Written in the Blood (13 page)

Later that night, she castigated herself for the despair that had gripped her. Again, she asked herself the question: could she, in what might feel like the passage of only a few short years, imagine waking up each morning beside someone so cruelly emaciated by time as Romain Aguillon?

She would not need to think about the practical considerations of intimacy. There would be none at that stage of his life. She would have to content herself with caring for him, helping him to bathe and dress as he shambled inexorably towards his death.

Could she?

Alone with Thibaut that evening in Paris, Leah stared into his strong grey eyes and told herself that she could. She loved him, loved the essence of him, his soul and not his shell.

Would she be happy? Towards the end, perhaps not. Every day would be filled with mourning for the man who had once been her equal, both physically and mentally. Balling her hands into fists, she told herself that their years of happiness would pay for the pain at the end and the empty years that would follow. And she almost convinced herself.

They went to bed and Leah lay awake, and there in the darkness she realised how selfish her line of thought had been. She had considered all of this from her side alone, as if her own happiness were all that mattered.

Ashamed, she forced herself to view the situation through Thibaut’s eyes. She remembered again the day, in the kitchen at Le Moulin Bellerose, that Sebastien had walked in to find Éva: how, in horror, he had hidden the cracks of his face and staggered outside, not wishing her to see the effects time and gravity had wrought on him.

Finally, late into the night, Leah knew what she must do. The idea of leaving Thibaut cramped her stomach so badly she could hardly stand. But if she stayed, if she allowed herself the luxury of more time, she would be indulging herself and failing him.

Weeping silent tears, bending over him in the darkness to kiss his forehead and smooth his brow, she mouthed a goodbye, packed her things and walked out into the night.

Despite their seven months together, he had never visited her home. The address she had given him was a fabrication. As she walked to the train station, she switched off her phone and threw it into a bin. It was the last she ever saw of Thibaut Aguillon.

Looking up, Leah found Soraya staring across the table at her, and knew that the woman read her thoughts as easily as if they had been etched onto her brow in ink.

Soraya was right: the question did burn in her. Through disappointment and heartbreak, Leah had discovered why the
hosszú életek
did not look for partners among the
simavér
. And with the exception of the newborns who had arrived over the last few years, she remained the youngest among them.

The
kirekesztett
, however – disgraced and severed branch of that wider family – were an unknown. Leah was realistic enough to accept that most had deserved their exile, had committed crimes so repugnant that they likely deserved an even worse fate. But she also suspected that, on occasion, past
tanács
rulings of
kirekesztett
had been as harsh, or even more so, as whatever crime had sparked the judgement.

The possibility she dared not voice still existed. And even though she remained too frightened to unwrap the thought in case it disintegrated to dust, it spoke to her in dreams, rising up through her subconscious to haunt her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Soraya said. ‘I know it’s not the main reason for your visit. But if you came here, also, in the hope of finding love, you’ll leave empty-handed. There are plenty of
kirekesztett
men who would spread your legs as soon as look at you. But none your own age. And even the ones you might look favourably upon have a history that would doubtless revolt you.

‘We’ve been as barren in this nest of thieves and murderers as the
hosszú életek
we left behind. And by the grace of God, some might say . . . if any of them believed in Him any more.’

The words were like a vice, a plunge into iced water, but Leah forced herself to keep her chin raised, forced herself to breathe as if the wind had not been crushed from her lungs.

She felt a pressure building in her throat, a bolus of sadness and grief. And then, appalled, she found she was crying. Not racking graceless sobs; the tears came silently, and when Soraya saw them she moved around the table and took Leah into her arms.

They sat clutching each other that way for some time and, as Leah finally began to recover, she realised that Soraya trembled in her arms too. They laughed, wiping their faces and apologising.

‘I think I might want this,’ Soraya said eventually. ‘I can’t believe it, but I think I might.’

‘I’m not here today to get an answer. I just wanted to offer you the choice. There are other things you should know before you make your decision. I haven’t told you about the physical dangers yet, or what might happen if this leaks out too soon. There are some among the
tanács
who’d consider my presence here an outrage. But I don’t believe they have the right to sit as gods and pass judgement upon who’s worthy enough to bear children.’

‘The
tanács
really don’t know about this?’

Leah shook her head. ‘It’s complicated. I won’t go into details now. Does that make a difference?’

‘Not at all. In fact, I kind of like it.’ Soraya hesitated. ‘If I decided to do this . . . I really would be accepted?’

‘You’d be accepted by everyone who’s worked on this project. But the
tanács
can’t know. We’d have to keep it a secret. It’s the only way.’

‘I’m guessing this isn’t going to be as easy as just saying yes and coming back with you to this place of yours.’

‘No. Being blunt, I’ve only just met you, and the centre’s location is a secret. Its work – if lost – would mean the end for us all. But we can discuss all that later.’

‘So what happens next? You need more than just one of us, I imagine.’

‘Luca promised me that if you reacted favourably, he’d speak to others, ask them if they wanted to meet me, and draw up a list of any who said yes.’

‘It won’t be easy.’

‘I know that.’

‘Then let him make his calls, and draw up that list.’ She paused. ‘You’re attracted to him, aren’t you?’

Leah shook her head.

‘Come on. I’m not stupid. You need to squash that. For your own sake.’

‘I will.’

‘I hope so. My brother is a lot of things. A suitable partner, he isn’t.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’

‘Would I really have a baby?’

‘You’d have a chance. A good chance. That’s all I can offer you.’

The woman stood and for the first time since Leah had met her, her eyes seemed to sparkle.

C
HAPTER
12

Budapest, Hungary

1873

T
he debate chamber of the
tanács
town house was located on the building’s first floor. Its rear windows looked down into the formal square garden of the quad; its front windows faced the street.

The chamber’s floor was laid with Italian Carrara marble polished to a high white shine – the same type of marble, the
Főnök
knew, used by the Emperor Hadrian to construct the Pantheon in Rome. It was a comparison that gave the old man little comfort.

The walls here were intricately stuccoed, and the domed ceiling bore a fresco designed to give the illusion that the space was open to a sky populated by ephemeral, benevolent gods.

Perhaps that’s what we thought we were. Benevolent gods.

Now look at us.

He had picked the room not for its grandness or its symbolism, but for its light. The days following the events at the Citadella had contained far too much darkness, had bred shadows like a plague. The ruling
tanács
had become dependent on light,
addicted
to it; throwing back curtains, brightening rooms with candles, lamps and the hot sharp glow of electricity.

But light alone, the
F
ő
nök
knew, could not end this crisis. He sat at the oval table in the centre of the room, fingers steepled, staring at a vase of fresh-cut roses, red and white. Beside the flowers, its gilt-edged pages bound in vellum, rested an early copy of the
Vének Könyve
, most ancient of
hosszú életek
texts.

A pair of double doors in the chamber’s long wall opened and a servant appeared. ‘He’s outside, Lord.’

The
F
ő
nök
lifted his eyes from the roses. ‘Has he eaten this morning?’

‘We offered him breakfast, Lord. He refused.’

‘Thank you. Please show him in.’

When Balázs Izsák walked through the doorway, the
F
ő
nök
hoped to encourage him with a smile. But the boy’s eyes were downcast. The servant pulled back a chair and Izsák sat, holding his hands together in his lap. While his face had healed physically from the blow he’d been dealt by the
Merényl
ő
days earlier, the trauma of witnessing his father’s execution was etched into every inch of his flesh.

Pale skin. Shadowed eyes. Bloodless lips.

‘Izsák?’

The boy lifted his head.

‘You must try to eat. You need your strength right now. Food will help.’

He nodded. Listless.

‘I had enormous respect for your father.’

‘You killed him.’

‘I—’

‘Didn’t you?’

The question jolted him; he wasn’t used to interruptions. He took a breath.

Carefully now. Put yourself in the boy’s place.

‘What’s befallen you, Izsák . . . what you saw. We all wished to protect you from that. This is a terrible, terrible thing that’s happened. A monstrous thing. I don’t, for one moment, expect you to forgive me for the choice I had to make. Perhaps one day you’ll understand why, but forgiveness . . .’ He let the sentence hang. ‘I can’t bring your father back. I can’t erase the crimes of your
kirekesztett
brother. And neither can I return to you your old life. You’re an innocent in all this, and I’m sure you feel like you’re alone right now – that you’ve lost everything, everyone. But you’re
not
alone. Far from it. Although you’re grieving, Izsák, I’m sure you must have asked yourself, over these last days: What will happen to me?’

The boy stiffened. A flush of colour spread out across his cheeks.

Ah
.
So that’s it
.

‘It’s a survivor’s question, Izsák. Not ignoble. Don’t torture yourself over it. I can’t change the past but I can, hopefully, ease your fears for the future. You heard your father’s words before he died; we all heard them. I wish to honour his request. We’ve found a place for you. A safe place.’

‘My uncle,’ the boy began.

‘Is incapacitated at present. And there are difficulties there.’ The
Főnök
smiled. ‘I would like you to meet someone.’

This time, when the doors opened, they admitted Dr András Benedek.

He knows
, Izsák thought, reeling from a dagger-twist of shame as the old
hosszú életek
leader stood to greet the arriving stranger.
Somehow he’s looked inside me and he’s seen what lurks there: that even in my grief, all I worry about is myself.

The newcomer was a short and portly man with wavy white hair, eyebrows like tufts of stiff cotton, and fern-green eyes striated with hazelnut. He was impeccably dressed: black trousers and highly polished shoes; a white shirt under a scarlet silk waistcoat fastened with buttons of pearl. His fingernails were immaculate. His skin looked soft and clean.

‘Izsák,’ the
Főnök
said, ‘I would like you to meet Dr András Benedek.’

The doctor cleared his throat and smiled, displaying teeth that were white and straight. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Izsák. And I’m deeply sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The
Főnök
placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Not only is our Dr András the most distinguished physician in Budapest, he is also – if you’ll allow me, Benedek – one of our most celebrated philanthropists. He has taken into his care, over the years, countless
hosszú életek
youngsters like yourself, who, for one reason or another, have become separated from their families.’

The doctor blustered at the term
philanthropist
, but he nodded enthusiastically nevertheless. ‘I have a place for you at my home, Izsák. A little ways along the river. Not far. Fine views, and very clean. You’ll make friends, I’m sure. Others your own age.’

Izsák stared at his shoes.

An orphanage. That’s what he means. I’m going to live in an orphanage.

The doctor’s enclosed carriage was waiting on the street outside. With its shining black woodwork, polished brass coach lamps and spotless windows, it was as flawlessly presented as the man himself. The carriage door displayed the András coat of arms – a black lion and a harp against a shield quartered in white and green.

The horses, dappled greys in gleaming tack, shifted restlessly. A driver jumped down from the box and opened the door for them. András Benedek climbed inside, followed by Izsák.

They sat facing each other on seats of green leather, the same shade as the shield painted on the door. The interior walls were upholstered in green velvet. A polished wooden box was strapped to a shelf above the doctor’s head. Again, the lion and a harp, on a quartered shield. Folded travel blankets displayed the same embroidered badge.

‘Have you washed today?’ András asked, studying Izsák’s face.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Hmm. Let me see your fingernails.’

He held them out. The carriage lurched, and with nothing to brace him he almost fell into the man’s lap.

‘Microorganisms,’ the doctor said, as the carriage clattered along the street. ‘You must guard against them.’

He nodded. ‘I will.’

‘Do you know what they are?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Ah. Well, for now, just be careful to keep your hands clean. It’s how they spread, you see. Microorganisms lurk everywhere, Izsák. On food, in faeces, in the
very air
. I don’t want you to worry, though. Tansik House is very clean. We’re scrupulously hygienic.’

Izsák did not know what to say to that, so he thanked the man and stared out of the window at the sliding expanse of the Danube beside the road.

As their carriage rolled through the front gates into a huge rectangular courtyard, Izsák discovered that Tansik House was a
house
in the very loosest sense; it was virtually a palace. Reaching four storeys in height, the building was far wider than it was tall, with a massive central portico supported by six Corinthian columns. The front façade boasted more windows than Izsák could count, and the roof bristled with chimneys. In the centre of the courtyard, a fountain flung water thirty feet into the air. Their carriage curved a path around it, windows misting with spray, and pulled up beside the front steps.

‘Based on a design by Palladio,’ András told him. ‘I’ve lived here sixty years. Starting to feel like home, actually. I hope you’ll be happy.’

Izsák followed the doctor up the steps and found himself, moments later, in a grand entrance hall, itself the size of a church, on a chequerboard floor of black and white marble. Twin staircases, curving up from each side of the hall, served a grand gallery above them. On one wall hung an enormous oil painting of a man whose face shared many of the doctor’s features. From the opposite wall hung a war banner, its fibres bleached and mouse-frayed, but still faintly displaying the same heraldic badge Izsák had seen on the coach. András Benedek, he realised, came from a
very
old family.

Now a set of doors opened in the left-hand wall and three maids came through, the first carrying a liquid-filled bowl and the others following with squares of linen.

‘Ah, here we go,’ the doctor said, pleased. ‘We must wash off the germs from the road.’ He dipped his hands in the bowl and stirred them around, drying them on a towel he took from a maid. ‘Chlorinated lime water,’ he said. ‘Kills the microorganisms. Very important for modern hygiene. I’ve made an extensive study. Follow me, I’ll show you to where the others stay. ’

András had established the children’s quarters along the first floor of the south wing of Tansik House. Another man met them there. Dark hair, pale eyes, sombre suit.

‘This is Trusov, Izsák, without whom we would all be cast adrift. I’ll leave you in his care. We dine at seven. I join you when my work allows. Trusov, did Master Balázs’s belongings arrive?’

‘In his room, Doctor.’

‘Splendid. Well, Izsák, I’ll leave you now. Welcome to Tansik House.’ Smiling, he walked away, footsteps echoing along the hall.

Trusov appraised him. ‘Balázs, is it?’

He nodded.

‘Follow me.’

Trusov led him down the hall and opened a door on the left. They entered a large, bright room. Its walls were painted a lemon yellow, the floorboards varnished a rich brown. The fireplace was stacked with kindling.

In one corner stood a single metal-framed bed. A wardrobe, a washstand with jug and bowl, a writing desk and an empty bookshelf completed the room’s furniture.

Moving to the window, Izsák looked out on formal gardens culminating in a circular pool, at the centre of which rose a limestone statue of a figure on horseback. Beyond that, he saw the dark windows of the north wing.

‘There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, plumbed for hot water,’ Trusov said. ‘Your bath day is Wednesday. The maid brings hot water to your room every morning at six. Let her know if you run out of soap.’

‘The doctor,’ Izsák said. ‘He’s very keen on cleanliness.’

Trusov frowned. ‘He’s a little eccentric. But he’s an outstanding man.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’

‘You’ll get used to him.’ The man strode to the wardrobe and threw open the doors. Izsák’s clothes hung inside. Arranged on the bottom shelf was his paltry collection of belongings from Szilárd’s house: the small suitcase, the box of metal soldiers, the silver hand mirror.

Trusov picked up the mirror, turning it over in his hands. ‘You realise this is very valuable.’

‘It was my mother’s.’

The man glanced down at him. ‘Then I’d hate for you to lose it. The children here are generally honest, but sometimes things go missing. I’ll look after it for you. Just in case.’ He nodded, the decision made. ‘You can see it whenever you want.’

‘Thank you. Do you live here too?’

‘I have an apartment at the end of the hall. Very satisfactory. Well, I’ll leave you to settle in.’ Tucking the mirror into his pocket, Trusov left the room.

Izsák moved to the bed and sat down. He stared at the empty bookshelf, at the cupboard with its single box of soldiers and its suitcase, and told himself not to cry. The tears came anyway.

Two days since he’d watched his father die. Two months since Jakab had raped the girl in Buda and disappeared. Two months since he’d seen Jani. Now one of his brothers hunted the other, and Izsák knew that only one would ever return from that encounter. Perhaps neither. Nothing waited for them in Budapest except their spineless younger brother, and who would want to return for that?

All those days he had asked himself the question:
What will happen to me?
And now he was looking at the answer. A silent room in a stranger’s house; an empty bookshelf; a place to wash and be clean.

A tear rolled off his nose and struck the back of his hand.

Perhaps if you’d focused on something other than your own selfish needs, this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps if you’d been braver, more decisive, perhaps if you hadn’t cowered in the Citadella, quaking with fear until it was too late to save—

‘Hello.’

With a cry, Izsák shot up off the bed. A scrubbed face was peering around the door frame, and he saw that it belonged to a girl perhaps a year or so older than himself. She was, at once, both intimidatingly beautiful and hopelessly frail, her limbs like birch sticks connected by lumpen elbows and knees. Her face, framed by tresses of hair as dark and glossy as licorice, looked older than it should, forced somehow, as if she had decided to make herself a woman despite her lack of years.