“Yes, a very good imitation, but just an imitation. Come. I’ll show you right away. I’ll take you to the room of relics.”

The three grabbed their cameras and Djaro led them through a long stone corridor. They went down some winding steps to a broader corridor below. The walls, floors and ceilings were all of stone.

“The palace was built nearly three hundred years ago,” Djaro told them. “The foundations and part of the walls belonged to an old castle that used to stand here. There are dozens of empty rooms — in fact, no one ever goes into the upper two floors. Varania is a poor country and we can’t afford all the servants it would take to keep the whole palace open. Besides, there is no heat except for the rooms that have been modernized, and we could not afford to modernize very much of it. Imagine living here without heat!”

They could imagine it easily. Although it was August, it was very cool inside Djaro’s palace.

“There are dungeons and cellars left over from the old castle,” continued Djaro, as they went down another flight of stairs, “with secret entrances we’ve forgotten about, and secret stairways that lead nowhere. Even I could get lost if I wandered away from the parts I’m used to.”

He laughed now. “It would be a great place for a horror movie,” he said, “with ghosts dodging in and out of the secret entrances. Luckily, we have no ghosts. Uh-oh!” he added. “Here comes Duke Stefan.”

As they reached the lower corridor, a tall man came hurrying along. He stopped and made a little bow to Djaro.

“Good morning, Djaro,” he said. “These are your American friends?”

His voice was chilly and formal. He himself was straight as a spear, with a drooping black mustache and a hawk nose.