Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [91]
That was the end of the parade, and people started moving away, toward the church. Jan continued to hold me close. His lips brushed against my ear. “Poor little Vicky, did the demons frighten you? Never fear, I will protect you from the darkness.”
“I slipped,” I said coldly. The truth is, I have always been terrified by witches and demons—or perhaps I should say by scary costumes. It stems from a Halloween outing when I was about eight and was cornered by a bunch of fierce twelve-year-olds dressed like skeletons.
Jan didn’t believe me. “I have always desired you,” he whispered hotly. “Later I will come to you. Tell me where your room—”
Even if I had been tempted by the offer, which I wasn’t, being somewhat suspicious of Jan’s motives, the sheer publicity would have put me off. Several of the group overheard—Tony, for one.
“Next time it gets to be too much for you, just put a notice on the bulletin board,” I said rudely and swung the heel of my boot against Jan’s shin. He released me, a little more abruptly than I had anticipated; I staggered forward, bounced off the ropes, and found myself nose to nose with an individual wearing a ski mask patterned in shrieking colors of crimson and green. Two eyes blue as cornflowers gazed soulfully into mine; the mouth framed by the slit of the mask was twitching with some strong emotion. Probably suppressed laughter.
John melted into the crowd, as was his wont, and my dear old friends clustered around to confer about what we should do next. Dieter was all for hitting the night spots of Garmisch, and Elise, shivering and tottering on her ridiculous heels, seconded the idea of indoor entertainment. No one else was interested, so the two of them went off arm in arm. Jan had a hard time deciding which group to spy on; after wavering indecisively, he ran off after Dieter and Elise.
Their departure cleared the air considerably. I was still mad at Tony, but not as mad as I had been. Once I cooled off, a possible explanation for his inexcusable behavior had come to me—a relatively harmless and mildly flattering explanation. I decided to let bygones be bygones, at least for the rest of the evening.
Schmidt bought more of everything that was edible and pressed samples on us—gingerbread and candy canes and cookies and pretzels shaped like snowflakes and marzipan pigs wearing sugary wreaths around their sweet pink necks—and, of course, beer. The church was packed, not even standing room; but the doors stood open to the bright night, and we gathered with other spectators beside the steps and listened to the sweet high children’s voices singing. “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,” “O du fröhliche,” and the lovely old cradle song—“Mary sits among the roses and rocks her Jesus-child…”
Schmidt was too choked by emotion to sing, which was fortunate, since he can’t, but the others joined in; Tony hummed in a mellow baritone and I threw in a few wobbly notes of my own. When the mass ended, the congregation poured out, full of virtue and ready for fun; there was dancing in the plaza and an exhibition of marching by one of the shooting societies, and an incredible amount of eating and drinking. This was the last night of public revelry—Christmas Eve would be spent in family gatherings and quiet devotions—so people made the most of it. The merriment was still in full swing when I persuaded Schmidt we ought to pack it in. The children and older people and family groups had gone home and things were getting rather lively. A couple of fights had already broken out; I was afraid that, left to his own devices, Schmidt would start challenging people to duels and some other drunk would take him seriously.
A final nightcap in the bar consoled him, and we went upstairs arm in arm singing his favorite carol, a corny old pop song about the Weihnachtsmann. Tony didn’t know the words, which did not prevent him from singing along. As Schmidt entered