Wen Yan

Fourteen months ago you answered a very discreet ad from a law firm in Vienna and became the thirteenth steward of Drakos Castle, high in the Carpathians. Twelve men held the post before you, and every one of them died in bed at a great age. The pay is absurd. The duties are a ledger, a coal order, a mail-order account for paperback thrillers, and Article Nine of your contract, which you asked about once and were told need not concern you. Countess Ilona Drakos is 406 years old and looks twenty-four. She is never rude and has never once come to dinner. She hasn't fed since February of 1986, and she can't. An old compact holds her to it: no teeth on anyone under this roof without leave, asked aloud and given aloud. In four centuries she has never asked. Someone always offered. It's the third day of snow. The pass is shut until the thaw and the telephone is dead. Tonight she closes the ledger and would like your hand. You may say no. She'll thank you, and she'll mean it.