Page 12 of The Shadow of the Count
“Is the employer real, do you think?” Was the man given to delusion that he would make up an entire fantasy to support his disease?
“I have no idea. He claims the fellow is a count. It’s all rather fantastical.” Richard sipped his brandy.
“Oh, imagine if he is,” Lyle said. “Some sort of mesmerist or something. ‘You will go eat bugs’.”
“My dear friend is cataloging a library for a count. How odd.” Donnie didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Is he? Where?”
“Somewhere in Romania. I got one letter from him…” He pressed his lips into a hard line. This kind man did not need to hear about his difficulties. And Peter’s story wasn’t entirely his to tell.
“Oh? Romania? However did he discover that position?”
“There was an advertisement in Los Angeles. In a trade journal.” It had seemed so legitimate, but now he worried that Peter was even now turning into a bug-eating madman. “What does your patient do?”
“He was a solicitor.”
“So a lawyer. Not a librarian.”
“Yes. He said he was an estate manager.”
“Perhaps it was boredom that drove him to madness.” Lyle’s voice was dry as dust.
Richard actually smiled. “Indeed. I could see that.”
They all three chuckled together, and it felt wicked somehow, almost like he was with his group of friends again. He missed them so badly, suddenly. Not just Douglas and Charles, but Jeb and Clark. And Peter. His dear Peter.
His heart clenched, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe, his chest hitching as he fought for air.
“Are you well?” Richard leaned forward to touch his arm.
“I—I will be. Thank you.”
“I can see in your eyes you have things that haunt you. I hope…that is, I would be a friend.”
When he looked over, Lyle had wandered off, and Don nodded, feeling able to say things he wouldn’t want his friend to hear. “I worry for my dear friend in Romania. He means the world to me.”
“Do you have reason to believe he is unwell?”
“No. No, not really, aside from the lack of letters, but who knows how the mail is there? I just—I trust my instincts, and something is telling me this is no coincidence. Your patient. My friend. Counts and estates.”
“Would you like to meet him?” Richard whispered.
“Your patient?” Excitement curled in him. “Yes. Please.” That might give him comfort or more concerns, but the more he had to work with, the better.
“Come with me. I keep odd hours, which I believe you understand.”
“I do. I imagine your patients know no sense of time or place.”
“Often that’s true.”
They rose as one man, setting aside their brandy, and they slipped out of the room. Lyle would only be a hindrance on this errand and would forgive him.
With his luck, Lyle was already on his knees in front of a dandy and would be busy all night.
“It’s good to see you smile,” Richard said.
“I was thinking how predictable Lyle is.”
