copying and pasting the same brief query about a sixty-five-year-old university professor, traveling alone, gave her something to occupy her mind. Command-V, command-V—paste, paste, paste.
Why would her mother be interested in a murderous psychopathic countess?
Betsy searched through her file cabinet. She had gone through the P s three times already, each time more carefully.
She stopped, thinking. Of course!
Under M, for Mom.
Betsy found the file. Her mother had granted one session with her daughter, and one session only. It was a kind of graduation present to Betsy, to share the one dream Grace had ever remembered.
It was a dream Grace had had the night Betsy was born.
“Don’t you dare analyze me, Betsy. I’m only sharing this because I never, ever dream. It must have been provoked by indigestion or the first spasms of childbirth.”
It was clear that she wanted her daughter to hear this dream. Grace was such a left-brained academic, systematic and almost scientific in her meticulous research in history. She was so unlike Betsy or her husband, their Jungian world of dream interpretation dismissed as “malarkey.”
Once Grace started talking, her words flowed.
I dream I am floating through a dense cloudbank that hugs mountain walls. The air clears and it is a winter day in a river valley.
There is a village below me. A fairytale village, dusted with snow. I see a tall church steeple and wooden cottages with straw-thatched roofs. Rosy-cheeked children play in the streets, though I can’t hear them. They wear rustic clothes of long ago: the boys in wool caps and breeches, the girls with white kerchiefs and long aprons.
I feel that it is Eastern Europe, but I hear no voices, no accents to confirm this. It is a soundless dream.
I veer away to a pond. White steam rises from the water and ice clings to the bare branches of the weeping willows. Frost outlines the bark eyes of the birch trees, staring solemnly.
Everything glitters as the sun’s rays filter through the fog coming off the water in gentle waves, ghosts gliding over the pond.
A brittle shelf of ice lines the shore, a jagged silver plane on the dark water. Ducks float peacefully beyond, occasionally plunging to pull at strands of grass below the surface. They seem oblivious to the cold, their fat bottoms tipped up to the winter sky.
I feel at peace in a world of winter beauty.
Then I see her: a girl, submerged, coated in ice, her eyes open, blue and clear. She stares blindly, her long hair sparkling with frost. I have the impression she has tried to tear off her clothes, there is a rip in her bodice. A rose-colored mark blooms just above her breast, contrasting sharply with her flawless white skin.
Everything about her is beautiful. Except that she is dead.
Betsy shuddered and closed her eyes.
Where are you now, Mom?
Chapter 18
C ARBONDALE, C OLORADO
D ECEMBER 10, 2010
B etsy called the American Embassy in Bratislava, asking how to locate a missing person.
“Has she registered with the embassy?” asked a bored male voice. She heard the ping of an incoming e-mail in the background.
“No, but she entered Slovakia on her American passport.”
“Name, please?” he droned.
Betsy could tell this man was not going to help her. She knew the type, the tone of voice, the desire to be rid of her quickly so he could update his Facebook.
She gave him her mother’s name, age, description.
“She was doing research in the Bratislava area, possibly also in Č achtice and Beckov.”
“I have no record of her registering with the embassy. Was she planning to stay more than a month?”
“Six weeks. I think.”
“She should have registered with the embassy if she was staying that long,” said the voice, with an admonishing tone. “I have no record of her.”
“Can you tell me how to go about locating her? Can you contact the police department in Bratislava, or the areas around Č achtice or Beckov?”
“No, that is not a service we
Why would her mother be interested in a murderous psychopathic countess?
Betsy searched through her file cabinet. She had gone through the P s three times already, each time more carefully.
She stopped, thinking. Of course!
Under M, for Mom.
Betsy found the file. Her mother had granted one session with her daughter, and one session only. It was a kind of graduation present to Betsy, to share the one dream Grace had ever remembered.
It was a dream Grace had had the night Betsy was born.
“Don’t you dare analyze me, Betsy. I’m only sharing this because I never, ever dream. It must have been provoked by indigestion or the first spasms of childbirth.”
It was clear that she wanted her daughter to hear this dream. Grace was such a left-brained academic, systematic and almost scientific in her meticulous research in history. She was so unlike Betsy or her husband, their Jungian world of dream interpretation dismissed as “malarkey.”
Once Grace started talking, her words flowed.
I dream I am floating through a dense cloudbank that hugs mountain walls. The air clears and it is a winter day in a river valley.
There is a village below me. A fairytale village, dusted with snow. I see a tall church steeple and wooden cottages with straw-thatched roofs. Rosy-cheeked children play in the streets, though I can’t hear them. They wear rustic clothes of long ago: the boys in wool caps and breeches, the girls with white kerchiefs and long aprons.
I feel that it is Eastern Europe, but I hear no voices, no accents to confirm this. It is a soundless dream.
I veer away to a pond. White steam rises from the water and ice clings to the bare branches of the weeping willows. Frost outlines the bark eyes of the birch trees, staring solemnly.
Everything glitters as the sun’s rays filter through the fog coming off the water in gentle waves, ghosts gliding over the pond.
A brittle shelf of ice lines the shore, a jagged silver plane on the dark water. Ducks float peacefully beyond, occasionally plunging to pull at strands of grass below the surface. They seem oblivious to the cold, their fat bottoms tipped up to the winter sky.
I feel at peace in a world of winter beauty.
Then I see her: a girl, submerged, coated in ice, her eyes open, blue and clear. She stares blindly, her long hair sparkling with frost. I have the impression she has tried to tear off her clothes, there is a rip in her bodice. A rose-colored mark blooms just above her breast, contrasting sharply with her flawless white skin.
Everything about her is beautiful. Except that she is dead.
Betsy shuddered and closed her eyes.
Where are you now, Mom?
Chapter 18
C ARBONDALE, C OLORADO
D ECEMBER 10, 2010
B etsy called the American Embassy in Bratislava, asking how to locate a missing person.
“Has she registered with the embassy?” asked a bored male voice. She heard the ping of an incoming e-mail in the background.
“No, but she entered Slovakia on her American passport.”
“Name, please?” he droned.
Betsy could tell this man was not going to help her. She knew the type, the tone of voice, the desire to be rid of her quickly so he could update his Facebook.
She gave him her mother’s name, age, description.
“She was doing research in the Bratislava area, possibly also in Č achtice and Beckov.”
“I have no record of her registering with the embassy. Was she planning to stay more than a month?”
“Six weeks. I think.”
“She should have registered with the embassy if she was staying that long,” said the voice, with an admonishing tone. “I have no record of her.”
“Can you tell me how to go about locating her? Can you contact the police department in Bratislava, or the areas around Č achtice or Beckov?”
“No, that is not a service we
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