Free Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery by Elizabeth Peters Page A

not as long established.”
    George stood up. Still smiling, he stretched lazily. Muscles rippled all over him.
    “I’m noted for getting what I want,” he murmured.
    Tony, who had been swelling like a turkey, couldn’t stand it any longer.
    “Play your hot love scenes in private, why don’t you?”
    “If you’d take the hint and leave, we would,” said George.
    “Oh, no, we wouldn’t,” I said. “Out, both of you. I need my beauty sleep. Who knows, I may not find the shrine. Then I would have to rely on sheer sex appeal to catch myself a husband.”
    “I’m betting on you,” said George. He glanced at Tony, who said shortly,
    “It’s all for none and one for each in this game. We’ll see. Come on, Nolan. Good night, Vicky.”

    The undercurrents in that conversation set my teeth on edge, and I was still thinking about them the next morning. When I reached the dining room, Tony was the only one at our table. He grunted at me, but didn’t look up.
    “Where’s George?” I asked.
    “Been and gone.”
    “Did you two exchange any meaningful remarks after you left me?”
    “Define ‘meaningful.’” Tony looked at me. “You know what that crook is planning, don’t you? He’ll follow us until we find — uh — something, then jump in and grab it.”
    “Time to worry about that if and when we find it. At the moment we aren’t even warm.”
    “Wrong. The time to worry is now, before Nolan pops out of a dark corner and hits somebody over the head.”
    “He won’t hit me over the head,” I said smugly.
    “Are you sure?”
    Come to think of it, I wasn’t at all sure. I wouldn’t give Tony the satisfaction of agreeing with him in his assessment of George’s scruples, or lack thereof; but I didn’t object when Tony proposed that we make a joint expedition out to the old Wachtturm . As he said, it wasn’t a good place for solitary exploring. A lot of nasty accidents could occur in a crumbling, deserted place like that.
    Before we had finished breakfast, Irma came to the table. She was wan and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. On her, even baggy eyes looked good. Tony got to his feet so fast he almost turned his chair over.
    “My aunt wishes you — both of you — to have tea with her this afternoon,” she said.
    “How nice,” I said, since Tony was too preoccupied with his tottering chair to be coherent. “What time?”
    “Four o’clock.” She didn’t look at me; she was watching Tony from under those long lashes. His confusion seemed to amuse her; she gave him a small but effective smile before she turned away.
    “I suppose,” Tony said, capturing the chair and sitting on it, “she’s going to bawl us out.”
    “Who, the Gräfin ?” There was only one Gräfin in that house; it was impossible to think of Irma by her title. The word, with its guttural r and flat, hard vowel, suited the old lady.
    “Let her complain,” I went on. “If she gives me a hard time, I’ll report her to the SPCC, or whatever the German equivalent may be.”
    “Irma’s no child,” Tony murmured.
    “If you want to explore ruins, let’s go,” I said, rising.
    The going was rough. The undergrowth between the castle and the keep was ninety percent brambles. They had the longest thorns I’ve ever seen on any plant. Tony kept falling into them; I gathered he was still preoccupied with Irma, because after a while he said,
    “What makes you think the old lady is hassling Irma? We haven’t seen her do anything particularly vicious.”
    “You don’t call that performance last night vicious? The girl is scared to death about something. She works like a drudge, of course, while the old bat sits in her tower drinking tea; but it’s more than that.”
    “Yeah, I know. It’s hard to put into words, but there is something between the two of them…. I hate to think of handing the shrine over to an old witch like that.”
    An unwary step took me off the path, such as it was. I stopped, and unwound