From the Duff & Shaw Field Journal — The ’Stache Showdown
By sundown, every window in the village had been shuttered.
At the last house, a woman caught sight of our lantern and pointed toward the mountain.
“Whatever he offers,” she whispered, “do not stay for breakfast.”
Duff tipped his hat.
“We generally prefer an early start.”
She shut the door with the expression of someone who had done all she could.
The castle appeared through the mist shortly before midnight. Its towers leaned over the road, and the iron gate stood open just wide enough to suggest that someone had expected us.
Shaw consulted the letter that had brought us across three borders.
“Rare confectionery. Private collection. Visitors welcome after dark.”
“No mention of accommodation?”
“Only that guests tend to remain.”
We went inside.
At the center of the dining hall stood a silver tray piled with glossy black licorice. Beside it waited a glass of something red.
Duff examined the short, ridged pieces.
“A civilized establishment.”
Shaw glanced at the cobwebs.
“Selectively.”
The licorice was soft, with a smooth chew and a deep, bold flavor that lingered pleasantly. Duff took a second piece to confirm the first had been representative.
Neither of us touched the glass.
“You approve.”
The voice came from the doorway.
Our host stood unnaturally still beneath the arch: bald, pale, and dressed in a coat whose tailor had almost certainly been dead for centuries. Long fingers rested against the wood.
But it was his mustache that caught Duff’s attention.
A narrow, uneven little thing. Several hairs appeared to have abandoned the undertaking.
“Count Orlok, I presume,” Shaw said.
The Count inclined his head.
His eyes moved from Shaw’s mustache to Duff’s, where they remained.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
“Fine collection,” Duff offered.
“The licorice?”
“Among other things.”
Shaw closed his eyes briefly.
The Count touched his upper lip.
“It has taken many years.”
“Of course,” Duff said. “These things cannot be rushed.”
From somewhere beneath the floor came a sound like a coffin lid being dragged across stone.
Shaw stepped neatly between them.
“We should discuss the confectionery.”
That occupied several hours.
Orlok spoke of locked storerooms, vanished suppliers, and a recipe guarded through generations of unpleasant relatives. He watched us sample the licorice with considerable satisfaction.
Until Duff produced his pocket comb.
The Count stopped speaking.
Shaw kicked Duff beneath the table.
Duff put the comb away.
“Travel habit,” he explained.
Orlok’s chair scraped backward.
“You find something amusing?”
“Certainly not,” Shaw said.
Duff, attempting diplomacy, made matters worse.
“Excellent foundations.”
The candles flickered.
“Your castle,” Shaw added quickly.
All three of us looked at the ceiling.
A distant bell struck. Through the high windows, the black sky had begun to pale.
Shaw rose.
“We’ve imposed on your hospitality.”
“You have barely begun,” said Orlok.
His long hand closed around the edge of the tray.
Duff bowed, gathered a generous handful of licorice into our specimen satchel, and moved toward the door with the brisk confidence of a man declining a second helping of trouble.
We followed him.
Field photograph: Departure at first light. Our host declined to accompany us beyond the doorway.
On the steps, we heard the Count call after us.
“Gentlemen.”
We stopped.
His face hovered in the darkness. One finger rested beneath his nose.
“The comb. Where was it purchased?”
Duff reached into his coat.
Shaw seized his elbow.
“Send him the address.”
We were halfway down the mountain before either of us spoke again.
At the first bend, Duff opened the satchel and offered Shaw a piece of licorice.
“Remarkable host.”
“Remarkable restraint,” Shaw said.
“His or mine?”
Shaw chewed thoughtfully.
“The licorice deserves another visit.”
We have since sent the Count a grooming kit.
No reply has arrived.
We consider this encouraging.
Yours in adventure,
Duff & Shaw
Recovered Provision: Nosferatu’s Black Licorice. Bold, smooth, and satisfyingly chewy. Best enjoyed before your host changes his mind.
