When Lucy entered the scullery the Count had Klara pinned in the corner. He was pulling up her dress, rubbing her underside, and licking her face; when she struggled to free herself he began to thrash her, shaking her about, that her head might roll from her shoulders. Lucy crossed the room in broad strides, as though he were floating, almost, or sliding across ice; snatching up Agnes’s marble pestle from the butcher’s block, he swung this at the back of the Count’s head, thinking to knock the man out, but at the last moment the Count turned, and so caught the pestle in the mouth. His skull was ricocheted off the stone wall and he dropped to his knees in a halted stupor. His top row of teeth was gone and rich, red-black blood drew down his face and into his shirtfront. It was moving faster than Lucy thought blood could move. He gestured to Klara, and she came and stood behind him. He was holding the pestle so tightly that his fingernails were sinking into the meat of his palm; when the resulting pain of this occurred to him he loosened his grip, and the pestle fell to the ground, breaking in two. He hadn’t struck anyone in his life before this.
The Count stood, leaning against the wall and watching Lucy and Klara with a divine confusion, as though he’d never seen them before—as though he’d never seen anyone before. He drew a finger across his chin and looked at it. Staggering to the basin, he inhaled, then spit out the shards. Straightening his lapels, he spun on his heels and addressed Lucy, his words made spheroid by the thick blood and dearth of teeth.
“How do I look, boy?”
“You have blood all down your face, sir.”
The Count pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his cheek. “And now?”
“There is still a good deal of blood.”
He wiped the kerchief all around his face, smearing the blood and disimproving his state considerably. He offered Lucy a questioning glance.
“Much better, sir.”
The Count bowed to Lucy, and then to Klara. “Well,” he said, “the Sandman is calling me, and so I shall retire. Thank you both for a pleasant evening.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” said Lucy.
“You’re welcome,” said Klara.
The Count left the scullery, and Lucy and Klara watched the empty doorway. The Count reappeared, and Klara gripped Lucy’s hand.
“Which is my room? I can’t recall.”
Lucy pointed. “Up the stairs, sir, and second on your right.”
The Count left again. Lucy felt faint; he found himself blushing, and so was shy to face Klara. He closed his eyes as she wrapped her arms about his waist and pulled him closer. They held each other, and kissed, and were so very much in love.