Mr. Darcy's Great Escape by Marsha Altman Page B

away.
    ***
    â€œDoctor—” was all Darcy managed to say before he was pulled off in another direction. The terrible thought that he might never see him again went through him like a cold shiver as he was brought to his feet and made to stumble around in the castle. It wasn’t like the rebuilt castles of Scotland, largely manor houses. This was an ancient place of stone and torches and winding staircases with no windows. “Look, I don’t even speak your language, how can I—” But he was just rewarded with a smack on the back of his head and more Romanian words. They brought him to a room with only two chairs, one off to the side and the other in the center. It was wooden and had metal clamps on it. They freed him from his shackles and locked him into the chair.
    They then left him, taking the light with them. They left only the single candle burning down on the wooden table, the only other furniture in the room. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Darcy took in his surroundings, but there was little to take in. Four empty walls, a wooden door, and a candle. The flickering of it was hypnotic in a way, and his eyes constantly fell to the wick, watching it burn and the wax drip down.
    Despite his position, he did not realize he had managed to fall asleep until icy water hit him in the face, thoroughly waking him up. He tried to wipe it from his eyes but found his arms unmovable. His predicament came back to him very quickly.
    â€œ Guten Morgen, Herr Darcy.”
    â€œOnce again, I must remind you that I don’t speak German,” Darcy said, raising his head to the inquisitor. It was Trommler again.
    â€œ Vous parlez Francais ?” (Do you speak French?)
    â€œNot much,” he replied, his voice hoarse from thirst. “Please, very little.”
    Trommler took a very careful seat on the stool that had been brought for him. “We will have to work in English, then, no?” But it sounded more like “ Ve vill haf to vork… ” with his thick accent. “Excuse my accent. We should be acquainted properly now. I am Herr Konrad Trommler.”
    â€œMr. Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Darcy replied out of habit. “Look, I don’t know why I’m here—perhaps you have your intelligence mixed up or something, because I’ve not come to look for Brian Maddox; I’m looking for my brother, who is totally unrelated and not in Transylvania at all—”
    â€œHave you ever heard of Dracula?”
    â€œWhat?” Darcy said. “No, I have not.”
    â€œHis name means son of Dracu—His father was a member of the order of the Dragon. He lived, they say, three centuries ago in Wallachia—right next to us. His real name was Vlad the Impaler. Do you wish to know why he was called that?”
    â€œNo.”
    Trommler smiled. “I think it would actually be worse to leave it to your imagination. Reconsider, Herr Darcy.”
    â€œI will not.” The circumstances were extreme, but he would not give in to this man’s fright tactics. “I suppose you’re going to try to intimidate me by telling me the count is his descendent.”
    â€œYou are familiar with inquisition, Herr Darcy?”
    â€œNo. I am a gentleman.”
    â€œMy opinion on English gentlemen is not very good,” said Trommler, “having observed one for over two years.”
    â€œBrian Maddox is no gentleman.”
    â€œThen you are aware of his habits?”
    â€œI know him. I am related to him by marriage, yes. I have spent time with him, yes. But I’ve not seen or heard from him in years.” He could talk, if that was all they were going to do. “If you think either of us knows his whereabouts, or even if he is still alive, then you are mistaken again.”
    â€œSo der doktor said,” Trommler told him, “before he passed out.”
    Darcy swallowed.
    â€œBut enough about Doktor Maddox. Your brother is