffensee.” Ragoczy looked around the parlor with the kind of tranquil curiosity that banished Herr Kleinerhoff’s embarrassment, so that when his wife appeared with two squat glasses of butter-colored wine, he gave one to Hero and kept one for himself without apology.
    “Let me welcome you to my home, Comte.” Herr Kleinerhoff lifted his glass, but hesitated to include Hero in his toast.
    “Thank you, Herr Kleinerhoff,” said Ragoczy. “Madame,” he went on to Hero, “I rely on you to express our gratitude for this hospitality.”
    Hero smiled and lifted her glass to Herr Kleinerhoff. “Thank you,” she said, and took a sip; the wine was from late-harvest grapes, its flavor intense and sweet, its texture syrupy. She managed not to cough at its overwhelming sapidness, nodding to Herr Kleinerhoff to show her approval.
    Herr Kleinerhoff was not so rude as to stare at her, but watched her out of the tail of his eye. “How kind of you to—”
    Ragoczy held up his small, elegant