ã€ŠReign of the Blood Witch [Slow Burn Gothic Horror]ã€‹


 1. A Moment of Warmth

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    The sound of dripping water echoed in the small, dank cell. A puddle had formed in the corner, just behind the cracked, clay chamber pot. Each drop jumped and rippled across the small pool, dusting the clay with moisture and darkening the surrounding stone. There was a quiet rhythm to it, she had discovered. At times, it comforted her. At other times, she felt herself on the brink of madness.

    She hadn¡¯t paid attention to the droplets, at first. At the beginning, there had been other noises. Shouts of anger and indignation. Screams of fear and outrage. Cries of shock and disbelief. Some of these noises had been hers, back when she¡¯d had the energy to make them. Back when she and the other captives had hoped that this would turn out to be an unfortunate and promptly rectified mistake. But the dungeons had grown quieter as the days passed and hope faded. One could only yell for so long. She thought they had talked for a time, hopefully of release and haughtily of revenge. Then they had whispered longingly of beds and meals and hearths, fearfully of the violence of the people. There had been murmurs eventually, unintelligible and delirious with hunger, dehydration, and pain. Then just hoarse, ragged breaths. And as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months, even those had given way to silence and the slow tip tap of the water, trickling down from some place far removed from this hell.

    She was the last one. She was not sure how she still lived, but she was certain it would not be for much longer. Few of her compatriots had expired in the squalor of their cells; most had been dragged away still breathing and none had returned. She could not remember the name of the first man they had taken¡ªperhaps she had known him once, curtsied before him at a ball or a tea party¡ªbut now she remembered only his voice. When they came for him, he had bellowed at the guards with such an air of command that, for a moment, they had moved to obey.

    They had beat him for it, as if to remind him that he was now powerless, as if to remind themselves. She had not seen it, but she had heard it. What occurred out of view of one¡¯s eyes, she had learned, was far more terrifying than what one could see. The heavy, thudding blows of their batons. The grunting, the shouting, the pleading. A sound of splattering, and a terrible crack. They had hauled him past her cell afterward, bloody and barely upright, with his arm curled against his body limp and twisted. She had never seen tears on a grown man¡¯s face before.

    His eyes had met hers for a moment, and a flicker of recognition had crossed his crumpled face. ¡°Witch,¡± he had spat at her, blood speckling his lips. Yes, perhaps she had known him once.

    None had called her by her name since she¡¯d been brought to this place. Well, few had called her by her name even before that. How she longed for that simple piece of humanity; that small but essential identity that she had so readily given away ten years ago. Her name was Edda. But the man who had interrogated her all those months ago had christened her blood witch. He had shaved her teeth down himself so that she could not feed. And though his fingers had been careful, gentle even, he had not believed her words when she spoke the truth¡ªbut perhaps she herself was unsure of what the truth was. She only knew that she was Edda.

    It did not matter now. Maybe it never had, because she was the last one.

    When would they come for her? That was all there was left for her to think about. Perhaps she would be beaten, also, perhaps raped or humiliated. There would certainly be a trial, however farcical; but perhaps it would be warm in that chamber. Perhaps she would feel warmth for a moment. The execution would certainly take place outdoors for the people to witness, she knew. She hoped it would be a clear day, with a strong breeze. She hoped she would see the sun and the sky, and feel the wind on her face, before they put the hood over her head.

    She found herself fantasizing about it, as she lay motionless on her bed of dirty straw, just a pace away from the chamber pot and the dripping water. The seasons had changed, because she could now feel the cold of the stone beneath her and beside her. It seeped into her bones, causing them to ache and ache. There was no comfort any longer. Oh, she had thought the same the very day they had locked her in here. But she hadn¡¯t understood then. One did not understand discomfort until the cushion of one¡¯s own flesh melted away from hunger. Until hunger itself faded away into an agonizing, unrelenting void beneath one¡¯s breast. Her skin felt taut and tight across her bones; she was little more than that in truth, and so the very essence of her scraped and ground against the filthy straw and stone.

    The steady tip tap that so titillated her, so taunted her, was her only reliable source of nourishment in this place. Sometimes¡ªnot often enough¡ªa sneering guard would throw a stub of hard bread into her cell. A few times, a handful of cold gruel or spoiled milk had been poured directly into her outstretched hands, accompanied by laughter as she frantically slurped and licked it up. She had even eaten a good deal of the straw that had initially lined the cell, hoping it would at some point be replenished. It hadn¡¯t, but at least, in her few moments of lucidity, she could crawl over to the chamber pot¡ªwhich hadn¡¯t been filled or emptied in her recent memory¡ªand moisten her sandy mouth with the slow stream of dripping water.

    A series of loud thuds and clangs, followed by the sound of well-ordered footsteps, interrupted her reverie. The noises felt distant, almost dream-like, and it took her a moment to register that the heavy iron door at the end of the hall had been opened, and the guards were approaching. Briefly, she thought of food, but almost immediately she knew otherwise. Too many footsteps approached. They were too confident, too disciplined.

    Unexpectedly, she felt a booming in her chest. Her entire body convulsed and began to tremble, as if a bucket of icy water had been tossed over her head. She lurched and struggled into a seated position just in time to see the guards¡ªno, not just guards, but soldiers¡ªcome to a stop before her cell. Momentarily blinded by the brightness of the lamp they carried; she could barely get a breath in between the shivers that wracked her. Fear. For some reason, she had not imagined the fear she would feel in this moment.

    As her vision cleared, words bubbled up in her throat, choking her as they failed to pass her chattering teeth. Desperate words. Pleading words. She had not imagined these, either. Despite her gurgling, the men were silent as their leader unbarred the gate to her cell. They watched him warily, all but ignoring her, and she came to understand why as the gate swung open, its hinges creaking with disuse.

    It had been over a decade since she had last laid eyes on him, but she was certain it was him. His face was deeply shadowed in the flickering light of the single lamp. He was not the young man she remembered. Grey streaked his temples and lines of his face were sharper, colder. But surely, he too would see it was her. Surely, he would understand that none of this was her fault.

    ¡°Brother, please,¡± she managed to croak¡ªwilling, begging that he would know her. In the next moment, her ears were ringing, her head and the side of her face hot with pain, and, as the stars cleared from her eyes, she realized she was staring directly at a pair of well-polished boots. It took her several, pain-filled moments to realize that he had hit her, and she had fallen onto her side.

    ¡°I would kill you,¡± he said, his voice shaking with rage, ¡°if not for the hundreds waiting to see you die.¡±

    It was in the loss of this final hope that she dared to look up at him. Their eyes met, and her trembling stilled, so profound was the terror that gripped her. No recognition crossed his features; instead, pure hatred shone behind his sunken eyes. She felt herself recoil deeper into the corner of the cell, pressing herself against the stone as though hoping it would swallow her.

    ¡°Bring the witch,¡± he commanded, exiting the cell without a backward glance.

    Two men entered in his place. She felt no shame at the obvious disgust in their expressions as they each grabbed an arm, roughly hauling her to her knees and then to her feet. It was quickly discovered that she could not stand or walk on her own. Whether this was due to the heavy blow she had just taken, the long captivity that had come before it, or simply the pure terror that gripped her, Edda could not be sure. She was only barely aware of the skin on the tops of her feet rubbing off as the men dragged her from her cell and then down the long hallway they had come from.

    They led her through the door at the end of the hallway into another long hallway, closing behind them the heavy iron door whose opening and closing she had listened for with hope and dread, and hope, and dread, and dread, and dread...The finality of the thunk as it swung shut, and the clang as the bar was slipped into place over it triggered her shivering anew. It would be the last time, and she knew it with finality.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    She did not remember much of the journey out of the dungeon itself. It might have taken hours, or only a few minutes. She hung between the two men like a doll, limp and motionless but for her tremors. For their part, they carried their burden silently. Their leader walked quickly and wordlessly at the head of the group, never looking back at the woman who had called him brother.

    A few men¡ªguards¡ªgreeted them curtly as they reached the well-lit guardroom. The brightness stung Edda¡¯s eye¡ªonly one eye, she realized, as the other had swollen shut. She did not look up to see who the guards were, nor did she listen closely to what words were exchanged between the two groups. Their business was swiftly conducted, and they exited the room through a monstrous set of iron and stone doors. It took three men to open but one side of it.

    At last, Edda turned her face upward to the grey winter¡¯s day. She could not see the sun, but a cold, crisp wind blew, biting her skin. Her raw, bleeding feet now scraped along the cobblestone as the men dragged her along, but she did not care. She heard sobbing and realized that it came from her. It was not like she had imagined, but it was better, she was sure of it. Now, if only there might be a moment of warmth.

    An uncovered carriage awaited them not far from the doors. The men dropped her, and she fell unceremoniously to her knees before it. One of them bound her hands tightly together with a length of rope; a formality, as she was sure they all knew. Even if she had not been emaciated, she was too scared to fight. Instead, she continued to weep miserably, breathing in as much of the fresh air as she could manage through her open mouth. She had discovered she could not close it without great pain, and so she no longer tried to.

    She was lifted and thrown onto the floor of the carriage, and she lay there, exhausted and terrified as the soldiers climbed in and settled on the benches around her. After a momentary pause, the carriage began to move. She found herself staring at a pair of boots again, but she was not sure who they belonged to. She did not try to look for or speak to her brother again. If the men spoke, she did not listen. The carriage rocked and jostled her, reminding her of every bruise on her body, and the cold wind she had been so grateful for began to cut and slice through her. And yet somehow, the rhythmic clip clop of the horses¡¯ hooves, so like the tip tap she had grown used to, lulled her into a kind of slumber. It was not peaceful or restful, and she was certain that she was terrified the entire time. But for a while, she slept.

    When she awoke, it was to the rumble of a storm. Or, at least, that is what it sounded like to her at first. Like the roar of distant thunder, growing closer and closer. Like winds, howling through the trees. Like torrential rains, beating against cobblestone. The sheer force of its anger stunned her into wakefulness, and her fear paralyzed her once more. As the carriage proceeded, slowing down now, she began to pick out voices in the storm. And she realized that she heard not the wrath of the Mother of Creation, but the wrath of her child¡ªof Man.

    The people had come for her, and their violence shook the wagon. The soldiers around her began to shout commands. They stood, brandishing batons and threatening violence. At some point earlier, they must have been joined by other soldiers on horseback or on foot, because a chorus of male voices joined together to quell the crowd that thronged up around the wagon.

    At last, the wagon came to a stop. There was a commotion, and Edda could hear shouts of, ¡°Hold!¡± and ¡°Peace!¡± and with great effort, their will held the people at bay.

    She did not struggle as she was manhandled out of the wagon and strung up, once more, between two soldiers. Fear held her still as a corpse. At the sight of her, a primal chant rose up from the crowd calling for the witch to be burned. This was not a trial, she realized. There would be no trial. This was her execution.

    She was carried up onto a large, elevated stage; no doubt, it had been constructed in the middle of the town square specifically for this spectacle. She had seen executions before, had stood an anonymous witness among many; horrified and fascinated in the square as some cutpurse was hanged. Now, she dared glanced out across the crowd¡ªa massive crowd, unlike one she had ever seen before¡ªand saw not one human being. Instead, countless faces white with rage, and accusing eyes, black with bloodlust. There was no humanity here, and there would be no mercy.

    She was thrown to her knees, and she crumpled immediately, unable to hold herself up. To the cheers of the crowd, a soldier grabbed her by the hair and yanked her into a kneeling position, directing her gaze upward even as her neck and scalp screamed with protest. She was too frightened, too weak, to even raise her hand to her head. Instead, she looked with her one good eye directly into the face of the man who had interrogated her at the beginning of it all. The man who had taken her name and made her a witch.

    Whereas the wind now seemed to buffet her, it only smoothed his flaxen hair away from his face. He did not look at her with cruelty. There was no murderous intent on his face. But his expression was resolute, as hard as granite. Her body began to shake, the fear sharp and fresh once more. This man would be the one to kill her, and he would not lose a moment¡¯s rest over it.

    He turned from her, and with just that gesture those gathered quieted. Whereas the soldiers had yelled and postured to control the crowd, he needed only direct his attention toward them¡ªsuch was his presence. They waited expectantly, hungrily, for him to begin.

    ¡°For the crimes of witchcraft, murder of kin and ward, carnal and unnatural depravity, and the subversion of the natural order, I hereby sentence the blood witch, Elizabeth Bathory, to be burned at the stake.¡± His voice resounded clearly through the square, and a crescendo of cheers shook the stage. With a motion of his hands, he quieted the onlookers once more. ¡°In my power as Count of Ecsed and Marquis of Heves, I will it be so.¡±

    The man¡¯s words echoed in her head, drowning out the animalistic applause that followed. Burned. She would be burned. No. That was not what she had imagined. The soldiers who had carried her to the stage sprang into action. She had not noticed, so narrowed was her attention on the man before her, the pyre on which she would die. In the center of the stage, a large metal basin sat forebodingly, filled with wood and with a thick metal pole rising from the center. As the men approached her, words spilled from her lips, barely audible even to her own ears.

    ¡°Please, please, please,¡± she found herself stammering, ¡°Spare me, I beg you. Spare me this.¡± She repeated the words like a mantra, but the men paid her no heed. She writhed, struggling against the rope that bound her hands, but the men easily overpowered her, lifting her into the basin and fastening her to the pole. Before they reached her legs, she began to flail and kick, sending wooden chips and sticks flying; but they paid her no mind. One of the men easily grasped her legs together, wrapping them in rope and then tying them to the pole as well. The other efficiently returned the fallen wood to the basin.

    Her dress was wet as the men stepped back, but she did not feel shame at having urinated on herself. She felt nothing but terror; hot terror, cold terror¡ªa terror so single-minded, so depraved, that she was sure she had lost her mind. With a horrible start, she realized that her brother stood nearby, one of a line of soldiers waiting stiffly on the stage, and, in a final, desperate moment, she screamed to him, ¡°Brother! Ivar, please!¡±

    He started toward her, his face distorted like that of a demon¡¯s, knuckles white as they clenched to draw the sword at his hip. The interrogator¡ªthat Count of Ecsed and Marquis of Heves, whoever he was¡ªstepped forward with an outstretched hand, halting the impending violence wordlessly. Ivar stepped back into position, but in his eyes already burned the fire that would soon consume her.

    She whimpered and grunted; screamed when she had the energy. She was conscious of little outside of her panic. She had thought she would be hung. A man stepped forward holding a bucket, and began to dump brownish liquid into the basin, coating the wood and splashing it over her legs and feet. She had thought she would be hung, and that they would cover her head. That the hood would conceal not only her face, but her fear from everyone present, from even herself. This was not what she had imagined.

    She was crying. This was not what she had imagined at all.

    Now, another man stepped forward and handed a lit torch to the Count of Ecsed and Marquis of Heves, that man who had interrogated her, that man who had condemned her to burn, and who intended to set her alight with his own hands. He walked toward her, holding the torch in front of him, and met her eyes. His eyes were a clear blue, the color of the sky she had wished to see.

    ¡°I am Edda Belten of Hesse,¡± she cried, and the wind seemed to carry her voice farther than it had any of her screams.

    He did not flinch. If he felt anything by her words neither his face nor eyes betrayed him. He threw the torch into the basin.

    The flames sprung up immediately, spreading wildly across the pyre, spurred by the foul oil that had been poured upon it. They curled and licked at her feet and legs like grasping fingers, and quickly they caught her, igniting the oil that had splattered on her body. There might have been a moment of warmth before the searing agony began. But it was not the moment of warmth she had imagined.

    She thrashed, straining with more strength than she thought she had left. Her body contorted against her bindings in ways she hadn¡¯t thought possible. But her skin burned, nonetheless, a smell of cooking, blackening meat filling her nostrils along with the smoke that rose up around her feet. The pole she had been fastened to heated, and long before the flames climbed her body, her back and hair began to burn, melting onto the hot metal.

    At some point before the smoke blinded her, she looked out across the crowd¡ªsearching, as though on instinct. There, standing triumphantly with the other soldiers, was her brother Ivar. But it was not him she sought. She swung her head madly, from devil to devil; they watched her burn with pleasure and disgust, unable to look away from the revenge they had so frantically desired.

    There. One among the many, one face she knew, one face she loved. The only face that recognized her for who she was. Her sister¡¯s angelic face was streaked with tears, but her eyes were wet with determination.

    ¡°Sister,¡± Edda murmured, as she felt her vision begin to darken.

    ¡°Sister,¡± Franka mouthed, holding Edda¡¯s gaze until she saw no more. ¡°I will save you,¡± Edda heard, and then she neither heard nor felt any more.

 2. The Beginning of the Tragedy

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    With a gasp, Edda¡¯s eyes opened. Her entire body jerked, as one does when waking suddenly from a dream. Her hands scrambled for purchase, and she clawed the surfaces they met, clutching them with force enough to break her nails. Eyes rolling in a frenzy from side to side, she saw nothing for several excruciating moments. There were other sounds, maybe, but all were muffled except for that tip tap and the frantic sound of her breathing.

    Where was she? Blood and bloody bones, where was she? Panic gripped her like a vice. The fire. By the mother of all things, it had been so hot. Was she burning? Was she still burning? A strangled cry escaped her lips, and she flailed wildly, comprehending nothing.

    ¡°Miss Edda?¡± a soft, concerned voice queried. A small hand seemed to appear out of nowhere, and then it clasped her knee, and suddenly she could feel it. Not the melting of her skin. Not the searing of her flesh.

    Reality converged around that gentle voice, that firm touch. She was sitting; not tied to a scorching metal pole, not even curled up on a paltry bed of straw, but properly seated upon a cushioned bench. She was not in pain. Her vision was blurry, but she blinked away tears and her eyes focused on the woman across from her, whose hand on her knee seemed to anchor her to the present. They were in a small, lit compartment; above her, she could see neither a smoke-filled winter¡¯s sky nor rough grey stone¡ªinstead, a rich wooden ceiling.

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    And yet the sound still tormented her. Panting, she swung her head around in search of its source. Throwing herself toward the heavy drapes on one side of the compartment, she yanked them apart. A window, and outside of it, a gigantic black crow perched on the frame, its single red eye staring straight at her. Beyond that, the mid-evening dusk framed bare-branched trees as they passed the window one after the other.

    ¡°Mother and maiden!¡± the woman exclaimed, momentarily distracted from her concern over Edda¡¯s stricken behaviour. She flapped her hands at the window hastily, intent on driving the bird off. But the colossal thing was undeterred, twitching its head this way and that as it maintained its steady, red-eyed glare. ¡°It¡¯s brought you a black dream, it has. The blasted thing.¡±

    They were in a moving carriage, Edda realized. As if to punctuate her realization, a bump in the road lifted her ever so slightly off her seat and she made out the telltale clip clop of laboring horses. The plump, middle-aged woman across from her was her maid Marta, who had tended her for as long as she could remember. This was no execution. This was no prison. Her breathing calmed a bit, but her hands remained fisted in the thick drapes. Her knuckles were white, her fingers cold.

    ¡°Where is this?¡± Edda managed, her voice shaking. Something was dawning on her, some sickening realization.

    Marta left off her attempts at frightening the crow away, redirecting her attention toward Edda with brows drawn in sympathy. ¡°My poor dear,¡± she said, reaching forward to grasp one of Edda¡¯s hands warmly, ¡°Not to worry, Miss Edda. We¡¯re very nearly at Cachtice Castle. Should be there before full dark.¡±

    Edda could feel the blood drain from her face. A wave of light-headedness, of nausea, of pure dread washed over her. No, no, no. Not there. Not where it had all started.

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    The crow rapped its beak against the window again, looking steadily at Edda. As if it knew. As if it was reminding her. It had been her arrival at Cachtice Castle all those years ago that had triggered her torturous wait for death, with only the tip tap of leaking water to keep her company. It had been the events that had taken place at Cachtice Castle over the last decade that had steered her, inevitably and obliviously, to her agonizing demise. And the bird knew, so it reminded her.

    ¡°Stop the carriage,¡± Edda said quietly. Her head spun. Her stomach surged. She could not return to Cachtice Castle.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    The bird blinked its bloody eye and launched itself off the windowsill with a solid thunk, disappearing into the darkening forest.

    ¡°Stop the carriage!¡± Edda managed, lurching forward with her hands over her mouth, barely in time to prevent herself from spewing the contents of her stomach all over the upholstered seating.

    Swearing prolifically for a woman of such sweet temperament, Marta knocked twice, loud and hard, against the wall behind her. There was a shout, and then another, and within moments the carriage began to slow. Edda did not wait for it to come to a stop. A hand still clapped over her mouth, she wrenched open the carriage door, stumbling through the threshold and falling the rest of the way to the road below. She rolled, catching herself on wrists and knees. A shooting pain ran up her left arm and it gave way as her body began to empty in waves of bitter retching.

    Looking up from where she lay in her own ill, she saw the crow perched nearby, its red eyes trained on her expectantly. It watched her because it knew. She could not return to Cachtice Castle. She would not.

    Pushing herself up with her good hand, she was cognizant that the carriage had finally come to a stop some ways off. Marta was calling for her, joined by two male voices; but it was not to them she went. She pitched herself into the forest, through tangled branches and thorny briar that pulled and shredded her soiled dress. The shadows were deep, and she could see little, but she did not care. Anywhere. Anywhere but Cachtice Castle.

    Loud, flapping wings alerted her to the crow, just in time for her to duck as it swooped down to grab at her hair. Its talons grazed her scalp, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to startle her out of her panicked run. The animal landed on a low branch in front of her, and fixed her with its shining, ruby eye. It was the largest crow she had ever seen. Its silky black feathers shone, iridescent even in the dim evening light. And its eyes. Those eyes would not let her escape. She stood before it, gasping and wild-eyed, like a criminal awaiting a brutal judgment. Like the criminal she already was.

    ¡°No,¡± she whispered, ¡°Please, no.¡±

    It cocked its head, still holding her gaze. And then it spoke, in a voice that was almost beyond comprehension, ¡°The tragedy has already begun.¡±

    Edda fell to her knees before the crow, her heart thundering in her chest. Why not a talking crow? Why in the hells not a bloody talking crow? A part of her had already realized it the moment she had recognized Marta. Her memory of her trip to Countess Elizabeth Bathory¡¯s castle more than ten years ago had faded to a vague outline in her mind. It was not an event she often revisited. But one did not need more than an outline to paint the full picture when one had been thrust directly into the canvas.

    Marta was dead. She had died almost a decade ago, not long after their arrival at Cachtice Castle. But she had been alive in the carriage just now, just as she had been when they¡¯d first made this journey. And her hands had been warm.

    ¡°I cannot return,¡± Edda pleaded, ¡°I do not understand, but I cannot return to that place.¡±

    ¡°Then you will die in the forest.¡± There was no emotion in the words; the crow stated a simple fact. ¡°Choose.¡±

    Choose. So, she could choose this time. There had been no choice during her first journey. Stupid, foolish Edda had made few choices for herself back then. Her father had chosen to accept the invitation to Countess Bathory¡¯s gynaeceum on her behalf. And stupid, foolish Edda had been excited for it. She had chattered to Marta the entire way from Hesse. Alternately spouting silly fantasies about what it would be like to escape her overbearing father and brothers with tearful regrets about leaving behind her beloved younger sister. But this time, she could choose?

    ¡°I do not wish to die,¡± Edda said. Not in this forest now, and not on the pyre either.

    The crow cocked its head as though curious. ¡°Then you must return to Cachtice Castle and change your fate with your own hands.¡±

    A thrill ran through Edda¡¯s entire body. Change her fate with her own hands. Could she do such a thing? Was it really possible? To avoid the inevitable? To change a future she had already witnessed? She gulped. ¡°But how? I still don¡¯t understand what¡¯s happening.¡±

    Caw caw caw. The crow¡¯s glassy red eye betrayed nothing despite the noise it made. It took Edda a moment to realize that it was laughing. ¡°You understand. Already, the future has changed.¡± The bird fluffed its feathers, then extended its wings. A spike of panic pierced her as she understood that it readied itself for flight.

    ¡°Wait! Please, explain to me what is happening. Tell me what to do!¡± She stumbled to forward to her feet, grabbing at the crow as it launched itself into the air. ¡°Please!¡± She stepped back again, craning her neck to watch as it circled once, twice overhead just out of her reach. ¡°Please!¡± she pleaded, but the crow continued to ascend into the sky.

    ¡°Already the future has changed. If you wish to change it further, you must listen to the whispers. You must choose when to be seen.¡±

    ¡°Please!¡± Edda screamed, but the crow was already out of sight, lost to the inky sky.

 3. Blood and Smoke

    She did not know how long she stood there, her neck straining backward as she stared up at the sky the crow had vanished into. But that was how she stayed, until the already faltering dusk faded, and the overcast sky turned truly black. By then, her ragged breaths had slowed, and her wet cheeks had dried stiff and cold. Her dress, though of a sturdy thick wool for travelling, had been torn in various places, and the chill of early spring began to creep in.

    She did not want to go to Cachtice Castle. The very thought of it inspired a fear in her so primal that it took all her effort not to take off running again. To run so long and far that her lungs burst, and her feet bled, and she could not find her way back even if she changed her mind. But she did not want to die, either, and it was this equally frightening prospect that kept her standing where the crow had left her. Choose, it had told her. But she still could not.

    And that was where she was when her brother, Ivar, came upon her. She had heard him calling for her by then, shouting her name and scrambling urgently through the dense undergrowth somewhere behind her. But despite the lantern he carried, the thickness of the forest and her utter stillness had concealed her from him until he was almost directly upon her. He erupted into the small clearing where she stood with such abruptness that he almost dropped his only source of light and hope of finding their way back to the road.

    Panting with surprise, relief, and not a little anger, he grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her around to face him and shaking her with barely constrained violence. ¡°Have you lost your bloody mind?¡± he boomed, breath hot between them. His normally stern face was twisted with rage, but it was quickly rearranged when he noticed her pale face and felt her quaking beneath his hand. He looked her up and down, trying to the locate the source of her disquiet. ¡°What on mother¡¯s blessed earth has happened, Edda?¡± he implored, his voice quieter but still fraught with emotion. His hand was firm, bruising on her shoulder.

    A trickle of cold fear made its way down her spine at the sight of him. She could not help but recall the brute force with which he had struck her back in her cell. Or the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as she had been consumed on the pyre. It had not been so long ago, for her, though perhaps for him it was far in the future. He was her brother, and he knew her, and because of that he would not hurt her. Not right now. She gulped, willing herself to speak, but could not find her words.

    ¡°Speak, Edda,¡± he urged, squeezing her shoulder as though to spur her on. She could only recoil, shaking her head, and averting her eyes. ¡°Bloody, rotting bones,¡± he swore as it became clear that she would remain silent. He released his hold on her shoulder to grab her hand and, lantern aloft, he began to lead them back in the direction of the road. Edda went with him, offering little resistance despite her trepidation. Choose. But just as she always had, she let someone else make the choice for her.

    After what felt like an hour of carefully picking their way through the interlocking branches, they began to make out the panicked voices of Marta and the hired coachman, and a faint glow of light could be seen off in the distance. They had found their way back, though Edda would not have cared either way.

    ¡°I have her!¡± Ivar called forward, and Edda could hear Marta¡¯s loud exclamation of relief.

    Under the bright pool of light that spilled out onto the road from the lantern-lit carriage, the full extent of Edda¡¯s physical state became apparent¡ªto say nothing of her mental situation, as she remained silent and trembling. She was covered in vomit, and her clothing was in tatters. She had numerous bruises and scratches from her fall and subsequent flight through the woods, including several on her face that concerned Marta greatly. But worst of all was her wrist, which had now become quite club-like in appearance, distended and purple with swelling.

    ¡°It¡¯s broken, I just know it,¡± Marta wailed, ¡°It¡¯ll never be right again.¡±

    They had helped her back into the carriage, where she and Marta now sat. The door was open, and Ivar and the coachman stood just outside in tense conversation, wary of Edda¡¯s poor constitution. Marta fussed over her, wiping bloody scratches with a damp handkerchief and demanding that she keep her left hand elevated on the backrest of the bench. For her part, Edda felt little pain; the panic, the terror, the sheer impossibility of her situation had given way to a resigned exhaustion. Choose? She almost laughed. She had never had any choice in this.

    ¡°We¡¯ll not make it to the castle, sir,¡± the coachman explained, ¡°Not in good time, and not in the dead of night like this.¡±

    ¡°Blood and blasted maiden,¡± Ivar swore repeatedly, beginning to pace back and forth in a tight circle. His thick, dark hair was in disarray from the evening¡¯s exertions, and he ran his hands through it restlessly. He had donned his navy soldier¡¯s uniform for their arrival at Cachtice Castle this evening, but it now looked rumpled and scuffed. He was not a man who tolerated disorder in himself, and the unusualness of his behaviour roused Edda just slightly from her stupor. He glanced into the carriage, eyes resting on her swollen hand. ¡°My sister needs a healer tonight.¡±

    ¡°We could make for Ecsed village,¡± the coachman offered, ¡°It is well on our route, and closer.¡±

    ¡°Then let us make for the village,¡± Marta interrupted, shrilly, sticking her head out the open door, ¡°An inn, and quickly. Miss Edda must be tended to, and she must rest.¡±

    For a moment, Ivar looked like he might protest Marta¡¯s intrusion. Instead, he shook his head and halted his pacing, his mind obviously set. ¡°To Ecsed, yes. Let us make us haste.¡±

    Presently, the carriage door was fastened shut, and they lurched into motion once more. Ivar had returned to the front with the coachman, and Edda was left with a stricken Marta. The older woman chewed her lip with worry, clutching at her skirts and cursing the road for every bump and roll. She hardly took her eyes off her injured ward, but she did not ask questions, and for that Edda was grateful.

    ¡°That bloody blackened beast of a crow,¡± Marta muttered, content to lay the blame elsewhere. The carriage jostled along to its new destination as the night deepened around them.

    Edda¡¯s mind felt numb and foggy. She did not want to think about what was happening. It was almost too much to grasp. In what she perceived to be no more than a day, she had gone from a barely living prisoner, to a witch burned alive, and now...now, she had gone back to the beginning of it all. Had everything been a dream? Were her memories of the last decade, of the last year, of her last day, just some sort of horribly lucid black dream?A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Even if they were¡ªwas she willing to risk her life by ignoring them?

    Already, the future has changed. Indeed, things were unfolding differently from what she remembered. For one, there had been no mad foray into the forest or talking crow before. The carriage had had no reason to stop, in her memories. For another, she knew for a fact that they had arrived at Cachtice Castle this night, been welcomed by the steward and served a small night-time meal alongside another group of late arrivals. She had retired to bed well past midnight, but in her own private room¡ªher first time sleeping without Franka and Marta in the same chamber.

    And tomorrow, she would have woken in those finely outfitted quarters¡ªfar too luxurious for one of her standing¡ªcompletely oblivious to the way she would be lured, over the course of the days and months and years that followed, to her death.

    But this time, they would stop over in the village of Ecsed. No doubt, with the perturbed state of their party, they would stay the night. Perhaps they would not even leave for the castle until after the midday meal.

    That gave her something she had not had before¡ªtime. And with time, perhaps she could find a way to escape.

    Edda was still churning over this possibility when they arrived in Ecsed, at the village inn. Accommodations were hastily made by her brother¡ªrooms arranged, luggage unloaded, and horses seen to. A runner, a bleary-eyed boy of no more than twelve, was sent by the innkeeper¡ªhimself in his nightclothes¡ªto fetch the healer. And Edda was all but carried by Marta and Ivar out of the carriage and into the room she would share with the older woman.

    Ivar was ushered out, and Marta began her work. First, she peeled Edda out of her ruined dress, gingerly navigating the offended wrist. Then, with a bowl of hot water provided by the innkeeper¡¯s wife and a clean towel, Marta wiped her from head to toe, clearing off dirt and twigs and blood. A nightdress was donned and Edda¡¯s hair¡ªmussed from her flight, despite having been braided and pinned¡ªwas released, brushed, and plaited.

    Marta left as soon as Edda had settled into bed, mistrustful of the innkeeper to not be abed by the time the healer arrived. Finally, Edda was alone. A single candle burned on the table beside the bed, but it was enough to illuminate most of the small room. There were two beds very close together, a washing stand with a pitcher of water and a discretely placed chamber pot, and just enough room to store the trunks they had brought with them from Hesse.

    In the quiet of the room, she could almost imagine that it had all been a black dream. Her arm had begun to throb sharply, but the pain only highlighted all the other sensations she had not experienced in so long. She had grown up with far better furnishings, but the bed on which she lay felt softer than any she had ever lain on before. The linens were the smoothest she had ever felt, and the candlelight so gentle. Tears slid from her eyes. Was this what comfort had felt like?

    Thud. Thud. Thud.

    Her heart jumped to her throat at the sound of approaching footsteps. Panic almost set in, but these footsteps were not the heavy ones of iron-toed boots on hard stone. They were softer and quieter¡ªleather soles on creaking wood.

    The door swung open. It was Marta¡ªher face decidedly displeased¡ªfollowed by a bent old woman, with Ivar in the rear. The young boy who had run to fetch the healer stepped into the room for a moment, dropping a heavy satchel near the door with little decorum, before ducking out and pulling the door shut behind him. The small room felt cramped with all four of them present, but neither Marta nor Ivar seemed willing to step out.

    ¡°Miss Belten, I presume,¡± the old woman stated, in a voice that seemed far too strong for her bony frame and wispy grey hair. She approached the bed without hesitation. ¡°Sit up now and let me have a look.¡± It took Edda a moment to arrange herself into a seated position. The old woman extended a wrinkled hand to assist her, which she did with a surprising amount of strength, and then ensured that a pillow was in place for Edda to lean back on.

    Any words Edda might have said were promptly silenced as the woman grabbed her chin. Her head was turned this way and that, and a set of spry fingers worked along her jaw, as though tracing the shape of her teeth.

    The woman leaned forward, coming uncomfortably close. It was only then that Edda noticed the milky film covering both of her eyes. She blinked in astonishment, and the woman shot her a largely toothless smile. ¡°Not to worry, dearie. The eyes have gone, but I still see just fine.¡± In a quieter voice, loud enough for only Edda¡¯s ears, the old crone added, ¡°See enough to smell the blood and smoke on you.¡±

    Edda felt her face drain of color. But the woman had moved on now to looking at Edda¡¯s wrist. She grasped it firmly, and despite her shock at the woman¡¯s words, Edda yelped in pain.

    ¡°Now just what are you doing!¡± Marta screeched, stepping forward only for Ivar to place a firm, warning hand on her shoulder. The plump maid bristled with outrage, but did not continue her tirade beyond several quietly indignant statements that sounded suspiciously like, ¡°Blind as bat and a worm!¡± which were ignored by all present. Edda, in particular, was still reeling from the woman¡¯s earlier words.

    ¡°She¡¯ll live, despite Mistress Jozsef¡¯s fears,¡± the old woman said after some minutes. Marta huffed audibly with annoyance at the woman¡¯s jab. ¡°The wrist is not broken, but well and truly twisted. I¡¯ll set it so that she stays off it and give a salve for the swelling. Best avoid it for a fortnight or so.¡± The woman gestured, without looking, to the satchel that had been dropped near the doorway, and Ivar promptly fetched it for her. She rummaged around in it, first setting a tab of folded wax paper on the nearby table (¡°The salve,¡± she affirmed) and then laying strips of linen onto the bed beside Edda.

    Ivar hovered behind her for a moment before returning to his place beside the door. ¡°And what of her...¡± Ivar wavered, ¡°hysterics?¡±

    The old healer turned to face him, that same gummy smile on her leathery face. ¡°I¡¯ll have to agree with Mistress Jozsef¡¯s diagnosis. A black dream, most like. I¡¯ve some sleeping powder I¡¯ll leave with you. She¡¯ll be out like a doused fire with just a sprinkle of it, and after a night or two of sleep she¡¯ll be back to rights.¡± Another tab of folded wax paper appeared, this one slightly smaller, and was set beside the other one on the table.

    The woman worked quietly under the watchful gaze of Marta and Ivar. Despite her earlier roughness, her touch was remarkably gentle as she first applied the strongly herbal salve onto Edda¡¯s wrist and forearm, and then fashioned a neat splint from a few smooth sticks and a length or two of cloth. Edda watched in silence; her initial surprise at the woman¡¯s words replaced with disbelief. She must have imagined it¡ªthere was no other explanation.

    Finally, the healer carefully unwrapped the second parcel of wax paper. Nimbly, she pinched off some of the white powder within and, squeezing¡¯s Edda¡¯s lips open with her other hand, peppered it onto her tongue. She was lowered onto the bed and within moments, a wave of drowsiness washed over her. Distantly, she knew the room¡¯s three remaining occupants conversed for a time. As though through a deep haze, she perceived the opening and closing of the door as Ivar and the healer departed.

    So fast and hard, indeed, did sleep tighten its grip on her that she felt a prickle of fear at what it would bring with it. She tried to fight it off, struggling to keep her eyes open, to move her limbs, to make a sound. But it was no use. With every blink and breath, her body grew leaden. Only her chest rose, slow and deep, as she was overtaken. Her last thought lingered, an image of the old healer and her milky, knowing eyes. An echo of her words, and the faint scent of blood and smoke.

 4. A Pot of Black Pigment

    Edda woke slowly, as though floating up from a great depth. She was conscious, first, of light behind her eyelids and the distant, muffled sounds of day; voices, clinking cutlery, clanging pots, a chair being pushed back from a table. Beyond even that, the creaking of wagons and the barking of a dog. She was warm, cocooned in soft linens. Sleep was loathe to release her from its bind, but she found herself equally reluctant to go. She did not move or open her eyes. Would it all disappear at the first sign of her wakefulness? Would she find herself, once more, in the dungeon beneath Cachtice Castle?

    Against her will, the sweet grogginess of first awakening dissipated. Her mind cleared, and she opened her eyes to the empty room, lit brightly with late morning sunlight. She was at the village inn in Ecsed, not at Cachtice Castle; for that she was grateful. No one seemed eager to rouse her from the bed¡ªMarta had probably left her to rest¡ªwhich meant she still had some time to figure out what was happening, and how she could escape it.

    And she had to escape it. The thought of facing the dungeon and her own execution once more¡­she swallowed thickly, fear grasping at her with icy hands. A memory of gnawing hunger and the brink of madness. And another memory of the fire licking her legs, sloughing her skin off in its wake. As terror threatened to overtake her, her jaw and fists clenched simultaneously¡ªand the sudden pain of her injured wrist brought her back to the present.

    She released a shuddering breath she hadn¡¯t realized she¡¯d been holding. The memories felt too real, too fresh to be a black dream. It defied all logic, but those things really had happened to her. Somehow, she had come back from the dead. She had gone back a decade into the past, to when it had all begun. And somehow, she would have to figure out how to survive what awaited her.

    Slowly, she pushed herself into a seated position. She was not sure how reliable her memories of this time were, and try as she might, she remembered few pertinent details. She had been entering her seventeenth spring, giddy with the excitement of an invitation from a respected countess and the prospect of living among cultured young noblewomen rather than her wealthy but common family. Tea parties. She had wanted to attend tea parties.

    The fact of the matter was, she had had little on her mind and had cared even less for what occurred around her. She was the least equipped person for figuring out how to survive what had happened to her. Perhaps that was what had made her the ideal prey for the intricate plot she had found herself at the center of; a plot she still did not understand.

    She understood nothing, really, now that she thought about it. And she was not sure she wanted to understand, either. The things she had been executed for were so far out of the realm of possibility that it terrified her to even think she had been accused of them. Witchcraft? Murder? These were the purview of naughty children¡¯s tales and low superstition. They played no part in the reality she had lived in.

    Part of her even disbelieved that this really was the same past she remembered. A number of things had already been different. Maybe she could just wait and see what happened. Maybe it would all turn out alright this time.

    But no. The risk of doing nothing was too great. And she was certain that things were different now only because she, herself, had behaved differently.

    Swinging her legs off the bed, Edda awkwardly poured herself a cup of water from the pitcher that had been placed on the bedside table, probably by Marta in anticipation of her thirst. She moistened her cottony mouth with it as she considered her options.

    She could run off into the forest again, like she had last night. That had given rise to some positive results in delaying her arrival to the castle. It was certainly the easiest course of action, as far as she was concerned. But¡ªand she despised the thought as soon as she had it¡ªshe knew that, if Ivar did not immediately find her again, she would more than likely be sending herself to the grave ten years sooner than need be. Even had both her arms been in good working order, she had no capacity for surviving in a forest. The very thought of it was laughable.

    Then you must return to Cachtice Castle and change your fate with your own hands. The blighted crow¡¯s words came to her again. And she knew the bird was right. If this really was the past that she remembered, then she would likely not be in imminent danger for years, yet. Of course, she did not know at which point she had become tangled in the web that would lead to her demise; perhaps, as the crow had alluded, the tragedy had already begun. But maybe it was not too late for her to break free.

    When Marta entered the room some time later carrying a tray of steaming stew and fresh bread, Edda had already made up her mind. ¡°You¡¯re awake!¡± she proclaimed, launching into a series of worried questions which Edda promptly assuaged. At Marta¡¯s insistence, Edda propped herself up on the bed, her stomach rumbling. It was all she could do not to grab the food and begin eating immediately. Something that was not cold gruel or stale bread or sour milk. Something that was not straw.

    ¡°I feel almost right again,¡± she assured the woman, eagerly balancing the tray on her lap using her splinted hand. ¡°I can feed myself, Marta,¡± she noted as the woman reached for the wooden spoon. Edda grabbed the utensil immediately and wasted not a second before digging in, her earlier plans temporarily forgotten. Mother and maiden, it was the best thing she had ever tasted.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Marta seemed hesitant to take her word for it, but relented, sitting back on the empty bed across from where Edda lay and eying her warily. ¡°Master Ivar wishes to stay another night in the village,¡± Marta revealed slowly, ¡°I think it¡¯s for the best, as well, Miss Edda.¡±

    Edda looked up in surprise, her mouth full. This was certainly not unwelcome news. ¡°Yes,¡± Edda said readily, ¡°I think that is for the best.¡± She had been steeling herself to throw a fit convincing enough to warrant another night or two in the village, but now she would not have to. Barely missing a beat, she continued to eat. Already, she had nearly finished her stew. It took her the entire bowl to realize that Marta was frowning in concern, but even so she could not stop herself from tearing into the bread.

    ¡°Is anything the matter, Miss Edda?¡± Marta questioned gently.

    Edda swallowed a mouthful of the warm, buttery bread and barely stopped herself from demanding that Marta fetch her another helping. No, nothing was wrong. Other than the fact that she remembered what it was like to starve and needed to do everything in her power to prevent herself experiencing it again. ¡°I am well, Marta.¡± The older woman still seemed unconvinced, but Edda was ready to turn to other matters. ¡°My black pigment, Marta. Where is it?¡±

    ¡°Pigment?¡± Marta reiterated, her face scrunched in confusion, ¡°Why, I was not aware you owned black pigment.¡±

    Edda rolled her eyes; of course she owned black pigment. Franka had managed secretly to obtain a pot of the stuff and had given it to her as a parting gift. Sweet, beloved, devious Franka¡ªalways outsmarting their watchful father and brothers. Marta had not approved of it, of course, but had dutifully packed it in one of the trunks they had brought with them. Edda knew this, because in the coming months, she would use the pigment to accentuate her eyes and draw beauty marks prior to the various social engagements hosted at Cachtice Castle.

    ¡°I am certain it is in one of my trunks, Marta. Please.¡±

    Suppressing her protests that no black pigment would be found, Marta began to search the trunks under Edda¡¯s expectant eyes. Yes, the black pigment was where she would start. It was horribly difficult to remove, and left stains on the skin, so she had applied it lightly and only for special occasions before. But now, perhaps she could use some of the pigment¡¯s shortcomings to her advantage.

    As the minutes passed and the pigment did not appear, Edda grew increasingly impatient. She knew the pigment had been brought on the journey, she was sure of it. There was no way she would have misremembered Franka¡¯s gift, and no way she would have left it behind in Hesse. It had been important to silly, stupid Edda back then¡ªfor appearing pretty and fashionable amongst the young noblewomen. But it was even more important now¡ªbecause now she needed it to help her stay alive.

    After the better part of an hour, Marta turned to her in surrender. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Miss Edda,¡± the woman said, ¡°I cannot find it.¡±

    ¡°Impossible!¡± Edda exclaimed, her voice raising. Marta visibly flinched. She pinched the bridge of her noise in frustration. She wanted to shout, and perhaps she should. She could attribute it to yesterday¡¯s madness and not even have to apologize. But no, it would not do to get upset at Marta. Perhaps the pigment would be found once the trunks were properly unpacked, when they reached the castle. Of course, that did not help her now. She needed the pigment before they departed the village. ¡°Take some coin from my purse, Marta. Fetch me some pigment from the market.¡±

    Marta blinked uncomfortably. She made no move to find Edda¡¯s coin purse.

    ¡°Well?¡± Edda urged, growing annoyance in her voice, ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear that I am too young or too pretty for pigment, Marta. Just go fetch me the blasted pigment.¡±

    Marta continued to hesitate, seemingly unsure of what to do. Finally, she said, ¡°I am sorry, Miss Edda. I will check the market, but we are no longer in Hesse. It is unlikely that anyone deals in pigment here.¡±

    But she was right, wasn¡¯t she? This was the small, country village of Ecsed, not the bustling merchant town of Hesse. Edda felt her anger and anxiety bubble over, then burst, and she pushed the empty tray off her lap. It clattered to the floor loudly, the wooden bowl and spoon bouncing and rolling. Marta jumped in shock at the younger woman¡¯s outburst, and immediately began a string of apologies as she rushed to gather the scattered utensils.

    This would never work. There was no way she¡¯d be able to do anything. Just like before, she was completely powerless. For a brief moment, she had thought she had found something small under her control. But she could not even have a pot of bloody pigment to carry out the feeble plan she had concocted. After all, she could not be asked to play the countess if she did not look the part.

    And that was what had happened. She, Edda Belten of Hesse, bore a resemblance to the Countess Elizabeth Bathory. She had, not once during her stay at the castle, seen the Countess herself. But the Countess¡¯s steward had called the likeness uncanny. Fateful, the Countess¡¯s lady in waiting had affirmed. And Edda, young and filled with delusions of grandeur, had lauded this fact over the castle¡¯s other guests, as though the luck that had shaped her face and form in a likeness of nobility somehow elevated her to that status. She had comported herself as a peer amongst peers, despite her blasted common blood. Had thought it somehow inevitable that she receive the same respect and accommodations as those far above her station.

    So, when at the time of the harvest a few months from now, she had been asked to stand in for the mysterious Countess herself¡ªshe had agreed. Of course, she would act as the Countess; attend the soirees and the parties, wear the gowns and the jewels, curtsy and repeat the words fed to her. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world; and if they had asked, it could not have been such a strange thing in the first place, right? Surely this counted as an endorsement from the Countess herself. And they had asked her again, and again, and again, until she was no longer Edda. Until she had left Edda behind and taken on the identity of the Countess Elizabeth Bathory.

    Silly, stupid Edda. Silly, stupid, stupid, stupid Edda.

    With no one to remind her of who she was, she had become what they made her. And it was silly, stupid Edda who had died for it.

 5. One Small Thing

    The silence in the small room felt deafening; all the more so because the sounds of life going on continued uninterrupted just outside. Marta had stayed awhile after righting the contents of the tray, offering soft apologies and bidding Edda emerge from beneath the quilt where she had hidden herself. When Edda simply turned away from her attempts to soothe her, Marta had left quietly, with a mumbled promise to check the market for black pigment.

    But there was no point to any of it, was there? Hot tears dampened the pillow beneath Edda¡¯s head. Even if pigment was found, would freckling and blemishing her face really have presented her a solution? It was a weak disguise, and Edda knew it. A few marks on her skin were not enough to conceal her. But she was desperate, like a fly caught on the edges of a spider¡¯s web, struggling to escape before the spider caught on. But it was already stuck¡ªwas there any point to feebly thrashing?

    She did not know how long she remained abed, frozen on her side with eyes open and unblinking. She vacillated between the urge to ransack the trunks in search of the pigment she knew must be there and the heartfelt conviction that, even if she found it, the outcome would be the same. The result was a kind of numb paralysis from which she was sure she would never recover.

    But when the door to her room quietly creaked open, Edda knew instinctively that it was not Marta who entered. Startled out of her stupor, she spun to face the intruder, keeping the quilt pulled up to her eyes as though it offered some protection. Her rapid pulse remained and was joined by a sense of unease at the sight of Ivar. Despite his concern for her the night before, she still could not forget his part in the events that had preceded it...perhaps she would never see him as simply her brother again.

    ¡°I am sorry to startle you,¡± he began, looking genuinely apologetic, ¡°I did not wish to wake you if you were still sleeping, but it is all the better that you are awake.¡± He took a seat on the edge of Marta¡¯s empty bed, looking profoundly discomfited. His uniform had been neatly smoothed once more, and his dark hair had been pulled back into a short queue. He looked like the Ivar she had known most of her life¡ªordered and restrained, but somewhat awkward when faced with his much younger sisters. ¡°How¡ªhow do you fare, Edda?¡±

    Edda was tempted to ignore him, but her lingering fear of him prevented her from sinking back into the hopeless torpor she had found herself in. ¡°I am well, Ivar,¡± she said quietly, adding quickly, ¡°But I will be even better after another night¡¯s rest.¡±

    He nodded, ¡°That is as I hoped. You and Marta will leave for Cachtice Castle before noon tomorrow. I¡¯ve hired a coach to see you there.¡± Before noon tomorrow! She was nearly out of time, and with nothing to show for it. But something else about Ivar¡¯s words surprised her, enough to keep the desolation at her declining situation from overwhelming her once more.

    ¡°Will you not be joining us?¡± Edda asked.

    He paused, considering, and then nodded again. ¡°I will remain in Ecsed until the afternoon, and then depart directly back to Hesse in the evening.¡± This was not as she remembered. Perhaps noting her confusion, Ivar explained, ¡°I¡¯ve learned of some matters that I must report to the Lord Captain. Matters I cannot simply send ahead by pen.¡±

    Edda frowned, rattled by his change of plans and barely cognizant of his reasoning. Ivar had come with them to the castle before, and had stayed a few days thereafter, inspecting the castle guard in between hovering over her like a stoic guardian. Part of her was grateful that she would not have to be in his presence for much longer¡ªbut part of her was wary about what else his absence could change for her. Suddenly hesitant to find out, it occurred to her that if his plans had changed to avoid the castle entirely, perhaps she could venture to do the same.

    ¡°Take me with you, Ivar,¡± she implored, her voice shaking more than she had expected. If she could simply return to Hesse, to the safety of her father¡¯s house, all of this could be forgotten. She would never hope to be more than a common merchant¡¯s daughter again. She would live quietly under her father and eldest brother Simon, seeing Ivar only when he was on leave from the military, and be content with Franka¡¯s affections.

    Ivar¡¯s eyes brightened, his awkwardness lifting as though he had finally solved some great puzzle, and a crooked smile played on his lips. ¡°Is that what¡¯s been bothering you, Edda?¡± he reached forward to place his hand on her own, and she barely suppressed the urge to jerk away. This was not the Ivar from the future, she reminded herself. But her hand still began to sweat beneath his grasp. ¡°I am sorry I didn¡¯t realize it sooner. We were all so pleased when the invitation came, and you appeared so eager these past months. I didn¡¯t stop to wonder that you might grow anxious about being away from home.¡±

    She hadn¡¯t given much thought to being away from home, the first time around, nor had she come to miss it over the ten years she had been away. Only Franka she had longed for, sorely and terribly, but the girl had been unable to visit due to her delicate health. They had written to each other often, at the beginning. But the letters had eventually trickled to a stop and Edda, swept away by her new life as the Countess, had never questioned it. Now, she felt tears well up in her eyes as she thought back to her home in Hesse, her comfortable existence alongside not just Franka, but the rest of her family, and even the servants.

    ¡°Please take me home, Ivar,¡± she beseeched, going so far as to grip his hand herself, ¡°I am not fit for this. I haven¡¯t the slightest idea of what to do.¡± And she meant it, but not in the way he understood.

    ¡°Now, now,¡± he comforted, his smile fading at her tears; he had never been good with these sorts of emotional displays. Eleven years her elder, such displays had long been left behind in boyhood and so, it seemed, had his ability to navigate them. ¡°This is a wonderful opportunity for you, Edda¡ªfor all of us. With the Countess as patron, you can find a better match than father could provide. A noble match, even! Isn¡¯t that what you¡¯ve always desired?¡±This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Yes, she had wanted such things once; more than the noble match, she had wanted the courtly lifestyle. The recognition and regalia. And she had had it and more; and it had been unctuous and sweet and a delicacy like no other¡ªuntil it had killed her. So, she shook her head at his words, sniffling miserably, ¡°I desire to return to Hesse.¡±

    He exhaled, seeming to grow somewhat impatient with her, but his hand still held hers gently. ¡°You know I cannot take you back, Edda. We have already accepted the countess¡¯s invitation. It would spell ruin for father if we offended her so.¡± He paused for a second. And then, when he spoke again, Edda knew he was thinking of other matters¡ªmatters he thought more important than her wilful desire to return with him. ¡°And I need you to write to me, Edda. I need you to write to me about matters inside the castle.¡±

    Still dejected from his refusal, Edda had only just enough sense to recognize that Ivar¡¯s request was strange. She had never written him such letters before. ¡°Letters?¡± she sputtered.

    He released her hand and stood, and Edda could see that their conversation was coming to an end. ¡°Yes. Write me letters of Cachtice Castle, of the servants, and the other girls. And write me of the Countess, too.¡±

    Edda¡¯s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She knew, from her own memories, that she would never meet the Countess. At first, she had thought it because of her common blood, but even she had picked up on the fact that the woman was rarely seen even by the other castle inhabitants. Only the steward and her lady in waiting seemed to attend her directly. And the bizarreness of the woman¡¯s reclusiveness had faded into a convenient oddity when Edda had begun to take her place.

    ¡°Why?¡± Edda found herself asking.

    ¡°Is it that strange to receive letters from one¡¯s own sister?¡± he teased, reaching forward to pat her head in finality. Edda flinched this time, but he did not seem to notice or, if he did, he chalked it up to an emotion other than fear. Ivar made his way to the door, turning one last time before opening it to reassure her once more, ¡°You will be quite alright, sister. Marta will be with you and will ensure you are taken care of.¡± He stood in the doorway. ¡°Be well, Edda. Write me the letters.¡± And then, he was gone.

    Edda almost went after him, whether to plead with him to take her back to Hesse or to insist he explain to her why he wanted these letters, she couldn¡¯t be sure. It was a tentative, half-formed realization, but something more than his choice to forego the castle had changed about Ivar since they had arrived in Ecsed the night before. There was something he had left out of their conversation.

    Was he simply concerned about her, after her erratic behaviour the night before and her tears today? Oh, she was certain he had been alarmed, but she knew that Ivar saw her as little more than a child¡ªeasily moved one way or the other, and best firmly supervised. He had expressed little interest in her time at Cachtice Castle in the few, perfunctory letters she could remember from him, and she had not graced him with any details in the one or two she had written back. So, for him to request that she write to him now meant that something he had learned recently in the village of Ecsed had interested him. He had said as much, hadn¡¯t he?

    But what?

    Whatever it was, it hadn¡¯t worried him enough to stop his own sister from continuing on. Yet again, Edda was becoming increasingly aware of how little she knew about much of anything. She had not been particularly interested in learning about the Countess¡¯s estate, of which Ecsed was part, back then. The Countess herself¡ªthe real Countess¡ªhad managed those responsibilities in private. So, what exactly was it about Ecsed that was sending Ivar straight back to Hesse, to his superior no less?

    Edda was still mulling over this when Marta returned from her visit to the village market. As Marta had predicted, she was empty-handed. Edda had already surrendered the idea of defacing herself with the black pigment, but she felt a terrible pang of disappointment, nonetheless. This had been the only avenue she could think of¡ªafter all, she knew without a doubt that she resembled the Countess, and that she had been selected to impersonate her because of it¡ªand she had thought it would be the one thing she could control.

    Bloody bones, she just needed one, small thing under her control. Just one thing so that she could ensure her last breath would not be of smoke.

    Blood and smoke.

    Maybe there was still something she could do.

    Some time after supper¡ªa supper which Edda could not stop herself from scarfing down, much to Marta¡¯s chagrin¡ªEdda requested that Marta call for the healer. It was just late enough that Ivar would be abed, which was exactly what Edda needed.

    ¡°My hand!¡± she cried, with just enough drama to set Marta on alert¡ªbut not so much to have her scrambling with urgency. She held out the injured limb for good effect, and was surprised to note a bumpy, red rash had risen up her forearm from beneath the splint. Just as well. ¡°It is hurting terribly, Marta. Just awfully. I think I must see the healer again¡ªperhaps it is broken after all!¡±

    ¡°If only there was any other than that blind crackpot of a woman!¡± Marta huffed, indignant as she pulled a housecoat on over her nightdress, ¡°I knew it was worse than she made it out to be. I¡¯ll be not a moment, Miss Edda.¡± And out the door she went, intent on her task.

    Edda moved swiftly. She knew she did not have much time before Marta returned. Turning to the table beside the bed, upon which sat a pitcher and two cups among other things, she reached for the small, folded wax paper the healer had left behind the day before. The sleeping powder. It was surprisingly unwieldy to unwrap¡ªeven if one of her hands had not been bound in a splint, her fingers shook just slightly with haste¡ªbut she managed it.

    Taking a pinch, about the amount the healer had given her the night before and a little extra for good measure, she sprinkled it into one of the cups. Just as awkwardly, but with equal speed, she refolded the wax paper and returned it to its place. Making sure to keep her eye on the cup she had added the powder to, she poured water from the pitcher into them both.

    Marta returned just as she set the pitcher back down, and Edda tamped down her nervousness.

    ¡°Are you alright, Miss Edda?¡± Marta asked, her breath slightly heavier than before, ¡°I¡¯ve sent for the healer. The boy¡¯s running to fetch her now.¡±

    Edda nodded. She kept her injured arm curled near her body and reached for one of the cups with the other. ¡°It is hurting terribly. So terribly, Marta.¡± She took a sip from the cup, while motioning to the one that remained on the table. ¡°I¡¯ve poured some for you, too.¡±

    Marta¡¯s eyes softened. ¡°My thanks, Miss Edda.¡± She came around, taking a seat on her bed with a sigh. ¡°I¡¯ve no clue why there must be so many floors in a village inn, or why the innkeeper¡¯s room must be at the very top!¡± Taking the cup with gratitude, Marta drank deeply.

    It took a great deal of trouble to lift Marta¡¯s legs onto the bed. After realizing how heavy they were, and after several complaints from her wrist, Edda almost gave up and left the woman to sleep as she had fallen; twisted, with her feet on the floor and her head on her pillow. But no; Marta had played her part tonight, and just because Edda needed her out of the way for the next scene did not mean the woman deserved to awaken in discomfort tomorrow. And so, with Marta fast asleep in the bed next to her, Edda sat and waited.

 6. The First Choice

    ¡°I see you¡¯ve been making use of the powder,¡± the healer remarked dryly as she shut the door behind her. This time, she carried her own satchel, and she placed it carefully on Marta¡¯s bed as she leaned over the sleeping woman. Extending two fingers to Marta¡¯s neck, she pressed gently beneath her jaw for a breath, and then drew back with a nod. ¡°She¡¯ll sleep well, and wake refreshed.¡± She turned to Edda. The lone candle in the room cast thick shadows upon her creased face, reflecting off her white eyes and making her almost frightening to behold. ¡°And you. I had thought you would call again.¡±

    Edda swallowed thickly, nervous and a little afraid. She had given some thought to how this conversation would go in the time she had spent waiting. All she had concluded was that she had neither the time nor the skill to skirt the matter at hand; the healer knew something, and she needed to figure out what. She had no memories of this woman from her previous life, so there was the possibility that trying to enlist her help could go terribly wrong. But this was the last, desperate thing she could think of before she¡¯d be thrust straight into the fray of Cachtice Castle tomorrow.

    Still, she hesitated, unsure. ¡°My arm,¡± she gestured, holding her splinted wrist up in the dim light.

    The woman cackled loudly, a sound as sudden as a crack of thunder, and Edda flinched. ¡°We both know that is not why you called me here, Miss Belten.¡± Nonetheless, the old woman inspected her injured arm carefully. She ran her fingers along the reddish rash that had spread just above the cloth of the splint, lending Edda¡¯s otherwise white forearm a ruddy, almost sunburnt hue. ¡°From the salve, no doubt,¡± she tutted, ¡°The swelling around your bones has gone, though. This, too, will pass in a few days.¡±

    The silence stretched long between them, during which time Edda¡¯s anxiety only grew. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, and all the words she had planned were forgotten. The only ones she could remember were the ones she choked out, a question and a statement simultaneously, ¡°Blood and smoke.¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡± The edges of the old healer¡¯s mouth turned up in a small smile. Slowly, with more grace than Edda would have expected of a woman so bent with age, she seated herself on the edge of Edda¡¯s bed. She adjusted the brownish shawl she wore around herself, holding it closed before her chest as she spoke, ¡°But we get ahead of ourselves. You wish to speak of a curse, and you do not even know my name.¡±

    ¡°A c-curse?¡± Edda stammered, uneasy. It was fantastical enough that she was here, alive, ten years in the past. She was not sure how many more improbabilities she could accept before losing all sense of reality.

    ¡°Or a blessing, perhaps,¡± the woman conceded, thumbing the edge of her shawl, ¡°Most likely both. That is the way of it, I¡¯m afraid.¡± The woman paused, as if to let her words sink in. ¡°Call me Gretel, dearie. I will call you Edda. After all, there is little propriety about those who stink of witchery.¡±

    Witchery! Edda shook her head in outrage. Fear bloomed rapidly in her chest. Witch, they had called her, and she had died for it. ¡°I am not a witch,¡± she hissed. She would not be called one again in this life.

    ¡°And so it may be,¡± Gretel answered patiently, ¡°But that does not change the fact that you smell of one.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Edda insisted, her voice shrill with alarm, ¡°Such things are but tales. They are not real.¡± Marta had frightened her with such superstitions when she was younger. But she was a gullible child no longer. ¡°They are not real,¡± she repeated, as though to convince them both. As though to ignore the fact that she had, very recently, been executed for witchcraft.

    Gretel laughed again, sudden and loud and booming. ¡°Maybe they are not real in the big towns and cities. Maybe the people there have forgotten or choose not to remember. But they are real here, Edda.¡± That gummy smile graced her face again; coupled with those vacant eyes, she made unnerving company.

    Without realizing it, Edda had wrapped her arms around herself, as though to shield herself from the woman¡¯s words. ¡°It cannot be,¡± she maintained.

    ¡°Then tell me, dearie,¡± Gretel said softly, ¡°Tell me why you smell of blood and smoke.¡±

    Edda shuddered, staring at the woman with wide, bewildered eyes. ¡°I...cannot explain it,¡± she said quietly. Perhaps she should not have said more than this, but she found that she could no longer keep it to herself. The reality of what had happened to her demanded to be known. ¡°I died,¡± her voice trembled as she said it, but still it spilled out, ¡°I was burned.¡±

    The smile vanished. Gretel¡¯s face darkened, those white eyes narrowing. ¡°Do you speak the truth, girl?¡± Her fingers, which had been playing lightly over her shawl, clamped down.

    Edda found that she was crying, overcome with silent, quivering sobs. Speaking the words aloud had somehow given them a substance they had lacked before, as though in keeping them to herself, she had prevented them from materializing. But now, in admitting it to someone else, she realized how real, how horribly, terribly real it was. She had died. She had burned to death. She had felt every moment of it.

    ¡°Hush, child.¡± Gretel extended a firm hand to Edda¡¯s knee, clasping it tightly as though to keep her from disappearing. She did not ask Edda to confirm whether her words were the truth again. She did not even ask her to elaborate on the circumstances surrounding her death and return to life which, Edda realized, were far more complicated than she had let on. Gretel¡¯s brows were furrowed with thought, so low over her eyes that they were barely visible any longer. She simply sat, still as a statue, and waited for Edda¡¯s weeping to subside enough to continue their conversation.

    ¡°That is not what I expected,¡± Gretel said finally, her voice hard. Edda sniffled in response, wiping her face with the bed quilt. ¡°Common magics, I know; magics that are part of the land and the people of this country. But the magic you speak of is a great and terrible thing, Edda. One which I know little of. One which very, very few are even capable.¡±

    Still raw with emotion, Edda managed to choke out, ¡°But I am not a witch.¡±

    Gretel nodded her assent. ¡°No, I don¡¯t believe that you are.¡± She pulled her hand back, and Edda found herself cold without the woman¡¯s touch. Gretel continued, raising a hand to her face, ¡°I am able to know some things with certainty.¡± She tapped her cheek, just below one of her eyes. ¡°I traded my eyesight for it.¡±

    Edda could not suppress the wave of relief that washed over her at the woman¡¯s words¡ªto the point that she all but ignored the woman¡¯s admission of witchery. She knew she was not a witch¡ªshe was not even sure she believed in their existence, despite what the woman before her was saying. But part of her had wondered, some small, trifling part of her. They had called her a witch, executed her as a witch¡ªand she was still alive. If nothing else, it certainly sounded like some of the tales Marta had told her¡ªof witches and their immortality.

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± Edda said, and she was not sure to what part she meant it.

    ¡°It is one rule that binds all witches,¡± Gretel said slowly, ¡°For every boon granted, an equal toll exacted.¡± Once more, her hand stiffened on the edge of her shawl. ¡°That is why, Edda, the blessing of your life must have been bought with a horrific curse.¡± Gretel held Edda¡¯s gaze with her own milky one; and though Edda knew she was blind, she could not help but feel like the woman saw and knew everything. ¡°And only a blood witch would be capable of paying such a price.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    Edda could feel the color drain from her face. She shook her head, looking down at her lap. ¡°Impossible,¡± she murmured¡ªbut the lines between what was possible and impossible had long blurred for her. She did not know of any other explanation to justify all that had happened; and perhaps it was all connected, somehow, some way. Blood witches¡ªthe worst of their kind--putrid, rotting ghouls who drank the blood of innocent children and stopped the hearts of their parents. She had been executed as a blood witch. If Gretel was to be believed, it was because of a blood witch that she now lived. Perhaps her every move, every breath was at the mercy of a blood witch. A cold thrill ran through her, and she glanced up at the old healer quickly, then back down at her lap.

    Of course, Gretel noticed her swift movement. She barked out a short, clipped laugh that held little humor. ¡°Don¡¯t look to me for blood witchery, child. I am no blood witch.¡± Gretel took a deep breath. ¡°I¡¯ve had my worries, with what has happened in the village of late. But I did not want to believe it. Blood witches are not normal things. They do not appear often. And yet, it appears there is one among us.¡±

    It was a terrifying prospect to consider; that the monsters that haunted only the blackest of dreams, the most sinister of tales, were not only real but here. And somehow bound up with her, with the reason she was alive. And, possibly, with the reason she had died in the first place. Edda quaked. It was one thing¡ªa daunting thing¡ªto circumvent the unfortunate fate that had befallen her when she had thought that fate to be orchestrated by man alone. She had guessed it to be her own simple stupidity that had led her to become prey to some nefarious plot of the nobility¡ªand that was certainly enough of a hurdle to overcome. But she could not fathom how to deal with a being born out of the most horrendous imaginations. If this was truth, she was doomed as sure as she had been the first time around.

    Gretel, for her part, did not seem any more enthused by her revelation than Edda was. She wrung her old hands restlessly in her shawl, and those blind eyes were distant, consumed in thoughts perhaps no less morbid than the ones Edda entertained.

    ¡°What do we do?¡± Edda finally whispered, at a loss. It was almost laughable, now, that she had thought a pot of black pigment could save her.

    Gretel closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her hands stilled, and when she spoke it was with a surprising lightness, ¡°Well, I suppose the first thing to do is to confirm it for ourselves.¡±

    ¡°What!¡± Edda exclaimed, her voice louder, more frightened, than she had anticipated, ¡°Are you quite mad? I¡¯ve no desire to confirm anything!¡±

    ¡°And what would you suggest?¡± Gretel challenged, but her face and sardonic tone showed that she already knew where Edda¡¯s thoughts lay.

    Edda¡¯s voice wavered, but she answered nonetheless, ¡°I will leave. I¡¯ll convince Marta tomorrow, and we¡¯ll go back to Hesse. Blood witch or no, I am certain now that this is no place for me.¡± Her words were the words of a coward¡ªbut really, what more could be expected of her? She was a mere merchant¡¯s daughter, and she had been through enough. If Gretel was a witch as she claimed, she would be able to figure it out on her own.

    Gretel pursed her lips. ¡°And you assume the blood witch will not follow you? Already you¡¯ve been touched by its filthy magic. Already you are at the center of this.¡±

    Edda couldn¡¯t breathe. She dropped her face into her hands in despair. My god, she was so foolish. Like a rabbit caught in a trap, she flailed miserably for escape, unable to accept that there was nowhere to go but into the hunter¡¯s net. Her fate had been sealed the moment she woke again in this horrible second life. ¡°I want to live,¡± she whimpered, pathetic even to her own ears, ¡°I am scared, and I want to live so desperately.¡±

    She heard Gretel¡¯s sigh but could not bring herself to look up at the woman. ¡°I am scared, too,¡± the old woman said quietly, ¡°But my whole life I have dedicated to helping others. Even in the face of a blood witch, I cannot change what I am meant to do. The night is long, but it passes. You must choose.¡±

    Choose, the crow had told her, too. It did not feel like there was much of a choice. Surviving Cachtice Castle was one thing¡ªit had taken most of her courage, already, to accept that she would have to return there¡ªbut this was another matter entirely. That the two were likely intertwined only terrified her further. The caught rabbit was all but helpless against the hunter, but sometimes hunters took pity¡ªit was nothing but meat before a beast.

    Finally, Edda raised her head to look Gretel in the eyes. ¡°How¡ªhow would we confirm it?¡± she managed, aware that she still put off the choice she had been asked to make. But it was not unreasonable to understand what was being asked of her before agreeing to it, right? Already, she knew so little of why her life had ended the way it had the first time around¡ªeven though she had lived through all the events leading up to it. This time around, she would have to understand. She would force herself to, because she did not want to die.

    Gretel nodded. ¡°Has Mistress Jozsef told you anything of the village?¡± Edda shook her head, glancing over at the sleeping Marta, and Gretel continued, ¡°The villagers whisper, but they whisper freely. I am certain she has heard. This past year, there have been¡­unnatural events.¡± Gretel¡¯s fingers were once again anxious at her shawl. ¡°Dead cattle. Still-born calves. More than usual, but there have been bad years before.¡± Gretel paused. ¡°But a few months ago, hunters started coming upon dead deer in the forest. Untouched by the wolves, when in winter they will eat anything that falls before them. It is enough for people to start worrying.¡±

    ¡°But dead animals do not mean there is a blood witch,¡± Edda said, almost with relief. If this was all, then perhaps the woman was simply losing herself to age. Perhaps there was still hope for her survival.

    ¡°No,¡± Gretel admitted, ¡°Disease could cause as much. I have not seen the carcasses, so I cannot say. But a few men claim that they cut into the fresher ones and found grey flesh. With not a drop of blood.¡±

    ¡°Is¡­is that unusual?¡±

    The old woman managed a wry smile. ¡°Blood does not flow from the dead,¡± Gretel said, ¡°It binds and clots. But it should still be there, thick in the vein.¡±

    ¡°But it is just talk,¡± Edda argued, eagerly now, ¡°Perhaps, they simply did not see the blood.¡± In all the stories Marta had told her of blood witches, they fed on humans¡ªusually the young. If it was a blood witch¡ªand she was not convinced it was¡ªthat only killed cattle and deer, then surely they could leave each other be?

    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Gretel said, ¡°Talk is easily distorted in small villages¡ªthat is what I told myself, as well. That is, until the girls went to the castle and never returned.¡± Edda¡¯s eyes widened, her pulse quickening. The small sense of respite that had been growing in her was promptly extinguished. Gretel bowed her head, and her fingers were tight again on her shawl. ¡°Many of our girls go to work for the Countess, so when summons came for one, we did not find it unusual. The Countess fell ill some two years past, after her son left for school in the capital, and we assumed they were short-handed in caring for her.¡±

    Gretel rubbed a hand over her face, and her voice was strained, ¡°But after a few months, she stopped visiting her family in the village. We were told she had run off with a man. And they summoned another girl to take her place. And then the same thing happened again.¡±

    Edda¡¯s lips and hands trembled. She had not known of any of this. The servants who had come and gone in the castle had barely registered in her awareness¡ªhow many of the village girls had she met and never seen again, without even a second thought? She had been charged with murder before her death¡ªcould murders really have been happening in the very castle she pretended to rule?

    ¡°Olah and Varga, their names were. And after meeting you, I am almost certain of what has happened to them,¡± Gretel continued, sorrow evident on her leathery face, ¡°But I need to be sure. I must know my enemy to fight her. And while I can look into the reports about the animals, I have no business in the castle.¡±

    ¡°But I do,¡± Edda whispered, her hands clenching upon the bed quilt with such force that her injured wrist ached sharply.

    Gretel gestured affirmatively. ¡°It is the first year since she fell ill that she has hosted guests. Please. Please find out what is happening at the castle. To stop this, I must know.¡±

    And perhaps, to survive, Edda needed to know, as well. Maybe there would turn out to be no blood witch, and she would simply come to understand more of what had really happened at Cachtice Castle while she had been stupid and oblivious. It could help her avoid repeating the same mistakes. But maybe, just maybe, if the stuff of black dreams was indeed reality, at least she would know that her death had been, and was, inevitable. At least, then, she could accept her fate.

    She took a deep, shuddering breath, and made her first choice.

    ¡°I will help, Gretel. But to do so, I will need your help, as well.¡±

 7. Vanity

    You must choose when to be seen, the crow had advised her. She could not forget its cryptic words, and yet she struggled to decipher them. Being seen did not seem like something she could choose. The moment she left her room at the inn tomorrow, she would have little to no control over being seen¡ªeven less so when they reached the castle. And now that she knew that a blood witch perhaps awaited her there, the crow¡¯s words seem even more implausible. There was no place for her to hide. No action she could take, it seemed, that would allow her this choice, in its most literal sense. And yet, she wished for it.

    At some point following her arrival at Cachtice Castle the first time, her resemblance to the Countess had been noted¡ªperhaps by the steward, perhaps by her lady-in-waiting, perhaps by them both. Or perhaps by someone else entirely. She did not know why they had waited several months to approach her with their ploy. Neither had ever treated her with unkindness, but there was much she did not understand about their motivations. All she knew was that when they saw her, the wheels would begin turning, carrying her toward a fate she had no interest in repeating.

    She could not choose when she would be seen. Both man and¡ªshe shuddered¡ªblood witch would lay eyes upon her. But perhaps she could choose how she would be seen.

    ¡°I must change my appearance,¡± Edda mustered. Gretel raised a wispy, white eyebrow in response, and Edda continued, ¡°I haven¡¯t the slightest idea how. I had thought that with some pigment¡­but it would not be enough. I cannot look like myself.¡±

    The old woman cocked her head to one side, thoughtful. ¡°Why would you need to do such a thing? I¡¯m certain none would be displeased upon seeing you.¡±

    Edda steeled herself to take the step that she knew was necessary. The Countess had been renowned for her beauty. And though Edda had never met her, the many years spent acting as the woman had taught her an important thing about her¡ªand it was something they both shared. Vanity. Surely, they would not choose an ugly girl to stand in for a woman of famous beauty. Edda had even reasoned¡ªweakly¡ªthat a few freckles and blemishes might be enough to turn their eyes away from her. But no. There was too much at stake, already too much that could go wrong. And giving up her beauty was likely nowhere near enough to pay for her life.

    ¡°That is the heart of the matter. I want to be displeasing.¡±

    Gretel stroked her chin pensively. She studied Edda with those sightless eyes, as if trying to decode the reasoning behind such a bizarre request. Finally, she said, ¡°There seems to be much you have not told me.¡±

    Edda was not sure she wanted to speak of it. Already, she had admitted her death to this woman¡ªit had spilled from her, almost uncontrollably. But there was much more than that, wasn¡¯t there? Ten years¡¯ worth of memories¡ªmost of them the shallow and frivolous experiences of a merchant¡¯s daughter who had made herself out to be a Countess, and all of them vague and undefined in her mind. The ones that stood out for her¡ªthe ones that threatened to overwhelm her¡ªwere her memories of the last year. Her arrest and interrogation. Her long, tortured imprisonment. And her execution.

    If she were to begin telling this tale in its entirety, where would she even begin? Would any of what she knew even be helpful or important? Blood and bones, she had not even known of what had happened in the village, had not even heard whisper of it in her decade at the castle. Just how much of her experience there had been a carefully curated illusion that she had been too stupid to see through?

    Edda pressed her lips together, looking down at her shaking, white hands. Her wrist ached. ¡°There is much I do not understand,¡± she said softly, ¡°I do not know how to tell you. Part of me still struggles to even accept what has happened¡ªwhat I failed to see happening.¡±

    Gretel nodded. She reached out a hand, gently covering one of Edda¡¯s hands with her own. ¡°It is alright, girl. My old eyes tell me enough, and you can tell me the rest in time.¡± She drew away, and once more Edda found herself cold without that comforting touch. Gretel turned to her satchel, which she had left on Marta¡¯s bed. She opened it and began to search. ¡°Until then, you have assured me of your help. Be assured that you will have mine, as well.¡±

    A small bloom of relief. ¡°Thank you,¡± Edda said, quietly, ¡°I would not manage this on my own.¡±

    ¡°Oh, you¡¯d have managed something, if only for a time.¡± Gretel smiled her toothless smile, pulling a small, stoppered pot from her satchel. ¡°We will make do with what we have. More salve.¡± She set it aside upon the bedside table, where the wax paper parcels from the night before remained. ¡°About a month¡¯s share, give or take.¡±

    Edda frowned. ¡°For my wrist?¡±

    Gretel gestured to Edda¡¯s forearm, to the rough, red rash that had spread there. ¡°For your face, dearie.¡±

    Realization dawned on her. Of course! This would do a much better job of concealing her features than a few spots, which themselves might be easily hidden with powder. The salve had raised her skin with bumpy irritation¡ªnot only inflaming it red, but also marring its texture. She reached for the pot of salve as Gretel continued to rummage through her bag but hesitated with it in her hands. Would this be the same as applying an oil or a lotion? Even for such things, Marta and, after her, various maids and servants, had always been the ones to look after her.

    But now, if she intended to go through with this, she would have to start taking care of things herself.

    As though reading her mind, Gretel spoke, ¡°Apply it every five days, thereabouts. Give it here.¡± Putting her satchel aside momentarily, Gretel swiftly took command of the pot, removing the stopper, and dipping her wrinkled fingers inside. ¡°You only need a small bit. See?¡± She offered her fingers up for Edda¡¯s inspection, a dollop of white-green paste atop them. The smell of herbs made Edda¡¯s eyes water, and she turned her nose away. ¡°Don¡¯t be fussy now. The smell doesn¡¯t linger long.¡±

    Stilling Edda¡¯s head with a firm hand upon her chin, she began to apply the fragrant paste along Edda¡¯s forehead, nose, and the top of her cheeks. There was a cooling sensation that quickly gave away to tingling, and then to nothing. Faster than Edda could comprehend, the old woman dipped her coated fingers into the fleshy duct of first her left, then her right eye, with a touch that was feather light but deliberate. Immediately, Edda backed away, startled and blinking rapidly as her eyes begun to sting and water.

    Gretel gave her another gummy smile, replacing the lid on the pot and wiping her fingers on her shawl. ¡°And if you put just a little in the corner of your eyes, it will redden them, as well. Just a little, mind you.¡±

    Edda nodded obediently, though she still rubbed at her irritated eyes. She did not like the idea of it, but it would probably help. Reddening her eyes might help dull their impression. She did not know if the Countess in fact had greenish eyes like her own, but she assumed they must be close in color. At the very least, she would not look like she usually did, and for now that was the best she could hope for.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    Finally, Gretel alighted upon the item she had been searching so intently for. She pulled out another pot, this one quite a bit larger than the last, and of a darker red clay. ¡°There¡¯s more?¡± Edda inquired, nervous even though this was what she had asked for. Already, her stomach was beginning to twist at the thought of her ruddy, pimpled face. She knew she needed to do this if she wanted a chance at getting by unnoticed at the castle, but mother and maiden would she have preferred not to have to do it at all.

    Gretel opened the pot to reveal a thick, stinky red substance, somewhere between a powder and a paste. Edda nearly gagged at the smell of it. ¡°A cleansing drug,¡± she said apologetically, ¡°Difficult to make, so it is only ever used as such. But it is also a particularly potent dye.¡±

    ¡°A dye?¡± Edda questioned, confused. Already her skin and eyes were red. What more did Gretel intend to discolor?

    ¡°Your hair is particularly striking,¡± Gretel said, ¡°If you wish to look unlike yourself, then this will certainly go a long way.¡±

    The person Edda had been for most of her life would have forcefully declined; and the person she was now still had a small urge to. She had always been attached to her hair; it grew long and straight, black as a deep pool and as shimmery as its surface. She had thought it her best feature, and Marta had always taken great pride in its care. But now, as she watched Gretel pour water into one of the cups that still sat on the nightstand and then begin to mix a scoop of the red substance into it, she recalled the time she had spent in the dungeon.

    Others had always fixed her hair for her. So, in the first days, when it had fallen into disarray, she had been at a loss as to how to deal with it. She had tried to comb her fingers through it, removing straw and debris, because in those early days she had had energy, and hope, and it had seemed important to her. But quickly, it had knotted and¡ªwithout brushing or washing¡ªchunks of it had matted painfully to her scalp. Every shift of her head had pulled, sore and incessant. And she had started to wish for shears, to grasp and hack at each filthy tangle until not a strand of it was left. She began to resent it for her helplessness to be rid of it. For her helplessness in general.

    And then, time had passed¡ªcountless days and months in that dark, dank cell¡ªand she had grown hungry and weak. And clumps of it had started to fall off, leaving her with increasingly large patches of raw, bare scalp. And she had cried, a bit, of horror but also of relief, however small that feeling had been. She had been attached to her hair for most of her life, yes¡ªbut its only use to her in that horrible place had been a momentary feeling of release when it was no longer a part of her.

    And so, she stood from the bed and undid the braid that Marta had so lovingly arranged. Her fingers were clumsy, as she was not used even to undoing her own hair, but she fumbled through it herself. Shrugging off her nightdress, she stood bare before Gretel¡ªnumb but determined to see this through. Following Gretel¡¯s instructions, she separated her hair into several smaller parts and, rather ineptly, smoothed the viscous, foul-smelling paste through each section, listening as the woman instructed her on how and how often she would have to do it herself. It was not often, but already she dreaded it.

    When they were finished, Gretel removed the now-soiled splint from Edda¡¯s wrist, using the linens that had bound it as a headscarf to wrap Edda¡¯s hair away from her face and shoulders. They rinsed their soiled hands in the washbasin, and Edda covered herself with the bed quilt as they waited for the dye to set. There was a brief silence as all they had done and discussed settled in around them, thick as the pungent smell emanating from Edda¡¯s hair.

    ¡°I will need to reach you when these run out,¡± Edda stated, gesturing to the nightstand, now crowded with the addition of the small pot of salve and the larger pot of dye. Her eyes had not stopped watering since Gretel had dabbed salve into them, and she wiped them tirelessly.

    ¡°You may need to reach me well before then, dearie,¡± Gretel corrected, ¡°Write to me of what you find in the castle. I will send a friend to retrieve it.¡±

    Edda did not ask how a blind woman would manage to read her letter, though it was not lost on her that Gretel was now the second person, behind Ivar, who had asked for letters of Cachtice Castle. She would have many more letters to write than the first time she¡¯d been there. ¡°A friend?¡±

    A small smile played on Gretel¡¯s lips, as though she kept an amusing secret to herself. ¡°You will know her when she arrives. And she will come when you need her.¡± Edda frowned, dissatisfied with the mysterious words, but before she could pursue her line of questioning, Gretel continued, ¡°Every fortnight, a wagon from the village takes supplies up to the castle. Old Soos drives it. His boy, Peter, will bring word from me.¡± The old woman thumbed her shawl, a habit of hers, it seemed.

    The room¡¯s only candle flickered vigorously, attracting Edda¡¯s eyes. With surprise, she noted that it had almost burned down to the wick. Perhaps a quarter of an hour left. Outside the window, there was only the darkness of deep night; even the sounds of the normally bustling inn had stilled. Quite suddenly, the fear that busyness had held at bay returned. Her heart pounded, and the hairs on her arms rose, both with the chill of her nudity and her fright. Would she be able to sleep when Gretel left, and the candle blinked out? Would she not lose herself in the blackness that descended, perhaps find herself again in the dungeon or on the pyre?

    Gretel¡¯s warm hand was on her arm again. Edda sniffled, wiping her eyes, and focused. ¡°Come now, let us wash the dye out,¡± Gretel ordered, not unkindly.

    It was an exceedingly difficult task for Edda¡ªshe had already found the application of the dye to be arduous, but the process of gathering her sticky mass of hair and dunking it into the washbasin was nearly intolerable. Gretel did not interfere much, except to give instructions¡ªshe reasoned correctly that Edda would be doing this alone the next time¡ªand Edda, for her part, tried not to complain of the ache in her wrist or the tightness in her neck and shoulders as she vigorously scrubbed and rinsed her mane. She thought of Marta, who often washed and arranged her hair for her, and felt a spark of appreciation for the woman.

    By the time they were finished, the water in the basin was red as blood, and Edda¡¯s hair was a sopping, wet mess. At least most of the smell had come off. She did not know where her brush was¡ªMarta usually stored those things¡ªso she wrung her hair out as best she could and wrapped it, as Gretel had shown her, in the clean linens the old woman proffered. She slipped her nightdress back on, and Gretel deftly fashioned her a new splint for her abused wrist. It had swollen again, and it pained her, but she did not mention it. At last, Edda stood before the stooped old healer, aware that their time together was coming to an end.

    ¡°It¡¯ll take until your hair dries to know for sure. But the salve is working,¡± Gretel observed with a satisfied nod. ¡°I¡¯ve lent you my help, and I¡¯ll lend you what else I can. I only ask you uphold your end of it.¡±

    ¡°I will,¡± Edda said, but her voice shook, ¡°But I am scared.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no helping that. You¡¯ve been through much, and there¡¯s more to come.¡± Gretel¡¯s voice was firm, without being harsh. ¡°You cannot run away, so you must walk toward it.¡±

    Edda trembled, on the verge of tears. She wanted to reach for the woman, hold onto her shawl and plead with her not to leave. To save her, somehow. The absolute weight of her own helplessness was once again on her shoulders; she could feel herself bending beneath the burden of it. Combined with the unbelievability of this entire situation¡ªher awakening in the past, witches and blood witches, missing girls and bloodless animals¡ªit was enough to floor her. It was enough for her to believe she was out of her mind, entirely, and perhaps Gretel was as well.

    But Gretel was right, at least, about one thing. She could not run away. At least, not right now.

    Gretel¡¯s eyes softened, and the corners of her mouth drew down. ¡°I don¡¯t know what awaits you, but I am sorry to send you to it. I wish it did not have to be so.¡± The old woman took a deep breath and gave Edda¡¯s arm a strong squeeze. ¡°But I know that the answers I need are at the castle. And the answers you need are there, too.¡±

    Answers? Blood and bones, none of the questions she had were worth going to Cachtice Castle again! But Edda was sure she would begin weeping the moment she spoke, so instead, she just nodded, her eyes downcast.

    ¡°Use the powder, Edda. Until you can sleep without fear.¡± Gretel turned to leave, stopping with her hand on the door. ¡°And you are fortunate in one way at least.¡± She gestured to the bed where Marta lay, sound asleep despite the events of the night. ¡°You will have her with you.¡±

    And with that, the old healer departed, stopping just a moment to glance back at the terrified young woman whose tears had finally gotten the best of her, before quietly shutting the door behind her.

 8. An Irreplaceable Presence

    The morning light was still watery and grey in the room when Edda woke. The powder had granted her a short but dreamless rest. Still, she might have remained beneath the veil of sleep for hours more, had not its brief thinning allowed anxiety to gnaw through. Motionless beneath the bedcovers, her stomach clenched and churned. Her throat constricted. But through her boiling apprehension, her mind was clear.

    Today, she would return to Cachtice Castle.

    There had been no escaping it, as she had initially hoped. In fact, she was even more trapped than she had first realized. At least during her first life, if that was what it had been, she had not been resurrected by a bloody blood witch. She did not want to believe it¡ªher mind desperately wanted to reject it¡ªbut there was no other explanation, really. People did not just wake up ten years in the past after being burned alive. Witchcraft had brought her back from the dead. And it was possible that it had put her there in the first place, too.

    She would have to find out. Not only that, but she had promised Gretel that she would investigate the disappearances of the village girls. Two were missing, and nothing in Edda¡¯s memories told her if they would ever be found. And¡ªshe shuddered to think it¡ªshe did not know if they would be the last to vanish, either. She would have to uncover their fate while avoiding her own.

    She turned her head slightly, cracking open an eye to see if Marta had yet roused. The woman still slumbered peacefully where Edda had arranged her the night before, her breaths gentle and even. Gretel had reminded her that, at least, she would have Marta with her. Perhaps Marta, prolific gossip that she was, could help her gather information from the servants. Edda had ignored the woman¡¯s yammering in those early days at the castle, thinking the talk of the house staff below her. If only she had listened, maybe she would have learned of some of the events she now desperately wished to understand. But silly, stupid Edda had not listened. She had ignored Marta¡¯s yammering until there had been no more yammering for her to ignore.

    Suddenly, the pit of Edda¡¯s stomach dropped away, as she remembered what she already knew. What she had known the moment she recognized Marta in the carriage upon her awakening.

    At the beginning of summer, no more than three months from now, when last of the snows melted and the leaf buds began to appear on the trees, Marta would die, and Edda would be alone.

    Panic gripped her. She could not breathe. Edda could not look away from the kindly woman, blissfully asleep and unaware on the bed across from her. Marta had been her caretaker since childhood, and her loss had been a hard one. Edda had wept for days after being informed of her passing, refusing to leave her chambers. Of course, her hosts at the castle had seen to her every comfort. A new maid had been provided promptly. For a fortnight, the steward himself had brought her meals, cooing his condolences. And slowly, they had reminded her that there were still lessons, on dance and etiquette, and numerous gatherings to attend. They had distracted her out of her grief, filling the gap left behind by Marta with exactly the sort of frivolities she had desired. But, even so, she had emerged from her mourning alone in a way that she had never been before.

    She did not want to be left alone at Cachtice Castle again, and she had been desperately alone without Marta. She hadn¡¯t given it much thought, back then, but she realized it now with certainty. Her loneliness had played a pivotal role in her undoing, had made her the ideal candidate for what transpired. By the time she had been asked to pose as the Countess for the first time, there had been no one in the castle who truly knew her. Without Marta, it had been all too easy to make Edda disappear. Had she been alive, Marta would never have allowed it.

    Marta chose that moment to rouse, blinking sleep from her eyes. She raised her hands to rub at her face, shifting to turn onto her side toward Edda. Briefly, their eyes met and Edda, still stupefied by her realization, held the woman¡¯s gaze wordlessly. Gradually, Marta¡¯s eyes gained the full focus of wakefulness and, abruptly, they widened in shock as she tumbled out of bed with a curse.

    ¡°Oh mother! Oh, sweet mother!¡± Marta rushed to her side, grasping Edda¡¯s shoulder urgently. ¡°Miss Edda! What in the name of the mother has happened to you?¡± Marta¡¯s grip was tight, her face slack with horror as she inspected her young ward. With more strength than Edda realized she possessed; Marta hauled her up into a seated position. ¡°Oh, my mother in heaven, what has happened here?¡±

    Rescued from her stupor by Marta¡¯s agitated questioning, Edda squeezed her itchy eyes shut, grimacing at her own oversight. Of course, Marta would be perturbed by her altered appearance. But she hadn¡¯t even given a second of thought as to how she would explain it to the woman. She had barely even explained herself to Gretel, and she knew Marta would be nowhere near as accommodating. She quickly glanced at the two new pots upon the bedstand, cursing herself for not hiding them the night before.

    Marta, too distraught to notice the direction of Edda¡¯s gaze, continued her string of questions and curses, barely giving Edda a moment to answer. She now ran her hands, careful but frantic, over Edda¡¯s reddened face, gasping when she released Edda¡¯s hair from the linens it had been bound in the night before. Stepping back as though she had been struck, Marta stumbled, landing firmly on the bed behind her.

    ¡°Your hair¡­¡± the older woman whispered, finally stunned into silence. Her shaking hands covered her mouth, and her eyes welled with tears.

    Edda glanced down to where a length of hair had fallen over her shoulder, and even she was surprised to see the muddy brown-grey color of it. More than that, her usually smooth, straight hair fell in a lazy, frizzy wave, decidedly unlike what she was used to. The dye had worked even better than expected. This was what she wanted. Surely, no one would look to her to impersonate the Countess, now that she looked entirely unlike herself. It had needed to be done. Edda gulped, swallowing a pang of regret. It had needed to be done, and now, she needed to convince Marta of that, too.

    ¡°It is alright,¡± Edda said, ¡°I am alright. I did it myself.¡± She found her voice more tender than usual, the memory of Marta¡¯s death still lingering in her mind.

    ¡°But why?¡± Marta squawked, tears now flowing freely, ¡°Why would you do such a thing? Is it because of the black pigment, Miss Edda? Because I could not find it?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± Edda said, ¡°No, it is not that.¡±

    ¡°Then why?¡± Marta cried, ¡°You¡¯ve not been yourself, Miss Edda. Acting all strange since you woke from your black dream. You¡¯ve not been yourself.¡± Marta hid her face with her hands, stifling a sob.

    An idea alighted in Edda¡¯s mind, a half-formed, half-truth. But perhaps it would work.

    ¡°You are right, Marta. I haven¡¯t been myself,¡± Edda extended a hand to touch Marta¡¯s shoulder, hoping to mimic the way Gretel had comforted her. She genuinely wanted to soothe the woman but had little idea of how. ¡°It is the black dream. I¡¯ve done all this because of the black dream.¡±This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    Marta looked up from between her fingers, her eyes questioning.

    ¡°I¡ªI dreamed of the village. And of the castle. I dreamed that things were not right here.¡±

    Marta sucked in a breath, straightening herself. Her face was still flushed with unhappiness, but she wiped the tears from her cheeks. ¡°Not right?¡±

    Edda nodded, holding Marta¡¯s eyes with her own. ¡°I dreamed of¡ªof witches. The kind you used to tell me stories of. And I dreamed I would be in danger if I remained as I was.¡±

    Marta¡¯s brows furrowed. She looked down and away, before finally raising her eyes to meet Edda¡¯s again, as though she had steeled herself to say her next words. ¡°Truthfully, Miss Edda, I¡¯ve had a bad feeling about this place from the start. First with that blasted crow on our way in. Then with you acting strange. And some of the tales the villagers been telling. I was of a mind to tell Master Ivar to take us right back to Hesse.¡± The plump woman sighed, regretfully.

    ¡°He wouldn¡¯t hear it,¡± Edda said, her lips pressed together as she remembered her conversation with her brother, ¡°But I think something worried him about the village, too.¡±

    Marta rubbed a hand across her face in frustration. ¡°Blast it,¡± she cursed, then softening she said, ¡°I just wish that you would have talked to me first before¡­¡± She gestured to Edda, her eyes lingering on the girl¡¯s face and hair. ¡°Is it¡­will it even¡­?¡±

    ¡°I had to do it, Marta. I really had to,¡± Edda said, ¡°Even if I remain this way forever, it is better than the danger I dreamed of.¡± And Edda found that she really meant it. Certainly, it was not easy for her¡ªshe had lived most of her life not simply proud of, but also dependent on her appearance¡ªbut it was a small price to pay, if it set her on a path to avoid what she knew was coming.

    Marta took a deep breath. She leaned forward, grabbing Edda by both shoulders and giving her a slight shake. There was a small, tight smile on her face. ¡°I¡¯ll not tell you otherwise, Miss Edda. I¡¯m not sure myself what to think.¡± Marta slid a thumb along Edda¡¯s cheek, smoothing the girl¡¯s hair away from her face. ¡°It must have been terrible, for you to go this far.¡±

    Edda simply nodded, suddenly choked with tears. It had been terrible. She had lived and died in a way more horrific than anything she could previously have imagined. And now, she was here, and it didn¡¯t matter if it was ten years away¡ªfor her, it was still fresh and bleeding. And she was doing all she could to simultaneously tend the wound and prevent it from happening again¡ªand it did not feel like enough, but it was all she could do.

    Overcome by Edda¡¯s distress, Marta pulled the girl into her arms, holding her in a tight embrace. It had been so long since anyone had embraced her, so very long, that Edda found herself momentarily shocked at the intimacy of the act. She had found solace in Marta¡¯s arms countless times as a child. But there had been no one to offer her this kindness after the woman¡¯s death. And with that thought, Edda buried her face into the woman¡¯s shoulder and cried.

    She did not know how long they remained like that, with Marta rubbing her back in soothing circles and murmuring words of comfort to her, ¡°Hush. Hush now child. We¡¯ll be alright.¡± But finally, her weeping abated, and Marta pulled away, her own eyes reddened with unshed tears. She used the sleeve of her nightdress to wipe at Edda¡¯s face like a mother would a sniffling child, before glancing out the window at the brightening morning. Taking a deep breath, Marta seemed to resign herself to the situation. ¡°Our carriage will be here soon. If the Master wouldn¡¯t have my skin, I¡¯d drive us back to Hesse myself.¡± She rose from the bed; her composure restored and straightened her dress. ¡°Come, let us ready ourselves.¡±

    Marta worked with her usual, practiced efficiency. And for once, Edda paid attention to her movements. She could not shake the melancholy that had come with remembering Marta¡¯s death, but something about the woman¡¯s quiet acceptance of their situation bolstered her. It was obvious that she was still upset; her voice was reedy, and her hands shook ever so slightly. But she went about her tasks, nonetheless.

    First, she called for fresh water to be brought in, apologizing profusely to the innkeeper¡¯s wife for the mess that had been made of the washbasin and pressing an extra coin into the woman¡¯s hands for the trouble. Then, she used the fresh, warmed water to wipe down first Edda, then herself. Their discarded nightdresses were promptly stored away, and fresh smocks and travelling dresses for them both were fetched from the trunks. After dressing, she went to work on Edda¡¯s hair.

    It was hopelessly tangled from the night¡¯s activities, and Edda winced every time the brush journeyed through a section of it. But Marta labored over it gently, smoothing the now dull, frizzy locks as best she could manage, and finally arranging them into a braid.

    The last preparations for their departure were also competently made. The pots and parcels provided by the healer were carefully packed, despite Marta¡¯s quiet disapproval, and help was procured to carry the trunks down to the carriage. While this labor was performed, Marta and Edda had a small meal in the inn¡¯s common room, empty at this time of day but for a bored serving girl. Marta ate in a tense, concerned silence, watching as Edda once again rapidly devoured the fare.

    ¡°You¡¯ve never liked tuber stew,¡± Marta commented, quietly, as Edda all but scraped the bottom of her bowl.

    Edda looked up with a shake of her head. Not for the first time during their stay at the inn, she held herself back from asking for more food. She did not like tuber stew, but that did not matter. Even though her body¡¯s hunger was satiated with just the small bowl, she had been so hungry for so long in that dungeon that it simply did not feel like enough. The stew was warm and thick, and the tubers within were soft¡ªshe would eat a hundred bowls of this stew before she ate another piece of straw.

    Word had been sent to Ivar that they would soon be on their way, but it was the innkeeper¡¯s boy that met them as they left the inn, proffering a hastily scribbled note in Ivar¡¯s hand and name.

    On business about the village. Be well. Write to me.

    With little more fanfare than that, the two women found themselves seated once more in a carriage, bound for Cachtice Castle. It was a smaller carriage than the one they had arrived in, slightly older in its make, with darker wood panels, thinner cushions, and no drapes to cover the windows. Edda was grateful for the light that spilled in as they trundled through the village. It made the journey seem somehow less grim.

    But grim it was, and Edda¡¯s thoughts soon followed suit. Neither she nor Marta were inclined to speak, both absorbed in their own anxieties. Marta wrung her hands restlessly in her lap, and Edda could not help but study the worried movement. Marta¡¯s hands were pale and neat, but they were hands that were used to work. She had looked after Edda for more than a decade, but how old did that make her? Edda had never thought to ask.

    She was certainly not as aged as Gretel; she had a few lines on her face, around her eyes and mouth. But her mousy brown hair did not show streaks of grey yet. And though Marta was small, she was strong and sturdily built. Edda did not think the woman had been sick for as long as she had known her¡ªbut then again, Edda had never paid mind to such things. Had she ever asked after Marta¡¯s health?

    Edda¡¯s hands clenched upon her own lap. Her breathing quickened slightly. Marta would die in a few months; this woman who loved her, despite how self-absorbed she had been her entire life, would die. The steward would tell her of Marta¡¯s death, that her heart had simply stopped in her sleep. And Edda had believed him, because she had not known any better; she had not known Marta¡¯s age, or if she had any ailments, or if she had been feeling unwell of late.

    Marta was the only person Edda would have in the castle, the only person she could be sure of. Marta was the only person who knew her and cared for her. But Edda knew so little of her and had known even less after their arrival at the castle. Edda had been given her own chamber, and Marta a room in the servants¡¯ quarters, and they had barely had time to speak between the lessons and the meals and the parties Edda was expected to attend. But still, Marta had been there for her¡ªan irreplaceable presence.

    And, perhaps to someone, an insurmountable obstacle.

    Marta would never have allowed Edda to impersonate a Countess. Even if such a thing had still come to pass, Marta would not have been fooled by it. Because, except for her sister Franka, Marta was the one person who knew Edda best.

    Edda ground her teeth. Her wrist ached from being clamped so hard, and her nails dug into her palms. She had not even considered the possibility before. But she could not ignore it now.

    The tenor of the carriage¡¯s wheels changed as they left the cobblestone of the village, onto the dirt road that would take them to Cachtice Castle. And even as the day brightened further toward noon, Edda could not help the dark thought that it was not only her life that was in danger.

 9. The Steward

    The road to Cachtice Castle wound upward. Where it curled around the base of the great hill, the forest on either side was dense and scrubby. Spindly trees, still naked from winter, leaned in around them. Occasionally, a branch would smack or scrape the top of the carriage, making its inhabitants jump with unease. They spoke quietly to each other, now and then; words with little weight that only seemed to underline the discomfort they both felt with the journey and their growing dread as they neared their destination.

    In some places, the road cut through the rocky hill. Craggy, grey cliff faces would rise around them, dimming the grey light of the afternoon sun to an unsettling twilight in their compartment. In these moments, the hill seemed to swallow them up. Edda could not help but feel that they were in the jaws of some magnificent and terrible beast, bumping and swaying their way deeper and deeper into its belly. Moving inexorably and irreversibly toward a place neither she nor Marta would ever return from.

    As the hours passed, Edda sunk into her thoughts, vacillating between hope and hopelessness. Her newfound suspicions about Marta¡¯s looming death only overwhelmed her further. She almost wished to be the person she had been on her first trip here; simple, oblivious, and stupid, with nary a thought beyond the tip of her nose. She closed her eyes, resting her head back against the wall of the cabin. The more she remembered of herself from that time, the more she came to loathe herself.

    She could not be the Edda from ten years ago again. The very thought of it caused bile to bubble up in the back of her throat. No, she would not¡ªcould not¡ªallow herself to fall into the same haughty fantasies of everything working itself out in her favor. That was not the world she had been burned in, and it certainly did not seem to be the world she was in right now. Despite her terror, even despite her ignorance, she would need to act if she wanted to survive.

    Her eyes slid open, covertly glancing at Marta. She would need to act if she wanted to save Marta, too. She could see traces of anxiety in the woman¡¯s expression¡ªa slight furrowing of the brow, a tension about the mouth¡ªthings she would have simply overlooked before. But not this time.

    The muffled clip clop of the horses¡¯ hooves sharpened suddenly, and the carriage jumped, jostling the two women into alertness. The creaking of the wheels as they turned became immediately more pronounced, a sure sign that they had moved from the soft, packed dirt of the forest road onto hard cobblestone. Outside the window, a tall stone wall came into view, cutting through the wild forest in both directions and stretching further than Edda¡¯s eye could see. She swallowed thickly, a trill of fear running through her.

    They had arrived.

    With a shout or two from the guardsmen, returned with muted gusto by their driver, they passed through the gates and into the castle grounds. The road continued for some ways yet; to one side of it, a stony cliff rose several times taller than the guard wall they had passed through, melding with the base of the castle above and curving with the road as it snaked upward. At the peak of the hill, carved and nestled into the terrain, would be the massive, old fortress¡ªstill a steep climb away.

    To the other side, their carriage passed a considerable plateau that had been flattened and cleared atop the side of the hill. On its borders were the gatehouse, now behind them, and the long, single-story barracks across the way. From her chambers in the castle, Edda had sometimes watched, with not a little disinterest, as the guards trained or ran drills on these grounds. But she had rarely been down to this part of the compound herself, and she studied it with a slowly creeping familiarity. Certainly, it had been designed with security in mind¡ªit would be difficult to reach the castle after breaching the gates, with the guards housed so close by. She gulped. It would also be hard to reach the gates, if one wished to escape the castle.

    She shook her head slightly, as though to dislodge the trickle of fear that had inspired the thought.

    But she was shortsighted in doing so. In the next moment, the trickle gave way to a torrent that drained with it all color from her face. Her breath caught in her throat with a gasp, and Marta reached for her instantly, clasping her hand with concern.

    ¡°Miss Edda?¡±

    Edda did not respond. They were approaching the bend that would take them up the final leg to the castle and, just before the turn, the road forked toward a pair of giant iron and stone doors, set directly into the cliffside. She had been barely lucid at the time, but she could recall the sound of those doors creaking open, the panting of the men who had pushed it ajar. The cut of the wind on her face¡ªher first experience of it after so many months in that stale cell¡ªreturned to her. She brought a shaking hand up to her cheek, closing her eyelid with a gentle touch¡ªit had been swollen shut when she had gotten her first glimpse of the cold winter¡¯s sky under which she would burn.

    ¡°Miss Edda!¡± Marta repeated shrilly, and Edda returned to the present with a jerk. ¡°Are you well?¡± The older woman¡¯s face was creased with worry.

    Edda took a deep, quivering breath before nodding affirmatively. She squeezed Marta¡¯s hand back, hoping to reassure the woman, but could not suppress her trembling. And Marta did not release her.

    As they passed before the enormous doors, the thought that they might open up and suck her back into that dreadful prison gripped her, just as surely as Marta¡¯s hand. She was so close, so horribly close to that place where she had suffered so long and so terribly that she had come to fantasize about death as a release. Her whole body seemed to remember, to ache with the memory, and she waited, frozen with wide eyes, until it was behind them.

    It hadn¡¯t occurred to her that she would face those doors again so soon. At least, she told herself, she was on the other side of them. For now.

    The carriage began its ascent, and Edda finally tore her gaze from the cliff face. Out the opposite window, the ground dropped away just beyond the road, and, beyond the tops of the few trees that clung onto the sharp side of the hill, there was a view of Hungarian countryside. It was a view she had enjoyed for years from the castle towers above¡ªbut one she had taken for granted until that very moment. It did not erase her fear¡ªno, for that was now a part of her, like a second skin she carried over top her own. But it did give her pause, enough to calm her breath and still her shaking. This place had killed her, yes, but it had been her home for ten years, too.

    Like a dramatic painting, the bright grey of early spring cast the land alternately with deep shadows and luminescent relief. Massive, rocky hills of green and brown and grey, not unlike the one they were on now, rolled across the landscape, providing shallow valleys in which villages clustered tightly. Roads snaked between them, undulating like ribbons through the forested landscape, and neat rectangular plots of farmland added an unexpected order to the natural chaos of it all. And there, off in the distance, so far away that the clouds seemed to kiss its surface, was the blue and grey Vah River.

    She closed her eyes for a moment as the road turned and the first of the castle¡¯s inner walls came into view. Cachtice Castle and its lands had once been her home. And perhaps, that made the way she had been betrayed even more potent and horrific. She did not understand the details of what had happened here but¡ªand she knew this as sure as the Vah River ran strong¡ªshe did not arrive here on this day the same ignorant girl of seventeen years that she had been before. However farcical and limited her reign had been, she had presided over this place as Countess for a decade. Beyond even that, she had spent a year in its bowels, feeling her body and senses disintegrate about her. She could not be the Edda from ten years ago because she was not the Edda from ten years ago.

    Of course, that did not mean she would be able to survive what the castle had in store for her. It did not mean Marta would live this time, nor did it guarantee that she would uncover what had happened to the village girls or be able to prevent it happening again. But already, her near mindless flailing had given rise to change¡ªperhaps, even in the absence of a proper plan, if she could use her knowledge of the future to direct her floundering in the right direction¡­perhaps they might all have a chance.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    At last, they were permitted through a second set of gates and into a tunnel beneath the guard tower. The sudden darkness in the cabin had Marta squeezing Edda¡¯s hand, which she still held tightly. Edda did not know if the woman was conscious of it, but she found that she was grateful for the touch; it reminded her that, at least for now, she was not alone. She was scared and nervous, but still, she whispered aloud, ¡°We¡¯ll be alright,¡± offering Marta a small, strained smile. She hoped that at least one of them would be convinced.

    Then, they broke out of the tunnel and the afternoon light was once more upon them, and there was no time left to be convinced. They were in a bustling, triangular courtyard, overlooked on all sides by the castle itself. Their imminent arrival had no doubt been announced when they passed the first gate and, as the carriage came to a stop, servants in dark green livery rushed to meet them. Immediately, the stablehands relieved the coachman, running with refreshments for him and water for the horses. Sturdy manservants assisted them out of the cabin; already, their luggage was being unloaded and toted away. From there, white-aproned maids met them with polite but restrained commentary¡ª¡°You¡¯ve travelled far to grace us¡­We hope it was not too long or unpleasant¡­¡±¡ªbefore guiding them promptly to an ornate set of latticed doors which had been thrown open already in anticipation.

    For just a moment as they approached the threshold, Edda hesitated. This was it. There was no turning back now. She had made her choice. She was here, in the same place she had been ten years ago¡ªa few days late, but nonetheless, at the beginning of it all. It was all about to start again¡ªexcept this time, she knew how treacherously, how insidiously it would unfold.

    She followed Marta within. And there, waiting in the opulent antechamber alongside a handful of somber-faced maidservants, was the steward of Cachtice Castle.

    Tibor Lukacs was as she remembered him. And she remembered him well, for she had known him for many years¡ªthough she supposed he did not know her yet. A slim man of middling height, he appeared now not far from his fiftieth year, but he carried himself with the ease of a much younger man. Silver streaked his dark hair at the temples, and the welcoming smile on his face belied the intensity in his dark eyes.

    As those eyes settled on her, his smile slid the slightest amount. But his expression righted so quickly that, had Edda not been familiar with him, she might have doubted she¡¯d seen it slip at all. Her jaw felt tight, because already, something was wrong. Yet he continued, inclining his head in greeting. ¡°Well met, fair travelers,¡± he boomed, his voice warm, ¡°On behalf of my lady, the Countess Bathory, you are welcomed to Cachtice. Steward Lukacs, at your service.¡±

    With none of her previous discomfort evident, Marta stepped forward, tilting her head in return. ¡°Well met, Steward. I bring regards from Master Simon Belten of Hesse and present his daughter, Miss Edda Belten.¡±

    Edda stepped forward on cue, ducking her head respectfully. Despite her unrest, she kept her expression neutral and, even though her hands were clenched in her skirts, she surprised herself with the steadiness of her voice, ¡°It is an honor to have received your lady¡¯s invitation, Steward Lukacs. I am indebted by her favor.¡±

    There was just a touch of tightness about his smile. She knew she did not imagine it. ¡°The Countess has always had an eye for promising young women, Miss Belten,¡± he responded, ¡°But come now. I am certain you¡¯ve had a long journey and wish for some repose before supper.¡± He turned on his heel, ushering them into the entrance hall, with the maidservants following silently on their tail. ¡°I will show you to your chambers.¡±

    Despite her preoccupation with the steward¡¯s strange manner, Edda could not help the wave of familiarity that washed over her upon entering the hall. The large doors they had passed through allowed a generous amount of daylight to spill in, making the hall, with its high, vaulted ceilings, seem even more spacious. Carved pillars lined the chamber, their stoicism contrasting with the lushness of the seasonal tapestries that decorated the walls. She knew this place well. How many guests had she entertained in this hall? How many balls and feasts hosted? It felt uncanny to be in this space again, in a time before any of that had come to pass.

    They turned now toward the grand staircase at the far end, and Edda returned to the problem of Lukacs. She did not recall much of her first encounter with the steward; it had been so long ago and had been overwritten by their many other meetings. Ivar had been with them, then, and had done most of the talking while she gawked and marveled over the castle¡ªpaying little heed to the conversation or its tone. But now, the steward worried her. Had he been this curt with them the first time? Had his back been so tense? She could not remember.

    As they began to make their way to the South Tower, where Edda knew her chambers would be for the next year, the steward turned to them, smiling in his usual way. ¡°We had been expecting you some days past,¡± he stated, a question in his tone, ¡°I hope you did not encounter trouble on your way from Hesse.¡±

    ¡°But a minor mishap, sir,¡± Marta answered, ¡°We stayed some nights in the village not far from here.¡±

    It was just barely, but Edda thought she saw Lukacs¡¯ step falter half a pace. ¡°That would be Ecsed?¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± Marta affirmed.

    As Edda¡¯s nerves continued to fray, unable to shake the feeling that something had gone off about the exchange with the steward, he began to lead them up the gently spiralling staircase that circled the South Tower. Her chambers, and the chambers of the other girls, would be on the second landing. Their way was brightened by small, rectangular windows carved out of the stone of the structure, and their footsteps echoed slightly in the vast column. A sound just eerie enough, despite the light, to compound her discomfort.

    ¡°It¡¯s been some time since I¡¯ve visited the village. I trust it was hospitable?¡± They turned now onto the landing, passing under an archway into a long hallway lined with doors.

    Edda was glad that the steward could not see her expression, and she answered hurriedly before Marta could venture a response. ¡°It was. But I was so poorly from the journey that we did not get a chance to experience much of it, I¡¯m afraid. Marta, Mistress Jozsef, had to remain at my side the entire stay.¡±

    ¡°Did you not send for the healer?¡± Lukacs asked, his tone sympathetic as he continued walking. But despite his attempt at concern, Edda knew how she must answer.

    ¡°No, no,¡± she said quickly and emphatically, once more staying Marta¡¯s response, ¡°The physicians in Hesse say that healers do more harm than good. Marta herself tended me.¡± Edda chanced a glance over at Marta; the woman studied her feet as she walked, with lips pressed shut in confused disapproval. She would have to explain herself later.

    At that, Lukacs came to a stop before one of the doors, turning to face her and Marta. Did he seem relieved? Suspicious? She could not tell from his expression alone. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that travel misbecomes you, Miss Belten. But you have arrived safely, and for that we are glad.¡± He swung the door open and beckoned them enter. ¡°Your chambers, Miss Belten. Please do let the servants know if anything can be done for your comfort. When you are settled, one of the servants will show Mistress Jozsef to her room.¡±

    It had been one of the things she had been most excited about, originally. Up until her first night at Cachtice Castle, she had not slept apart from Marta or Franka for as long as she could remember, and the prospect of an entire, lavish bedchamber all her own had been irresistible. But she would not have it again¡ªnot for her sake, and not for Marta¡¯s sake either.

    ¡°Oh!¡± Edda exclaimed, reaching for Marta¡¯s shoulder, ¡°But I could not bear to be separated from Marta when I have been so recently unwell.¡± She had used similar theatrics before in her decade as Countess, and though her heart beat a nervous staccato in her chest, she was confident in her believability.

    Marta reached for her as well, now, a concerned frown on her face. ¡°Perhaps she is right, Steward Lukacs. I would be lapse in my care of her if I left her in such a delicate state.¡±

    And there, she saw it for certain¡ªTibor Lukacs¡¯ dark eyes narrowed with displeasure as they looked upon her. Those dark eyes could bore a hole into you, she knew; they had at only a few times in the last decade been directed at her, and she remembered their intensity well. And she felt it, if briefly, in that very moment, as he paused, considering her request.

    Finally, he addressed them with hands and arms outstretched. ¡°Well, it is not customary. But given your constitution, I suppose I will overlook it until you are well again.¡± He gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes, ¡°I¡¯ll have the servants know to send up Mistress Joszef¡¯s things and have a pallet arranged for her.¡±

    ¡°My thanks, Steward Lukacs,¡± Edda said as Marta echoed the sentiment. Her eyes were wide with gratitude, but despite her outward display, her earlier discomfort with him had shifted into something more. Lukacs had never been unkind to her, though he had often been insistent. Rather than a friend or a confidante, he had become an advisor of sorts. A guide. And had she not been guided to her death?

    ¡°I take my leave, then, Miss Belten. Mistress Joszef.¡± Once more, he inclined his head to them both in turn, and then he was gone.

    Yes, Steward Tibor Lukacs was exactly as she remembered him. And that, for some reason, frightened her immensely.

 10. The Impassable Bridge

    ¡°You lied to the Steward,¡± Marta said quietly.

    They were alone now. They had sent the servants away not long after Marta¡¯s trunks had been delivered, and she stood in the corner of the bedchamber, arranging the bedding on the small pallet that had been assembled for her. The room still felt far larger than it needed to be, even with the addition of Marta¡¯s things. As though to emphasize the spaciousness, the vaulted ceiling stretched to a domed point above them, and on the far wall, a giant arched window filtered in the day¡¯s aging light, offering a view that stretched out over the training grounds and the barracks below all the way to the Vah River in the distance.

    Edda had seated herself upon a high-backed cushioned settle, which framed the small seating area between the bed and the door. On the low center table before her, a tray of dried fruit and boiled herbal water had been provided for them. Despite herself, she had worked her way through most of the fruit already. It was surprisingly tender, but quickly became too sweet¡ªthough that certainly did not still her rhythm of chewing, swallowing, and reaching for piece after piece. Between her memories of hunger, and the sheer anxiety she felt in the moment, she could not bring herself to stop. But at Marta¡¯s accusatory words, she turned her head just slightly to look at the woman.

    ¡°Yes, I did,¡± she replied, ¡°I had to. I told you that there is something not right here.¡±

    Marta sighed, exasperated. ¡°I wish we could have returned to Hesse, too, Miss Edda. But we must still conduct ourselves honorably. Steward Lukacs has done us no wrong, to be so lied to.¡±

    Edda frowned, pausing just before she placed another piece of fruit in her mouth. Perhaps Marta had not picked up on the undertones of the Steward¡¯s behavior toward them¡ªbut surely, she¡¯d have sensed his coldness at the end. Edda shivered, remembering the brief but penetrating gaze he had faced her with. ¡°He would have us separated,¡± she countered, ¡°I¡¯ll not allow it.¡± She popped the fruit into her mouth.

    Marta pursed her lips. Finally satisfied with the state of her bedcovers, she moved toward Edda. ¡°Of course he would have us separated. I am sure the other girls will be sleeping apart from their maids, Miss Edda.¡± Before easing herself into the opposite settle, she leaned over and grabbed the plate of fruit, moving it just out of Edda¡¯s reach. ¡°Enough of this now. You¡¯ll spoil your supper.¡±

    Edda felt as though she had been struck by the simple movement. ¡°So, you¡¯d prefer to sleep in the servants¡¯ quarters?¡± she asked, petulant. She moved to stand, ready to take the plate of fruit back¡ªbut stopped herself just barely. She settled back into her seat with difficulty. Marta was right, of course, on both points¡ªthough conceding the fruit did send an unreasonable twinge of irritation through her.

    ¡°You know that is not what I meant, Miss Edda,¡± Marta responded, patiently.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Edda admitted, ¡°I know.¡± She paused as Marta reached for a cup of water, considering. Edda was sure that the Steward¡¯s behavior had been strange, but it seemed a rather peculiar thing to explain to Marta. Someone who had never met him before might not understand why the man had unnerved her. So what if his eyes had been cold and his smile empty? They were days later than expected, had likely derailed any number of preparations the household staff had made for their welcome, and had set the castle into a frenzy with their arrival. Marta would simply not see anything amiss, even had she noticed the few cracks in Lukacs¡¯ demeanor. So, Edda decided upon a different angle. ¡°What exactly did you hear of the goings on in Ecsed, Marta?¡±

    Marta sipped her water, shifting uncomfortably. She placed the cup back on the table before answering, slowly, ¡°There¡¯s been poor luck with the animals, I heard. The kind of luck people say¡¯s witchery.¡±

    Witchery. Edda shuddered slightly at the word¡ªpart of her still did not want to believe it¡ªbut she prodded on, ¡°And did you hear of the servant girls?¡±

    Marta looked down, her finger tapping uneasily upon her lap. ¡°I heard some,¡± she said after a moment, ¡°And I don¡¯t like it one bit.¡±

    Edda nodded, ¡°I don¡¯t like it either. And I¡¯m sure Steward Lukacs likes it even less. So, I thought it best that we keep our knowing of it to ourselves.¡± Marta frowned, but said nothing in response, studying instead her restless fingers. It was obvious that Marta did not find her reasoning entirely convincing, but Edda hoped that, at the very least, she could inspire Marta to be discrete. And her discretion would be important, for what Edda had in mind.

    A quiet knock at the door interrupted the tense silence, causing both women to jump. They shared a glance, a brief exchange that spoke far more of their apprehension than their words had, before Marta called out permission to their visitor. A grey-haired maid poked her head into the room, placidly announcing that the hour for supper was approaching, and that she would await them outside the chamber to make their way to the dining hall. The woman waited to be dismissed and then shut the door quietly behind her.

    Marta rose immediately, her anxieties promptly pushed to the back of her mind. They would have some time to ready themselves, but¡ªgiven that they had already arrived late to the castle¡ªit would not do to take too long. She set about gathering Edda¡¯s things first, laying them upon the imposing four poster bed in an organized row; a finely made white cotte, a flowing gown of light blue, and soft silk slippers.

    Heavy-limbed, Edda stood before the bed as instructed while Marta undressed her, navigating gingerly around her still splinted wrist. She felt a moment of nostalgia as the delicate cloth fell over her, the gown¡¯s bodice holding her snugly as the skirts swished over her legs. This had been one of the finest gowns she owned, back when she arrived at Cachtice Castle. Her father, an exceptionally stoic and frugal man despite his successes, had procured a handful of them for her in honor of the Countess¡¯s invitation¡ªan impressive collection, for a common girl. She had been ecstatic, giddy even, at the prospect of wearing such fine clothing in the home of a noblewoman no less.

    She did not know what had happened to this dress, or any of the others she had brought with her, after she had taken up the role of Countess. Perhaps they had been thrown out, along with her identity as Edda Belten. Perhaps burned, long before she had seen the pyre. Truthfully, this was the first she had thought of them, maybe since the very day she had first worn the Countess¡¯s clothes. But now, donning this gown once more, she felt a pang of longing for her strict but loving father who had gifted her so much that she had taken for granted in order to become someone else.

    How truly, truly stupid she had been.

    With laces deftly fastened, Marta ushered her toward the intricate wooden vanity set against the wall across from the bed. Still immersed in her wistfulness, it took her several long moments after being seated to recognize the girl who stared back at her from within the mirror. When she did, it was with a gasp that had Marta¡¯s reflection meeting her eyes in the glass knowingly.

    ¡°There wasn¡¯t a mirror at the inn, I suppose,¡± Marta commented as she set about fixing Edda¡¯s hair. Leaving Edda to contend with what she had done to herself.

    It was for the best, of course. She knew it was for the best. She needed to leave no path open that might lead her toward the destination she was trying to avoid. But still, it had been easier to accept when she did not have to stare at herself, face to face, like this. Where once her skin had been milky and smooth, a raw, red rash spread over her cheeks and forehead. It was textured and rough; especially bumpy on her forehead, and quite dry and cracked around her nose. Perhaps because of the irritation, her nose itself seemed to have become rounder and more bulbous. The green of her eyes looked almost sickly, watery and bloodshot as they were.

    And her hair. Mother and maiden, her hair. It became more obvious as Marta finished unraveling her plait, and the locks fell around her shoulders. The color of dark leather faded in lye, her hair curled and twisted this way and that, resembling a patch of brambles more than it ever would her hair as she had known it. Each and every time Marta passed the brush through a section of it, it seemed to grow only more unruly.

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to wear it back,¡± she commented, crossly. Edda¡¯s eyes flicked to Marta¡¯s face, which was scrunched with focus and not a little unhappiness. She could see now why the woman had reacted as she had this morning, having so carefully tended Edda¡¯s hair since her girlhood. Regardless, Marta twisted and pulled Edda¡¯s hair into some semblance of order¡ªa tight knot at the base of her neck. ¡°And I suppose powder wouldn¡¯t do any good, either,¡± the woman sighed, stepping away to take in her work.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want any powder,¡± Edda affirmed, though she would certainly have scrambled for it before for blemishes far lesser than the ones she currently sported. It felt almost surreal to see her ruined head floating above such an elegant gown and so she was glad to turn from the mirror as Marta began to go about her own preparations. She attended closely to Marta¡¯s movements, for once, watching as she set aside the traveling boots she had arrived in and noting from which trunk she retrieved her own far more modest evening wear. As each step of the mundane routine was completed, Edda felt the nervousness and dread sprout like a weed in her chest. She hoped that Marta would slow down, maybe spend a moment longer deliberating on which slippers to wear¡ªbut, of course, Marta was a practical woman, and any reservations she had about the supper they were about to attend did not affect the speed with which she readied herself.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    At last, they stepped out into the hallway where the old servant waited and, with little chatter, began their descent. They followed her down the spiralling staircase they had mounted but a few hours ago¡ªnow torchlit, with the small windows giving short glimpses of the rapidly darkening sky¡ªand through the maze of dimly illuminated but lushly decorated passages that would take them to the dining room. Rich carpets made their footsteps soft and muffled as they walked. Winter paintings, of snowy hunts and great feasts, still hung upon the walls and would have, in any other situation, drawn Edda¡¯s rapt attention. But she took little pleasure in them now.

    Like so much else, her memories of this first supper at Cachtice Castle were fuzzy¡ªovershadowed by the years of suppers she had attended in between. It had been a momentous occasion for her then, and she felt that it would be tonight, as well. Because, for all the Steward unnerved her, she was well aware that he had not been the only one involved in the ploy to pass her off as Countess. There had been one more. The Countess¡¯s lady-in-waiting, Lady Dorotea Novak, would be tonight¡¯s hostess.

    She did not know which of the two had hatched the plot, and she still worried that it might have been neither. But, apart from herself and the real Countess Bathory, they had been the only ones to know, and they had certainly encouraged it. So, at the very least, having them both recognize that she shared no likeness with the Countess was critical. Perhaps then, she would have evaded the worse of it, and all she would have to do was make it through until after the harvest, when she could return home to Hesse.

    Edda shuddered involuntarily. It would have been that simple, if only for the missing servant girls. If only for the talk of a blood witch, and her being irrevocably bound up in it all.

    Surely, neither Steward Lukacs nor Lady Novak were blood witches. They had resided at Cachtice Castle long before such talk had sprung up, and one did not just become a blood witch out of nowhere, right? But Edda was sure they had heard of the missing servant girls. And something about the way Steward Lukacs had asked after their stay in Ecsed told her that he knew what the villagers believed, as well.

    They were nearing the dining room, now. As she recalled, they would use one of the smaller dining halls when supping amongst themselves, this first year. That was because, on account of the Countess¡¯s recent illness, only four invitations had been sent out, including the one Edda had received. In the Countess¡¯s younger years, as many as a dozen girls would attend the gynaeceum at a time. And those numbers would increase again in the years following this one, necessitating the use of one of the larger dining spaces.

    Edda frowned. The numbers had increased, until they had begun to dwindle again. Hadn¡¯t she hosted but a bare handful in her last years at the castle?

    But the time to consider this fact was gone. They had come through a carved archway into a small parlor. Two cushioned sofas faced each other, flanked by rustic wooden side tables, and an armchair sat between them at the head of the room. Through a second archway opposite the one they stood beneath, the dining room could be seen, wherein two servants worked silently to arrange the table for the impending meal.

    ¡°Lady Novak awaits you, Miss Belten,¡± the servant who had led them announced. The grey-haired woman ducked away, motioning for Marta to follow after her. Marta would eat alongside the other maids in the servant¡¯s mess as she always had, but Edda still felt a spike of panic seeing her go. Already, she could see that none of the other girls had arrived yet¡ªmeaning, she would be alone with Lady Novak. This certainly was not as she remembered.

    Lady Novak, who had been seated in that lone armchair, rose immediately upon seeing her approach. A beautiful smile opened her face. ¡°Good evening, Miss Belten. Allow me to welcome you on behalf of Countess Bathory,¡± she greeted, inclining her head, ¡°The Countess is indisposed this night, but she sends her pleasure.¡±

    Curtsying deeply, Edda responded, ¡°My lady, I am honored. I bring my father¡¯s regards, and my gratitude for your hospitality.¡± Were it not for her surprise at being alone with Lady Novak this night, Edda might have forgotten her place¡ªso familiar was Lady Novak in her exuberance. Edda had grown lax in her deference to Lady Novak after years of the woman acting as her lady-in-waiting. But, although the lady was from a noble family of lower social standing, that alone put her head and shoulders above the common folk. Add to that the fact that she had been a respected member of the Countess¡¯s household for many years, and she was veritably the most powerful person who resided at Cachtice Castle, behind the Countess Bathory herself.

    ¡°Please, be seated.¡± Lady Novak motioned toward a place on the sofa close by her, as she glided back into the armchair. She was the very picture of elegance, as she had always been. Although she likely neared her forties, little of age¡¯s touch could be seen upon her. Her dark blonde ringlets were impeccably arranged, cascading down her back with not a strand out of place. A round, carefully powdered face and high, thin nose did not take away from her prettiness, which was instead subtly enhanced by her choice of a low-necked, peach gown.

    Edda waited a moment, as was polite, before sitting as she had been instructed. ¡°My thanks, my lady.¡±

    ¡°I am so pleased to have a chance to converse with you before the others arrive for supper, Miss Belten,¡± Lady Novak said, leaning forward with a sympathetic smile on her face, ¡°Steward Lukacs informed me that you ran into some trouble on your way.¡± Of course, the Steward would have informed her. Most certainly, a servant had been sent to fetch her ahead of the other girls, specifically so Lady Novak could express her concern.

    Edda deliberately placed her hands in her lap so that her splinted left wrist was on display. ¡°I am afraid so. I took a tumble from the carriage and have been rather poorly since.¡±

    Lady Novak covered her mouth with her hands in perfectly expressed worry. ¡°I am sorry to hear it, Miss Belten. I would be remiss in my care of you if I did not offer you the services of a physician. I will have one called from Tice by tomorrow night.¡±

    ¡°Your concern is more than enough, my lady,¡± Edda countered, hurriedly.

    Lady Novak¡¯s face softened, ¡°Are you certain, Miss Belten? A fall from a carriage is no small matter.¡± She held Edda¡¯s gaze a moment longer, before lowering her voice conspiratorially, ¡°And I, myself, have used some of this physician¡¯s beautifying remedies. I would recommend them to you.¡± Edda blinked several times, somewhat taken aback at the woman¡¯s words. But Lady Novak continued, ¡°I hope you will not take it the wrong way, Miss Belten. I only wish for you to present as your best self during the coming season.¡±

    Perhaps, had Lady Novak given such advice a few months from now, Edda would not have found it unusual. In fact, she had given Edda such advice¡ªon hair arrangements, cosmetics, and more¡ªmany times throughout the years, and several times even before she had taken up the mantle of Countess. Such had been the woman¡¯s manner with the young women of the castle. After all, Edda and the other girls were now under the patronage of Countess Bathory. It was with her sponsorship that they would debut in noble society, potentially receiving marriage offers that would not only benefit their families, but also reflect the Countess¡¯s influence.

    But still, Edda was unsettled. In this life, Lady Novak had just met her. Was it normal to recommend such a thing to a person you had only now become acquainted with? And it was months yet before Edda would have to brave a social engagement of any importance. Perhaps it was because the alterations to her appearance had occurred just last night, but she could not help but feel like Lady Novak saw right through her disguise. Even though there was no way conceivable way that might be the case.

    And how should she react to such an offer? Obviously, any common girl her age should be thrilled at receiving not only the attention of a noblewoman, but also the generous offer of a real physician and his medicines. She could not easily turn her down, or it would seem not only rude, but idiotic. But truthfully, the last thing she needed was to risk a proper physician realizing that she had done this to herself and reporting it back to Lady Novak¡ªor worse yet, smearing some salve upon her face that would undo her ministrations.

    She could neither accept, nor could she decline¡ªso, instead, she remembered back to a tactic that Lady Novak had taught her many years ago, one that she had used to evade unwanted suitors in her role as the Countess. And she had used it expertly, for as the Countess, she had been a woman of formidable beauty, immense wealth, and¡ªto the discomfort of the broader nobility¡ªa widow with no male relative to manage her.

    To avoid crossing a river, make the bridge impassable.

    ¡°I am indebted to your kindness,¡± Edda said, lowering her eyes demurely, ¡°But knowing that Countess Bathory is herself ailing, I would not see the physician before he tended her first. On my honor as her guest and subject, I insist.¡±

    It was a gamble on her part, and her palms sweated uncomfortably in her lap. For a decade, the real Countess had rarely received visitors; in fact, Edda was not even sure that any other than the Steward, Lady Novak, and perhaps a handful of servants had ever seen her. Although Cachtice Castle had hosted physicians a handful of times, they had met with her¡ªthe fake Countess¡ªand not the real one. Countess Bathory did not want to be seen. And Edda was betting that Lady Novak would not go against her will.

    Lady Novak paused, her eyes glittering with her sweet smile. ¡°Your graciousness becomes you, Miss Belten,¡± she lauded, ¡°I will certainly express your sentiment to the Countess, though I am afraid she has been rather reticent toward the medical field since before the Count¡¯s passing.¡±

    ¡°Why, I hope I might convince her otherwise,¡± Edda responded, politely, ¡°Though I am, of course, humbly accepting of her decision.¡± Anxiety mixed with relief in Edda¡¯s chest. She had succeeded in making the bridge impassable, at least for now.

    For her part, if Lady Novak was put off by Edda¡¯s deflection, she gave no indication of it. Her soft, pleasant smile remained, and Edda¡¯s many years of familiarity with her obscured her view of whether the woman¡¯s rather spontaneous suggestion brooded well or ill. That Lady Novak had pushed the matter even after Edda¡¯s initial decline felt simultaneously very much like her, and quite odd. The woman was a master at navigating social situations; Edda had learned all she knew from her¡ªand something about their entire exchange seemed like the kind of faux pas Lady Novak would have advised her against.

    But there was little time for Edda to dissect the woman¡¯s reactions, for at that moment, several other of the castle¡¯s guests arrived. Lady Novak nodded to Edda, and they both stood to begin their greetings.

    Supper was about to begin.

 11. A Seed of Something

    There was something strange about the guests of Cachtice Castle.

    As Edda returned their curtsies, waiting with a practiced smile on her face for Lady Novak to greet each of the young women in turn, she felt a seed of something tremble deep within her. Perhaps it was the terror and anxiety of the past few days, at last culminating in some stress-induced physical affliction. Or, more likely, it was the majority of the plate of dried fruit turning her stomach. Surely, there could not be something that strange about the three perfectly normal young women before her.

    She had largely forgotten them, if she was honest with herself. In the grand play of the last decade, they had each acted such brief and minor roles as to be completely and utterly forgettable. She had not befriended them the last time she had met them; instead, she had been perfectly cordial when with them and slightly intolerant of them otherwise. Like her, two had seen wealthy but common upbringing in the cities, and the last was the daughter of a gentryman from the further reaches of the Countess¡¯s domain. They were not the polished, high-born girls she had hoped to befriend at the gynaeceum; rather, they were like her in most of the ways that mattered. And she remembered being gravely disappointed by it.

    But now, she simply found it strange.

    ¡°And this is Miss Edda Belten of Hesse,¡± Lady Novak finished, turning to Edda with a smile, which Edda returned with a gratitude she hoped appeared genuine. Now that Lady Novak had given them leave to speak with her, each of the young women introduced herself in succession. And as they said their names, Edda¡¯s memories of them began to trickle back.

    Suzsanna Nemes of Cluj-Napoca held her pointy nose high and her thin lips tight; there was no welcome in her introduction. She was tall and slender as Edda herself, but her scoop-necked green gown emphasized a broadness about the shoulders that Edda did not have. She was the only aristocrat among them and, even though her father held no title, her attitude toward the other young women in the coming months would make it seem as though he did. Not much unlike how Edda herself had behaved, except Edda had been, and still was, nothing but a commoner.

    Agneta Szalai of Buda and Cintia Molnar of Kosice were the other merchants¡¯ daughters. Both tall and slim as well, Agneta carried herself with a stoop that contrasted Cintia¡¯s willowy grace, and a manner as dark as Cintia¡¯s was bright. The dresses they wore¡ªof a navy blue and pale yellow respectively¡ªwere no less fine than Suzsanna¡¯s, but they stood slightly apart from her, as though on the other side of some great divide. But where Cintia looked longingly at Suzsanna¡ªand would work tirelessly to ingratiate herself to her during their stay¡ªbespectacled Agneta looked rather miserably to her slippered feet, fidgeting and toying with her skirts uncomfortably. Although Edda had felt no kinship to Agneta before, she thought she experienced a moment of it now¡ªAgneta certainly looked as ill at ease as Edda felt.

    ¡°It is my pleasure to make your acquaintances,¡± Edda affirmed. Inside of her, that seed of something shuddered.

    The Steward¡¯s sonorous voice from just inside the dining room redirected their attentions toward supper, which was at last ready to be served. Edda¡¯s fists clenched uncomfortably at the sight of him¡ªstill unable to shake the feeling that their earlier encounter had gone sour¡ªbut she inclined her head to him politely as the women passed with Lady Novak at their head. No matter her suspicions, she was determined to conceal them.

    Although it was one of the smaller dining rooms, it still had an air of expense about it. A finely crafted oak table was the room¡¯s centerpiece, already set with delicate porcelain plates and elaborate silver cutlery. Crystal goblets glinted in the light of the low-hanging chandelier, upon which dozens of lit candles flickered. Lady Novak took her seat at the head of the table. Behind her, the bust of a long-dead red stag on the mantle of the fireplace crowned her with antlers. To one side, the red-brown drapes had been pulled shut against the night that chilled the windows; and to the other, tapestries framed the archways through which the servants would bring their meal. It was here that the Steward positioned himself, overseeing the feast¡¯s proceedings.

    The guests arranged themselves about the table. Edda found herself seated beside Agneta, with Lady Novak to her left and a haughty Suzsanna opposite her. Suzsanna kept her eyes averted from Edda¡ªas though to avoid looking at something unpleasant¡ªexcepting the occasional hostile glare. It was no matter. Edda was not now the same silly girl she had been a decade ago, when she had first met and been determined to prove herself Suzsanna¡¯s equal, and more. No, Edda no longer wished to distinguish herself from the other girls, to prove herself more noble than they. This time, she wished to go entirely unnoticed.

    Again, the seed of something, the seed of strangeness, twisted.

    An older manservant attended them, starting with Lady Novak first. Sweet-smelling mead was poured into each of their goblets as Lady Novak addressed them, ¡°It is not my first time dining with some of you,¡± she gave a knowing smile toward Suzsanna, Cintia, and Agneta, ¡°But it is our first time dining all together.¡± She nodded her welcome toward Edda. ¡°I extend to you all, once more, a welcome to Cachtice Castle on behalf of my lady, the Countess Bathory. She has arranged a feast in your honor, that you might forgive her absence in your enjoyment, and accept my presence in her stead.¡± She raised her goblet, ¡°To our success in the coming seasons.¡±

    Edda raised her own goblet, alongside the others. ¡°To our success,¡± she repeated amidst them. The mead was cool and just slightly spiced; a familiar brew had at Cachtice Castle in the winters. Despite herself, Edda gulped down a second mouthful of it¡ªsuppressing memories of the times she had longed for such a simple pleasure as she lapped at the dripping water in the corner of her cell. Her injured wrist ached with how tense she felt. The only success she had in mind for the coming seasons was avoiding that fate.

    On cue, the Steward announced the first dish, which was promptly served by a duo of servants; a board of freshly baked, sliced rye, and small plates of newly churned butter and cubed pat¨¦. The bread still steamed, its scent enveloping the room; and Edda¡¯s mouth watered for it. Like with the dried fruit in her chambers before, she felt a near uncontrollable urge to eat. But she stilled her hand with great effort, waiting for Lady Novak to take her portion before reaching for her own.

    ¡°Miss Belten, I must confess,¡± Lady Novak began after a moment, ¡°I have never visited Hesse. I hear it has grown into quite the bustling town. Would you care to tell us of it?¡±

    Edda could not remember if such a question had been asked of her before; but she knew that, back then, she would have been happy to speak of it. Now, she hesitated¡ªnot simply because of her desire to evade Lady Novak and the Steward¡¯s attentions as much as possible, but also because of how distant her memories of Hesse felt. She forced herself to pause mid-bite. ¡°It is, indeed. It has grown much in the years past.¡± She took her bite of buttered bread, quickly swallowed, and continued, ¡°And it continues to. There is even a market there where anything can be bought.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard that even goods from the East can be found there,¡± Cintia interjected, excitedly. She had a high-pitched voice which only enhanced her bubbliness.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Edda nodded, trying to remember back to what Hesse had been like between mouthfuls. ¡°There is some,¡± Edda admitted, ¡°I have heard of medicines and perfumes, and the like. But I have not seen it myself. I am sure such things are commonplace in Buda, though.¡± Eager to pass the focus of the conversation to someone else, she turned to Agneta, who shot her a withering look.

    Agneta spoke succinctly and without pleasure of the market in Buda, evidently unhappy to have to speak at all. Edda had the fewest memories of Agneta from her previous life, she realized, as she listened to the girl¡¯s clipped and half-mumbled responses to each of Cintia¡¯s cluelessly eager questions. Despite having features that would be striking on anyone else, Agneta seemed to lack both presence and a desire to make herself known. And that was why one of Edda¡¯s few clear memories of Agneta was her utter surprise at hearing of the girl¡¯s marriage. Agneta had been the first to leave Cachtice Castle¡ªand it had happened so quickly after the first ball of the summer, that Edda could only presume that some dalliance had occurred which had spurred the hasty nuptials.

    The seed within her seemed to shake and crack, ever so slightly. Even as she raptly slathered salty pat¨¦ onto yet another slice of rye, she could feel that seed of something in her belly, struggling to sprout. It almost spurred her to eat, that she might suppress whatever it was.

    Just as the second course was brought out, the conversation turned to the latest fashions. A succulent stuffed pheasant was placed upon the table and carved, alongside plates of fire-roasted carrots and potatoes. And while the other women picked at their plates, engaged in the discussion or¡ªin Agneta¡¯s case, completely apart from it¡ªEdda ate. She managed to eat slowly, aware as she was of her surroundings, but she could not stop herself from taking bite after bite of the juicy meat and tender roots.

    ¡°And what of the newest fashions in Hesse, Miss Belten?¡± Lady Novak queried, drawing Edda back in.

    Edda could not remember what the fashions in Hesse had been ten years ago, though she was sure that was knowledge she had once possessed. So, she described instead the gowns her father had purchased her; lighter colors in flowing materials, with lower necklines and fitted bodices. And finally, eager to continue her worried but relentless meal, she deflected the conversation to another of the table¡¯s occupants, ¡°Why, I have heard the styles are directly influenced by what is worn in Kosice. Miss Molnar¡¯s gown looks to be at the very height of the year¡¯s trends.¡±

    Cintia¡¯s fair cheeks flushed with pleasure as she launched into a discussion far more detailed than Edda could have hoped to muster; listing modistes from across the kingdom and describing how their talents had converged upon the gown she wore that very night. She meant no harm by it, Edda knew¡ªCintia was as innocent as a lamb in her intentions, and about as sly as one, too. Her growing fascination with Suzsanna would come from her genuine appreciation of all things rich, noble or close enough to them¡ªa trait that would make her quite palatable to the young, soon-to-be-titled bachelors who attended the Countess¡¯s balls. Her marriage had been expected, and quietly announced to Edda and Suzsanna just days before she departed back to Kosice to begin preparations for it.

    Another tremor, and another fracture upon that seed of something.

    The final course consisted of an almond torte; spongy, soft layers of nutty cake alternating with a sweet, mellow buttercream. Edda¡¯s stomach throbbed uncomfortably in protest as a slice was set before her. But no; the thoughts that encroached upon the corner of her mind were too dreadful to consider. She could not allow them to take hold¡ªnot yet, not while she sat here at the table among these strange but perfectly normal young women¡ªso instead she forked a fragrant morsel of the dessert into her mouth, nodding and smiling along as the conversation drifted now toward the lessons they would attend in preparation for the summer¡¯s festivities.

    ¡°We must not take matters of etiquette lightly,¡± Lady Novak urged, ¡°A poor dancer may yet rescue her worth with gracefulness in other matters.¡± Suzsanna and Cintia hummed their agreement eagerly, with Edda following suit. Beside her, Agneta poked rather listlessly at her torte¡ªbut Lady Novak seemed barely to register the girl¡¯s lack of enthusiasm. ¡°And a spot of wit is not to be underestimated, either.¡±

    ¡°Oh, I simply cannot wait to begin,¡± Suzsanna proclaimed to Lady Novak, twirling a lock of her black hair about her finger. Despite her supposed excitement, her smile appeared as more of a grimace. Suzsanna had almost exclusively spoken to Lady Novak this night, as though it were in fact only the two of them seated at the table. Such would be Suzsanna¡¯s manner for much of the time they were resident at Cachtice Castle. Edda had not noticed it nearly as much the first time around, perhaps because she had been so caught up in herself, or perhaps because Cintia and Agneta had been there, also. But Suzsanna¡¯s scorn had become all too evident after Cintia¡¯s departure midsummer, and meals had become unbearably awkward. She and Edda had never warmed to each other, not in the slightest.

    ¡°We will start the day after tomorrow,¡± Lady Novak announced, ¡°Tomorrow, let us convene for tea in the afternoon. We will talk more of the lessons, and of the summer to come.¡±

    Edda had been secretly quite delighted when Suzsanna had been forced to return home near the end of the summer, due to her mother¡¯s falling ill. Then, Edda had been the last one.

    Her stomach cramped painfully. The seed broke, and sprouted.

    Lady Novak rose first, followed by each of her guests. They each touted the extravagance of the meal, of which they ensured Lady Novak they were undeserving, expressed their gratitude, their joy, and bid her a good evening. Even Agneta did her dues, as was proper, so Edda pasted on her most thankful smile and did the same. At last, Lady Novak said her farewell, and a servant came to escort the young women back to their chambers, as others descended upon the dining room to clear the dishes and set it to rights.

    But for Cintia¡¯s occasional comments upon a painting or a tapestry¡ªmost of which were soundly ignored¡ªthey walked in silence back the way they had come. Up the tower, around and around, Edda¡¯s head and stomach swirled with her realization. She trailed behind the group, studying them with wild eyes. Now that there was no food before her, now that there was nothing to distract her from it, the seed of fear grew and grew until she was certain it would erupt out of her mouth in a torrent.

    The three, perfectly normal young women before her had been so like her in all of the ways that mattered, that she had been disappointed when she had first met them. She had been stupid and she had been silly, so she had been disappointed, and she had not realized just how similar they all really were. But the moment she had seen them again, the seed had appeared. She had known.

    All of them had been raised well, but none of them were from particularly prominent families. An invitation from the Countess brought with it prestige, but their families would not be in a position to question her if one of them never returned. Each of them was tall, slim, fair-complexioned, with dark hair and a touch of color in their eyes. Certainly, they were different about the face¡ªbut none were displeasing to look at. If it hadn¡¯t been for Edda¡¯s decision to alter her appearance, the four of them might have been blood.

    They had now reached the hallway along which their chambers would be found. Edda knew it was rude. She knew it was entirely untoward behavior. But even as Cintia paused before her own chamber door, turning to the group with a fair evening¡¯s wish on her lips, Edda hurried on, nearly at a run. Her stomach lurched. Her head spun. She felt her meal rise in her throat.

    ¡°Miss Belten, are you quite alright?¡± she heard Cintia call after her, concern in her voice. There were other noises¡ªperhaps a snort of derision from Suzsanna and an offering of help from the servant who still accompanied them¡ªbut Edda ignored them as she rushed toward her rooms.

    She fell against the door, scrambling for the handle as her overfilled stomach roiled in shock and fear. How could she not have seen it before? How had she never noticed? They looked more like her than her own sister did. If she had resembled the Countess, so did they now. It was impossible, unfathomable that such a thing could have happened without some force of intent behind it. But she had been so focused on herself, both back then, and even in the past few days, that she had not even considered the possibility. She had not even entertained the thought that it would not be all about her. That she had never been the only candidate.

    At last, the door was open, and Edda stumbled forward. She could hold it no longer. Marta, already inside, was rushing toward her, but it was no use. Everything she had realized this evening, every morsel of information and every swallow of fear, came rushing out along with the contents of her stomach.

    Edda knew how this story would end; and she was starting to understand that there had never been any coincidences, right from the very beginning.

 12. Twisted Relief

    For a moment as her heaving subsided, Edda could hear only her own harsh breathing and the thundering of her heart in her chest. Each of this day¡¯s events had culminated in this realization; from the Steward¡¯s strained greeting to Lady Novak¡¯s insistent offer of a physician¡¯s remedies to this evening''s final, horrifying realization. It had been too much for her to take in. Far too much for her to digest.

    Clarity followed emptiness, bolstered and sharpened by the pungent, acidic smell of her stomach¡¯s refuse. She had collapsed to her hands and knees, and the solidity of the ground alongside the accompanying ache of her injured wrist stilled the spinning of her thoughts. Fear still lingered like the bitter taste in her mouth, but she was coming to understand now, wasn¡¯t she? The understanding was crucial to the surviving, she told herself.

    The doors to this cage had begun swinging shut long before any of them had arrived at Cachtice Castle.

    And the worst part of it all was the sickening sense of relief that washed over her, after the rolling waves of nausea abated, after everything she had taken in was laid out on the stone before her. Because she could see clearly now how she would be saved.

    Marta was by her side almost immediately, pulling her up by the shoulders and holding her skirts out of the mess. Her horrified and panicked voice emerged as the fog of physical sensation lifted, but before her frantic inquiries could gain momentum, Edda looked to her with a gaze that brooked no questions. Her voice was quiet and hoarse from retching, but still steady, ¡°I am well.¡±

    ¡°You are most certainly not,¡± Marta hissed, her hand rubbing Edda¡¯s back in gentle circles despite her harried tone.

    ¡°I am well,¡± Edda repeated forcefully, and she could see Marta¡¯s eyes narrow with anger and worry.

    A gasp could be heard as the servant who had escorted her back from supper alighted in the doorway, in full view of Edda¡¯s quite visceral outburst. Although evidently both unconvinced and displeased, Marta immediately addressed the man, leaving him little room to gawk at the sight before him. ¡°I¡¯ll not have you rouse the Steward this late, nor rally any other,¡± Marta declared firmly, ¡°I¡¯ll trouble you for a bucket of hot water and some rags, if you please. And if there¡¯s a cook in the kitchen, a fresh pot of herbed water to settle her stomach. But we¡¯ll do without if there¡¯s not.¡±

    Marta guided Edda to her feet as the servant took off at a run. Staggering, Edda shirked Marta¡¯s helping hand to face her directly. She was aware of how she must look, quaking in her soiled gown. But although she suspected that her faded memories of life before Cachtice Castle had not failed her, she needed to confirm it with Marta anyway. ¡°Father does not deal directly with Countess Bathory¡¯s household, does he?¡±

    Marta¡¯s expression flashed with disbelief. ¡°Mother and maiden, Miss Edda! Have you lost your senses?¡±

    ¡°Please,¡± Edda urged, ¡°I must know, Marta.¡±

    The older woman¡¯s mouth was hard line, and her hands set stubbornly on her hips. For a moment, Edda thought Marta would ignore her question entirely. Finally, she relented, ¡°I am not privy to Master Belten¡¯s dealings, Miss Edda. But I think not directly.¡± She huffed angrily, ¡°Now please, Miss Edda. Let¡¯s get you into something clean.¡±

    She would have to write her brother Simon to know for sure, but Marta¡¯s words were enough for now. Her hairs stood on end as Marta shepherded her out of her ruined dress and into a housecoat, and it was not because of the chamber¡¯s chill. There was no way they could have known what she looked like prior to her arrival at the castle. Edda released a shuddering breath as she, at Marta¡¯s urging, sank into a nearby settle. There was no way, so how had they known exactly that?

    She felt like her stomach had been hollowed out as she sat there in the vastness of the bedchamber. It felt even vaster now that she understood how small she truly was. How small she had always been.

    Marta towered above her, too, with a face both stern and troubled. ¡°I don¡¯t believe you could produce a single good reason that would convince me that you are well,¡± she stated, her voice hard in a way that it rarely ever was. Her patience had certainly been exceeded. ¡°And don¡¯t you dare say it is because things are not right here. I¡¯ll not hear that excuse again.¡±

    But that was the truth, wasn¡¯t it? Things were not right at Cachtice Castle, and Edda hadn¡¯t the slightest idea of how to explain just how wrong they were. Although her head had cleared, she needed time to sift through the rubble; to formulate a coherent thought out of all the vague and confusing pieces she had picked up. But Marta would not wait¡ªnot now, with her usually placid face promising a storm¡ªand nothing less than the full story could truly impress upon her the gravity of the situation.

    And it weighed on her. Blood and bloody maiden, did it weigh on her. She had been heavy with fear back when she had thought it was her alone, tangled up in this horrible fate. It had grown heavier with the missing servant girls and become crushing with Marta¡¯s life also in the balance. And now, the heaviest weight yet had settled upon her¡ªthis horrible, twisted relief that had flattened her entirely, bringing with it a new, fresh kind of fear.

    Edda pressed her palms to her face with a shudder and took a deep breath. ¡°They all look like me,¡± she said simply.

    The chamber was silent for a beat. ¡°What in heaven¡¯s name are you talking about?¡± Marta asked finally, and Edda could detect the exasperation in her tone.

    ¡°The other girls,¡± Edda said, looking directly into Marta¡¯s eyes with an intensity she did not know she possessed, ¡°They all look like me.¡±

    Marta blinked several times in confusion before asking in a shrill voice, ¡°What has that to do with your supper on the floor behind us?¡±

    What, indeed? What words could she say to Marta that would describe the miserable mixture of relief and fear that she had chewed up and swallowed with her supper again, and again, and again this night. That she might not have to face her own thoughts, her own desperation. That she might yet alight upon some other solution. Oh, it sickened her anew to know it; that she had simply been too silly and too stupid to recognize that it had never just been about her. But she was silly and stupid no longer.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    A sharp rap on the door announced the return of the servant and saved her from her damning thoughts. Marta shot Edda a furious glance that told her that their conversation was far from over. She hurried over to admit him, exclaiming in surprise and not a little aggravation when she saw that he had overlooked her earlier insistence and was now accompanied by two others. Two buckets of steaming water were carried in, along with several rolled towels. One of the servants set a tray on the table before Edda, pouring two cups and handing one to her. Eager to be rid of the foul taste in her mouth and mind, Edda gulped the fragrant liquid with greed.

    The servants were intent on setting the chambers to rights, despite Marta¡¯s continued and increasingly flustered assertions that she would tend to the mess herself. They ignored her politely, with trained smiles, until Marta finally surrendered, throwing herself onto the settle beside Edda with a sigh of irritation.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I have ever been so tried,¡± Marta muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Edda to make out. And she knew the portly woman referred to far more than the respectful defiance of the servants before her.

    Guilt slowly crept in; and though she tried to convince herself otherwise, little of it had to do with her mistreatment of Marta. Marta had suffered a few days of her poor behavior, but if what Edda now suspected was indeed true, she would suffer only that. Marta would live, if Edda was right. And Edda would live, too.

    Edda took a deep breath and reached for Marta''s hand, squeezing it in a way that she hoped conveyed an apology. Marta did not pull away. Rather, she rotated her hand in Edda¡¯s grasp to lace their fingers together and squeezed back. And within the tight knot of their hands, Edda found her resolve; twisted up with the guilt and the fear and the dark solace she had found in that evening¡¯s realization. Beyond that ball of emotion, beyond the impossibility and the absurdity of the situation, the thought was there. She did not relish it. Certainly, it unnerved her in more ways than one. But if it was not all about her, then that meant that it could very well be about someone else.

    Any of them would do, as long as it was not her.

    The servants were efficient in their work. Before long, the sweet smell of floral soap replaced the acrid scent of sickness, and Marta rose to see them out. She had calmed considerably, now, but her face was still drawn and tight with worry. However, she did not resume her line of questioning just yet. Rather, she turned toward one of the buckets of hot water that had been left behind. ¡°Let¡¯s ready for bed,¡± she said quietly, and Edda knew the woman was mulling over her thoughts.

    Some time later, Edda found herself seated before the vanity mirror, studying Marta¡¯s troubled expression as the woman unpinned her hair. She began to work her way slowly, relentlessly through the brittle locks. Finally, Marta¡¯s rhythmic brushing stuttered. ¡°I have known you since your girlhood, Miss Edda,¡± she remarked, ¡°And I have never known you to be afraid of anything, whether that be for good or ill.¡± She paused again, setting the brush down and raising a hand to Edda¡¯s shoulder. Their reflected eyes met. ¡°Witchery,¡± she whispered, ¡°You really do think it is so, don¡¯t you?¡±

    Edda licked her suddenly dry lips. ¡°Yes,¡± she confirmed, and the pit of her stomach, empty though it was, seemed to drop out from beneath her. She had thought as much to herself before. But some part of her had still resisted, hesitating to pick up this last, jagged piece of the puzzle¡ªnot truly wanting to see how everything fit together. ¡°I can think of no other explanation,¡± she murmured.

    Marta¡¯s hand tightened on Edda¡¯s shoulder, frowning. ¡°Sometimes chance is the explanation, Miss Edda.¡±

    Oh, Edda might have spelled it away as such before, had she been smart enough to notice the last time she had met Cachtice Castle¡¯s guests. To gather in one place four young women from disparate parts of a country who resembled each other closely in looks and circumstance¡­Back then she still would have dismissed it as inconsequential, with hardly another thought. But it was precisely because she had lived the consequences, precisely because she had died because of them, that she could not relegate it to mere chance.

    ¡°It cannot be,¡± Edda reiterated, ¡°I am certain of it.¡±

    Marta was silent again, pensive, as she resumed her task of smoothing out Edda¡¯s ruined hair. Edda could not fathom the woman¡¯s true thoughts. Her expression was still strained, but her movements were otherwise unperturbed, fingers both tender and familiar as they worked. Did Marta think her mad? Hysteric, as Ivar had said? Edda almost wished that were the case¡ªperhaps then, she could fool herself into thinking the same. Madness would be a welcome reprieve.

    Finally, Marta set the brush aside. ¡°You must rest, Miss Edda,¡± she said, still lost in her thoughts as she helped Edda to her feet.

    ¡°I fear I will not be able to,¡± Edda replied.

    The bed appeared almost monstrous in the flickering lights of the chamber. Edda had slept in it before, so many years ago, and yet this night it felt foreign to her. It was still made for the cold of winter, with warm layers of quilts and blankets atop the linen sheets. Thick curtains were tied back at each of the four posters; when loosed, they would obscure her from both cold and sight. She sunk into a mattress so soft it seemed to embrace her, and yet she found herself wishing for her bed in Hesse, set so close to Franka¡¯s that she could reach for her in the night. Even the simple straw mattress in the village inn had felt more comfortable, somehow.

    Marta brought a cup of the remaining herbed water to her bedside. Wordlessly, she produced the packet of sleeping powder and added a pinch of it to the liquid. She turned to Edda as if sensing her unease and settled herself on the edge of the bed, the cup still in her hands. ¡°In my village,¡± Marta said suddenly, ¡°black dreams were not to be taken lightly.¡± She moved a hand to Edda¡¯s head, smoothing a bramble of hair away from her face. ¡°The stories I told you when you were a girl were stories told to me by my own mother, told to her by her mother, and so on. But I believe they were not meant to be mere stories.¡± The cup trembled in Marta¡¯s hands as she brought it to Edda¡¯s lips. ¡°They were warnings.¡±

    Edda did not drink. She found herself shivering beneath the blankets. ¡°Will you tell me again what you know of witches?¡± she asked barely audibly, even though she did not wish to know.

    Marta nodded imperceptibly. ¡°Not tonight. Tonight, you must rest.¡±

    Edda downed the medicated water. She needed to know more, but perhaps Marta was right. Perhaps, it need not be tonight, when she still grappled with what she now understood about the events that would unfold at Cachtice Castle and her altered role in them. Yes, perhaps not tonight, when relief and fear and guilt and horror still warred inside of her, a seething black mass in her hollow stomach.

    The sleeping powder could not take away the sharp anxiety she felt as drowsiness suddenly overwhelmed her; still she worried that she would sleep and wake in her cell again. But tonight, the allure of unconsciousness was greater than her fear, and she quickly welcomed the narrowing darkness of sleep. As the powder pulled her beneath the surface, she was aware of Marta¡¯s affectionate touch, drawing the blankets up around her.

    Her thoughts grew abstract and fuzzy. But one emerged in stark relief, a petrifying beacon amidst her clouded mind. She could not escape it in her last moments of wakefulness, with Marta¡¯s warm hand still upon her chest. Would Marta forgive her for allowing another to be burdened with this cursed fate, even if it was the only sure way to avoid it?

    And more than that, would Edda be able to forgive herself?

 13. The Witchs Messenger

    For a moment as sleep lifted, panic gripped her. She was back in that dark, cramped cell. Half dreaming, she heard the weak mumbling of her fellow prisoners, more sound than word in the throes of their misery. Jerking violently, she wrenched herself into wakefulness, gasping and clutching at the sheets around her. Soft. Not the itchy straw of her makeshift pallet or the cold stone of the dungeon floor. Soft, supple linens, warm with the heat of her body cocooned within.

    As her rolling eyes focused, she made out the ornate, vaulted ceiling above her. The bedcurtains were closed, but a dim light filtered in, bathing the space in a soft grey. It was not the shadowy darkness she had grown accustomed to during her imprisonment. She sat up slowly, placing a hand over her heart to still its raucous beating. She could not see into the bedchamber beyond, but the generous expanse of bedding on either side of her was anything but small and cramped. The bed itself was larger than her cell had been.

    She was at Cachtice Castle, yes. But not in the dungeon.

    Still, the indistinct sound of voices was there. They conversed in low, worried tones, as if careful of stirring her. As the last vestiges of her unhappy awakening dissipated, the muffled words became clear.

    A thrill of unease coursed through her as she made out Steward Lukacs¡¯ voice. ¡°In our haste to welcome her, I fear we have worsened Miss Belten¡¯s condition,¡± he said, contritely. Naturally, the servants would have reported last night¡¯s commotion, regardless of Marta¡¯s insistence otherwise. Edda had almost forgotten just how well-informed Steward Lukacs had always been, and the memory spawned dread within her. Even the most minor happenings at the castle rarely escaped his notice.

    ¡°Neither Miss Belten nor I are of such a mind, my good steward,¡± Marta countered hastily, ¡°We cannot fault your hospitality for a hard journey. But she must rest abed for some days. I would ask you to send our regret to the Countess that Miss Belten should begin her stay here in such a way.¡±

    ¡°I will convey it, Mistress Jozsef,¡± he answered, ¡°Do let the servants know if anything more is needed.¡±

    A polite stream of gratitude followed Steward Lukacs to the chamber door, but the gentle thud of its closing was trailed only by a heavy sigh from Marta. Edda could hear her shifting about the room, but she did not yet make her wakefulness known. Instead, she leaned back against the mighty wooden headboard and closed her eyes once more. She and Marta would have much to discuss soon enough.

    You must return to Cachtice Castle and change your fate with your own hands, the crow had told her. And here she was, with her fumbling, fearful behavior altering the course of events at every turn, often in ways she had not even intended. She would have days now, hidden away in her chambers under the pretense of rest. Could she push it even farther? Might she feign illness after illness until it was time for her to return to Hesse?

    She desperately wished it could be so; that she might remain out of sight of Cachtice Castle¡¯s residents, safe and warm and comfortable behind the veil of these bed curtains. Perhaps they would forget about her. Perhaps if she wrote to her father of a prolonged sickness, she could leave even sooner. Surely the Countess would take no affront if her departure was due to some ailment. After all, she was not what they had expected, and she would be of no use to them now.

    But they had expected something of her, hadn¡¯t they? She did not know how or when the expectation had been established, but she suspected that both Steward Lukacs and Lady Novak had expected her to look as the others did. That knowledge frightened her immensely. For so many years, she had thought them her allies, united by their shared secret. Oh, perhaps they did not yet know of the outcome that would be reached in a decade. Perhaps they, too, were somehow victims of a greater plot. But it did not change the fact that they were privy to something their unwitting guests were not. Knowledge, Edda feared, that might be the fruit of witchery.

    She had no evidence of it. She did not believe that either Steward Lukacs or Lady Novak were witches themselves, though she could not rule it out entirely. Which left only the preposterous possibility that they were consorting with a witch. And there was no good reason for that, was there? Two respected members of a prominent, noble household would not stoop to such a thing. Not when their lady, Countess Bathory, was known for her goodness, her philanthropy, her dignity and grace. No.

    But Edda had been Countess Bathory for a decade. Perhaps the real Countess Bathory had been all of the things she was rumored to be, prior to Edda¡¯s taking up her mantle. But who was she now?

    Edda shook her head, as though to dislodge the thought that surfaced in her mind, like dirty oil upon the surface of water. She did not want to consider it. Not yet. There were other matters still to consider, matters perhaps not so terrible, but certainly no less fatal. She would not be the Countess Bathory again, of that she was certain. In changing her appearance, she had begun to weaken the chains that had bound her to this place. But she had a sinking feeling that in doing so, they would tighten around someone else.

    Edda chewed her lip, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. There was no way of knowing for sure, of course, not before the harvest. She tamped down on the swirl of guilt and fear that coiled in her stomach.  There was no use brooding on it now. Not when she had died once already; not when she was still horrifically ignorant of the events that had led her there. Marta had died too, without Edda even realizing that she might be saved. But the others had survived last time. She would not entertain foolhardy thoughts of saving them.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    Foolhardy too were her thoughts of languishing away as an invalid in this bed. Such a sham would not be enough to guarantee her or Marta¡¯s safety. Her altered appearance offered them temporary immunity from the fates that had befallen them, but she still needed to uphold her end of the bargain with Gretel to maintain it. She needed to find out what had happened to the village girls.

    And for that, she would have to know more.

    ¡°Marta,¡± she called softly.

    ¡°A moment, Miss Edda,¡± Marta responded after a breath. The gentle shuffling of her movement around the chamber preceded her drawing back the curtains. Edda blinked several times as the morning light spilled in, cool and bright without the fabric to dampen it. Marta held out a cup of water, which Edda gratefully accepted. ¡°How do you feel?¡± she asked, her voice still tight with last night¡¯s worry.

    ¡°Better now,¡± Edda admitted to Marta¡¯s doubtful gaze. Behind Marta, the chamber¡¯s large window framed a clear blue sky, promising the pleasant chill of early spring. Despite her morbid thoughts, it was hard for the dire undercurrents of her present situation to feel real on such a day, when she might instead have opted for a stroll around one of Cachtice Castle¡¯s many gardens. How many times had she done just that in the past, instead of attending to the events around her? Perhaps the very events that had damned her?

    Choosing not to push the matter of Edda¡¯s health, Marta recounted her conversation with Steward Lukacs. But Edda was struck by how tired the woman looked. As always, Marta was crisply dressed in her dress and apron, with not a hair out of place of her kerchief. But there were dark smudges beneath her eyes where there had been none the day before.

    ¡°And are you well, Marta?¡± she cut in.

    Marta¡¯s voice faltered with surprise. She paused for a moment before seating herself on the bed with a sigh. ¡°I am well, Miss Edda,¡± she said quietly.

    The slightest of smiles spread upon Edda¡¯s face as she said, ¡°Why, you are almost as convincing as I.¡±

    Marta shook her head but returned a small smile of her own. ¡°Truthfully, I spent much of the night wondering how I might convince myself that there is nothing amiss. That I might convince you of the same this morning.¡± Her smile waned as her expression stiffened once more.

    Edda swallowed her words of protest with a sip of water, quieting her insistence that she would not be convinced otherwise. It was not the time for it. ¡°And what do you now think?¡±

    Marta pressed her lips together. ¡°Since arriving at Cachtice Castle, I have seen nothing untoward, Miss Edda. We have been treated well and graciously.¡± Edda frowned, but stayed silent as Marta took a deep breath and continued, her voice shaking just slightly, ¡°But the villagers were frightened, and you are frightened, too.¡± She raised a hand to her throat, as though to hold back her next words. But still they came, barely more than a whisper, ¡°And I cannot forget it, though I have tried. That¡ªthat cursed crow. It was a witch¡¯s messenger, Miss Edda.¡±

    Edda could feel the color drain from her face. She set her cup aside. ¡°A-a messenger?¡± she asked more to herself than Marta. Of course it was. It was a bloody talking crow. She thought immediately of Gretel, as though clutching for flotsam as water rushed up around her. Self-proclaimed though she was, Gretel was a witch. Could the crow have been her messenger?

    No, the crow had known. It had known of her past life, of her suffering, and of her death. Gretel had not, until Edda¡¯s sudden, frenzied admission.

    Marta shuddered, but continued. ¡°In the stories, they are usually rats. Or sometimes bats. But one and all, they bring black dreams. They are bad omens, Miss Edda.¡±

    Why hadn¡¯t it dawned on her before? She had thought back to the crow¡¯s cryptic words countless times since her encounter with it, treating them like some governing principle. But in her mad craze to escape what lay in store for her, the sheer supernatural insanity of a talking crow had been all but lost in the fray. What else but witchery could breed such an abnormality? Had she been in her right mind, she should have suspected witchcraft at the blasted creature¡¯s first words.

    ¡°It--it spoke to me,¡± Edda admitted, almost too stunned at her own oversight to speak, ¡°When I was in the forest that night, it spoke to me, Marta.¡±

    Marta gasped loudly, and then began to curse. ¡°Mercy!¡± she swore, horrified, ¡°Mother and maiden have mercy!¡± Edda began to tremble, and Marta reached immediately for her hands. Not only had it spoken to her, but she had listened to it. She had seriously contemplated how she might act in accordance with its advice. ¡°Miss Edda, you are certain? You are certain it spoke to you?¡±

    Edda could only nod her head in the affirmative. So there really would be no easy way out for her. Just as Gretel had said, she was well and truly bound up in this matter. She had been from her first breath in this world. And worst of all, it seemed like she¡¯d been following the witch¡¯s orders right from the very beginning. She closed her eyes, gripping Marta¡¯s hands strongly so as not to become overwhelmed in her trepidation.

    ¡°Oh, Miss Edda...¡± Marta said miserably, ¡°If you had told me sooner! If only you had told me sooner, we¡¯d have been back in Hesse already, I swear it.¡±

    This time, Edda shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t believe I had a choice but to come here,¡± she said softly, some of her fear beginning to give way to confusion. Had the crow not told her she might still survive? Had it not given her the words that had, she hoped, set her on the path to avoid becoming the Countess altogether? Oh, she did not doubt that it was a witch¡¯s messenger. But what motive would the witch have for helping her?

    Perhaps, its advice was not meant to help her at all. Perhaps, she was simply being led to a different death.

    Marta¡¯s hands were cold where they gripped hers. Her lips quivered. ¡°You must not speak with it again, Miss Edda. Such things are dangerous. Far, far too dangerous.¡±

    Edda¡¯s wrist, still sore and swollen from her fall, had begun to ache bitterly from her panicked clenching. ¡°It is too late, Marta. It spoke of a tragedy. And it has already begun.¡±

    Edda had hoped to never again see an expression like the one that crumpled Marta¡¯s face. She regretted her words the very second they left her lips. Face white, eyes bulging and blackened with alarm above her flared nostrils; it was as though a mask of pure terror had fitted itself upon the sweet, familiar face she had gazed upon since her girlhood. And Edda was suddenly back in the dungeon, peering up through iron bars at the face of prisoner after prisoner being dragged to an unknowable fate.

    ¡°Mother in heaven.¡±

 14. Truth and Fable

    The silence resounded between them, dense and oppressive. Marta seemed to sway in slow motion, her face frozen in shock and disbelief, and Edda watched her, wide-eyed and paralyzed; locked in the space between her memories and the present moment.

    No, no. She could not let either one of them break apart here.

    The wheels were already in motion. The carriage was going downhill, and the horses had been spooked. The road Edda had turned from would have seen Marta dead in months and her own death after a decade of lies. The unknown path she was on now¡ªwell, she could not fathom where it led. But she had allowed a witch to drive them here. If she hoped to make it to the bottom of the hill in one piece, she had to go forward with her own wits about her and steer as best she could.

    She had to grab the reins. She had to struggle for control. But she was so frightened of what would be revealed at the next turn. To see Marta shaken in this way, to see upon the woman¡¯s face the first seedlings of uncontrollable fear, had set off blooms of doubt within her. Could she handle what she needed to know? Could she truly extricate both of them from the webs of witch and man alike? It seemed a task far too daunting for a girl who had led a life full of frivolity and was only now trying to salvage it after it had ended.

    But she had to.

    Their hands had crystallized into a knot of cold sweat and stiff fingers, one unwilling to release the other in the midst of their shared distress. But Edda moved first, pulling Marta toward her and into an abrupt and somewhat awkward hug. Numerous times in the last few days, she could recall how a warm touch had comforted her. Just yesterday morning, Marta had held her as she cried, overcome by the gravity of all that had happened to her and all that was yet to happen. She would do that now for Marta.

    It took a moment, and then another. But Marta¡¯s rigid body softened. She leaned into the embrace, adjusting her seat on the bed ever so slightly to allow it. When, finally, Marta took a deep, shuddering breath, Edda felt the gentle expansion of her chest, the transient stillness, and the relieved collapse as though it were her own body. And she knew Marta had come back to her from the edge of despair.

    Marta pulled back to look at her, hands still on Edda¡¯s shoulders. Though her face was drawn and tight, some color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes had focused. ¡°This is¡ª¡± Marta¡¯s voice cracked, but she continued, ¡°This is far more serious than I thought.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Edda affirmed, ¡°But there are still things we must do.¡±

    Marta¡¯s composure seemed to be gradually returning. She gave a small nod. ¡°We¡¯ll do what we can, Miss Edda.¡± She withdrew her hands now, clasping them together before her as if in prayer. But Edda knew that she was thinking. ¡°Garlic boiled in wine,¡± she said suddenly, ¡°We¡¯ll need a bowl of it. And a line of salt before the door.¡±

    ¡°To protect us?¡± Edda asked. She could remember, just barely, being told of such things. More pronounced were her memories of huddling safe in bed with Franka, gasping and murmuring in nervous delight as Marta relayed her tales by flickering candlelight. What had actually been said was all but gone, faded away to almost non-existence and relegated to the realm of useless superstition as she grew. She had never thought she would so desperately need to remember the bedtime stories of her childhood.

    ¡°While we are in this chamber, at least,¡± Marta said, ¡°Outside of it¡­¡± She rubbed a hand over her forehead anxiously. ¡°My grandmother used to sew a branch of blackthorn into her skirts. I am sure it can be found in the forest, but¡­¡±

    Marta did not need to complete her thought. It would, of course, be strange to request branches of blackthorn from their hosts. Stranger still for either of them to venture out past the castle walls in search of it. Perhaps excuses could be made in the summer, when the weather had warmed and the forest had come alive again, but the summer was months away. They could not wait that long.

    ¡°I might have a way to acquire it,¡± Edda said, hesitantly. Marta¡¯s brows rose in surprise, then darted downward reprovingly. Evidently, she had concluded that Edda would make some questionable attempt to attain the blackthorn herself. But before her admonishments could begin, Edda quickly added, ¡°I¡¯ll not leave the castle. I know of someone in the village.¡±

    Marta frowned. ¡°The blind healer, then?¡± she questioned doubtfully, with a twist of her lips.

    ¡°She will help us,¡± Edda said, with more confidence than she felt. It still perturbed her to think of Gretel as a witch, even if she was supposedly of a different sort than the monsters Edda usually associated with the word. She had decided to trust her, and already Gretel had been of assistance. But how would a blind woman read her letters? Was there magic for that? She would just have to hope that there was, no matter how uncomfortable the thought of witchcraft made her feel.

    As though reading her mind, Marta sighed with unease. ¡°Don¡¯t have much of a choice, do we?¡± she muttered, then with more strength she appended, ¡°The innkeeper¡¯s wife hadn¡¯t a bad word to say of her, at least.¡±

    Edda inclined her head, grateful that Marta hadn¡¯t questioned Gretel¡¯s involvement further and equally glad to learn that another had vouched for Gretel, as well. It gave her that much more faith in her own decision to rely on her, especially given how historically poor her judgment had been¡ªand how questionable it still was, now. And it bolstered her conviction in her next request, ¡°Marta, I need you to ask the other servants here about the missing girls.¡±

    Marta did not answer immediately. Instead, she looked away, toward the window where the late morning sky continued to brighten. The tenseness of their conversation seemed at odds with the picturesque view of the Hungarian countryside just beside them. Edda could see the sun beginning to climb to its zenith in the pale blue sky. With sudden purpose, Marta rose from her seat on the bed, straightening her skirts as she walked over to the window. She carefully flipped a latch, pushing to swing open a smaller rectangular section of glass near the bottom.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Along with a cool wind, the sounds of the castle grounds rushed in. The rhythmic chanting of men¡¯s voices, synchronized in their effort, as they drilled on the training grounds below. The soft rush of servants running, and pushing, and carrying, and chattering amongst themselves as they tended to their endless daily tasks. And more in the distance, the bark and whine of hunting dogs in their kennels against the gently mocking song of birds in the forest.

    Marta turned back to her now, her expression heavy. ¡°You don¡¯t believe they ran off, do you?¡±

    Edda licked her lips nervously, fear drying her mouth once more. She retrieved the cup of water from her bedside and gulped thirstily, trying to delay her next words. It was one of the few things that had remained with her from Marta¡¯s stories, and it was perhaps the most frightening, as such things typically are. ¡°Blood witches prefer the young, do they not?¡±

    Marta¡¯s hands were once more clasped before her. This time, Edda could not be certain that it was not in prayer. She knew she was asking much of Marta¡ªespecially now that she had admitted her terrifying suspicions¡ªbut she could think of no other way. The girls had been hired to be servants, and so they would have lived amongst the other servants. The ones who were most likely to know what had happened to them were also the ones Edda would have the least opportunity to question herself.

    Finally, Marta spoke, ¡°It...is not always so simple.¡± She shook her head, as though to clear it. ¡°But I will learn what I can. It may take some time.¡±

    Edda nodded but could not help the sudden spike of anxiety that pierced her. ¡°Be wary, Marta,¡± she said. Their eyes met. For a moment, she could see a trace of fear, of exhaustion, of that hopelessness she had hoped to dispel mirrored in Marta¡¯s brown eyes. But there was also determination there, warring amongst the others. Edda wished she could borrow some of it, use it to patch up her own fickle desperation. But for the time being, at least, Marta would make better use of that resolve than she.

    A sudden knock upon the chamber door startled both women from their thoughts. The sound seemed to slice through the room¡¯s thick atmosphere, scattering it all at once. Within seconds, Marta was hurrying over. ¡°Must be the midday meal,¡± she explained matter-of-factly, though Edda could hear just the slightest wavering in her voice. The mundanity of such a thing in light of their prior conversation was discomfiting, surely even for a woman as hardy and practical as Marta.

    As Marta admitted the servants, who were indeed laden with their meal, Edda at last rolled herself off the bed, slipping her feet into the comfortable pair of slippers that had been left for her. The stress and anxiety of their conversation had driven the blood from her limbs repeatedly, until her body felt numb and her head light. But the aromatic scent of herbs, meat, and bread had her peering around the curtained bed, taking in the three apron-clad older women who carefully but efficiently laid out their fare. Her mouth watered.

    As swiftly as they had come, they departed. Edda wasted little time sitting herself before the low table, reaching for a bowl of rich, thick soup. It had cooled slightly on its way up from the kitchen, but the deep flavor of the broth warmed her up regardless. As was so often the case lately, she could not help herself, spooning soft carrots, chewy dumplings, and tender morsels of chicken into her mouth almost without pause.

    Marta took a seat opposite Edda, studying her. She reached for her bowl slowly, but did not raise the spoon to her lips. ¡°Slowly, Miss Edda,¡± she chastised, not unkindly, ¡°You¡¯ll be ill again like that.¡±

    Her bowl already almost empty, Edda held back from scraping it clean. Marta was right, of course; she needed to pace herself, unlike the night before when she had gorged to the point of sickness. Food was an excellent distraction, she had discovered, even without her memories of the gnawing hunger she had endured. It was a brief but potent reprieve from her disturbing reality, a welcome haven from the hell of past and future. When she ate, there was only the chewing, the tasting, and the fullness. She could pretend nothing else was real.

    She took a deep breath, placing her last few mouthfuls on the table before her. She would finish it soon. It would wait, she told herself, and still be there after she had asked Marta all the questions that still needed answering. Like with her knowledge that witches preferred the young, there were other vile remnants embedded in her psyche. She needed to sift the sensational from the veracious as best she could; the situation was horrifying enough without any added embellishments.

    ¡°Do they truly rise from the dead?¡± Edda queried, her voice trembling ever so slightly at the end, ¡°Are they truly immortal, Marta?¡± It had been scary but exciting, back then, hearing Marta¡¯s tales of graves left empty; their supposedly deceased occupants walking about cold, sleepless, and hungry for blood. She and Franka had squealed and giggled in fear, wide-eyed, innocent, and yet not truly believing.

    Already, Marta had appeared less than enthused about the spread before her. At Edda¡¯s question, she set her spoon aside. Once again, she laced her fingers together tightly, knuckles white and protruding with the intensity of her grip. ¡°They rise,¡± she answered, her voice shrill. She swallowed thickly, seeming to calm herself somewhat, before continuing, ¡°In--in my village, they were buried with a sickle over the neck and a silver coin in the mouth. Or with their faces to the earth, if neither could be afforded. I never saw it myself. But I was told of it.¡±

    Gooseflesh had risen all along Edda¡¯s arms. She grit her teeth against the terror that threatened to twist her tongue into silence. ¡°And if they were buried wrongly? Or not buried at all? How would you know them from any other, if not for the sun?¡± In the stories, sunrise was the only liberation from a blood witch; its warmth caused them to putrefy and decay. Then, they could be weakened and buried once more.

    Marta nodded first, then seemed to reconsider, ¡°I cannot say for sure, Miss Edda. Some say they return far more beautiful in death than they were in life, such that all who lay eyes upon them fall under their sway. But I have heard, too, that they are so fearsome to behold that you might perish at the sight of them. I do not know what is truth and what is fable.¡± Marta paused, pensive. ¡°But their skin is always cold as death.¡± She shivered, as though imagining that horrid touch. Edda found herself doing the same, hunching over slightly as though to ward off the spectral, frozen fingers that brushed the back of her neck. ¡°And they cannot cross a line of salt unless invited. I believe this is true.¡±

    Edda found herself gripping her injured wrist, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to keep her from reaching for the food before her, that she might suppress the horrible fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She had hoped that Marta would help her sieve the chaff, to separate the fact from the fiction, so that they might gain a clearer picture of their foe. But her answers had only painted a portrait of an unknowable enemy, one so bound up in story and superstition as to be amorphous. Blood witches could be anything, anyone.

    ¡°How in heaven¡¯s name will we know?¡± Edda whispered, aghast.

    Marta shook her head, her eyes low, tired, and terrified. Her hands were still clasped in her lap. ¡°At the least, I think we¡¯ve not encountered one so far.¡±

    Edda frowned in confusion. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Blood witches are usually children, after all.¡±

 15. Evil Disguised as Innocence

    Edda and Franka had not demanded a story of Marta every night. Some nights, they conferred amongst themselves, as sisters often do¡ªdeep in some fantasy or disagreement¡ªuntil sleep at last took hold of them. Other nights, they stumbled to bed after a vigorous day of study and play, already half slumbering. But on those occasional nights when sleep was kept at bay by one or both, restless and excited under the covers like children sometimes are, a story would inevitably become the solution. And even on those nights, there was no guarantee of what tale Marta would tell.

    Maybe it was on the days when they had been particularly naughty, driving her to the ends of her patience, that Marta chose to tell them of blood witches; to frighten them into silence and good behavior. Or maybe it was the days when Marta herself felt morose, or nostalgic, or tired that she relayed to them the terrifying stories of her own childhood, that her mother and grandmother had told her to reform her own mischief into obedience. But the stories were told, and though Edda remembered them little, the blood witches in her mind had never been children.

    Perhaps it was that time had worn away the memories of her youth to little more than shapeless outlines, upon which she had transferred her own impressions as an adult. Or maybe it was that uniquely childish desire to be older¡ªthat feverish wish she had held even then to be more than what she was¡ªthat had twisted her perception of blood witches into something else. Something further from her boring, common reality. Children were helpless, after all. Children were helpless, and silly, and stupid, just like she was. How could something so horrific as a blood witch be nothing but a child?

    She voiced as much to Marta, who had slowly, sluggishly begun to partake of their meal.

    ¡°I¡¯m not certain of why,¡± Marta replied, ¡°But in the stories, it is so.¡±

    ¡°But¡­¡± Edda¡¯s voice faltered. Now that she thought about it, there really had been nothing in the stories to suggest that the blood witches were not themselves like the children they were so fond of eating. It might even explain why, when a blood witch knocked upon a family¡¯s door, so many of the tales had ended with them being invited in. Why those who had known them in life were so often their first victims in death. The meaning behind such details had all but escaped her until now.

    Blood witches were evil disguised as innocence. That was what made them so fearsome, so horrible.

    But to Edda, there had been something more terrifying than that.

    In her mind, blood witches had always been barely human. Ghastly, corpse-like beings; gaunt, hollow-cheeked, and reeking of the grave. It was with gaping mouths and sunken eyes that they wrung dry the bodies of infants and stopped the blood of their parents in the vein. Those were the blood witches that had scared her back then. They had never resembled children. How could they?

    After all, they had needed to resemble the thing that terrified her the most when she was younger. That even now warped and wrenched her stomach to recall, though she had already suffered far worse. The horrors of her adulthood¡ªthough far more potent and far more terrible¡ªcould not diminish it. Perhaps those first carvings upon the blank slate of childhood are always the deepest; they linger, as formative torments do, dulled but no less present in the face of greater and more recent agonies.

    Because it had always been her mother she thought of when she envisioned a blood witch.

    Edda reached for a slice of bread, placing it into her bowl before once again beginning to eat. The bread was soft, and though both it and the soup were now cold, Edda finished them quickly. She reached for another piece of bread, this time smearing a dollop of butter upon it. Marta shot her a disapproving glance, but silently continued her repast, perhaps too caught up in her own thoughts to offer another scolding.

    ¡°I will take these to the kitchens,¡± Marta declared sometime later, rising from her seat to stack the now empty dishes. She brushed off her apron, ensuring her kerchief was still neatly arranged before picking up the tray. That pragmatic determination had settled upon her once more. ¡°I¡¯d hardly a chance to meet the other servants last night. And if I¡¯m to have their help, I must know them first.¡±

    Edda, rather uncomfortably full once more, had leaned back in the settle. She nodded her understanding. ¡°I must know when the next supply wagon from Ecsed will arrive,¡± she said as Marta turned toward the door. She would write to Gretel today, while Marta was out, to see if some branches of blackthorn could be sent to the castle.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°I¡¯ll ask after it,¡± Marta affirmed, reaching for the door handle.

    But there was something else she needed to know, too; something that had been quietly bothering her ever since her late arrival at Cachtice Castle the day before. ¡°Wait,¡± Edda called, before the door could be opened, ¡°Might you look in upon the tea party this afternoon, Marta? I would know every detail you can gather of it.¡±

    A brief flash of bemusement swept over Marta¡¯s face. But just as quickly as it had come, it was replaced with resignation. ¡°I shall do so,¡± she said quietly. She hesitated for a moment, undoubtedly on the verge of a question, but seemed to decide against it. ¡°Please rest, Miss Edda,¡± she said instead, before departing with a soft thud of the door behind her.

    Of course, given their current predicament, it must seem frivolous of Edda to worry over a tea party. But despite how much she had anticipated such occasions before, her interest now was for an entirely different reason. During her first life, she had arrived at the castle the very night she had awoken in the carriage. The next day, the welcome feast had been held¡ªbut this time around, it had happened a day late.

    Today¡¯s tea party, too, was happening a day later than it had before. What would that mean for her knowledge of the events to come? Would everything continue on as it had before, as if there had been no delay at all? Would lessons and gatherings and, eventually, balls and parties proceed as she remembered? If they did, then perhaps her prior knowledge could be used to her advantage.

    But first, she needed to grasp how exactly things were unfolding now that she had shifted the timeline. And to do so she would need to line up as many details as she could remember from her first life with what was occurring in this one. Last night¡¯s supper had been both different and¡ªshe thought¡ªquite similar to what she remembered. The dining room and its occupants had been identical as had, she wagered, most of the conversation. But talk of the cities they hailed from, of fashion, and of the things to come were standard fare, and not necessarily a sure sign that things were the same. Especially when other things, like her meeting with Lady Novak, definitely had not happened before.

    The tea party would tip the scales either in or against her favor. And for today, Marta would have to serve as her eyes.

    Edda stood at last, and made her way over to the small, wooden writing desk that sat just below the chamber¡¯s window. A fat ink pot and pristine quill waited sagely upon it. For a moment, she ran her fingers along its smooth, familiar surface; indeed, it was here that she had written her letters to Franka, during her first year or so at Cachtice Castle. Only silly, superficial nonsense had ever been contained in those letters. Certainly, they had been interesting to her then. And though part of her longed for such inconsequential exchanges once more, it would not help her or Marta right now.

    They needed protection from a witch, and for that she would need to write to Gretel.

    As she reached into the shelf below the writing top, her fingers came upon the unwrinkled stack of parchment that had been stored there for her use. She thumbed a piece out, placing it before her as she settled herself on the stool. For a moment, she allowed herself to pause, peering out across the countryside and shivering as the cool breeze from the open window brushed her skin.

    It really was just as she remembered it. The neat cluster of wood and stone structures below her¡ªthe outer walls, the gatehouse, the barracks, and the stables and kennels behind them. The packed dirt training grounds, where another cohort of guards had begun their exercises. And in the distance, the rolling hills, the dense forests, the patches of village and farmland. It was as though an image from her memories of ten years past was displayed before her, and the feeling of reminiscence almost overcame her.

    She could imagine the very same scene if her eyes were closed, the view from this writing desk. Seeing it again had made it all the more vivid in her mind. Coupled with the mundane sounds that drifted in through the window, and the fresh smell of spring on the air¡ªwhy, it was almost peaceful. Almost enough to lull her into believing that the past decade of pretense and the betrayal that had come at the end of it were just part of a long, lucid black dream.

    But believing such a lie would be too sweet, too convenient. It was precisely that type of gullibility that had led her astray in the first place. No more. Never again.

    The sight before her, even her pleasant memories of it¡ªthey were the illusion. A carefully constructed fa?ade of normalcy, beneath which something sinister lurked. Above which the threat of witchery hung. Like the blood witch this place harbored, this too was evil disguised as innocence. She would have to unmask it. She would need to reveal the seams that stitched this deception together and rip them out.

    That was the only way she would survive. It was the only way to uncover each and every one of the secrets that had killed her. The only way to solve the new mystery that had just materialized before her.

    Blood witches were usually children, Marta had said. But in all her time at Cachtice Castle, no child had called this place home.

    Without realizing it, she had crumpled the edge of the parchment before her. She released it now, flattening it with her fingers. She took a deep breath, pushing down the anxiety that clawed and clamored in her chest, and began to write.

 16. Waiting

    I have little yet to report, but already I fear it is as you suspected. I require several branches of blackthorn and any other materials you would find prudent.

    In the end, it was more of a note than a letter. Edda sat back, allowing the ink to dry. She had written in a manner far more concise than she was used to, and in a hand quite unlike her usual flowing script. Each word had been considered carefully to relay only the bare minimum, and the letters had been penned large and blocky. She had not included her name or Gretel¡¯s upon the page.

    Never mind that she had no idea how Gretel would read the missive; the fact of the matter was, she hadn¡¯t a clue how this letter would be delivered to her, or who might read it on its way. When she had sent letters in the past, they had been handed directly to a servant with instructions on where they were to be sent and whisked away to their destination through means largely unknown to her. She assumed they were taken by the wagons that arrived regularly from surrounding towns and villages and passed from hand to hand until they reached their intended recipient.

    But Edda could not simply entrust this correspondence to one of Cachtice Castle¡¯s servants. Because she knew, without a doubt, that Steward Lukacs would hear that she had sent a letter to the healer of a village she claimed never to have met.

    She had only two options open to her. The first, most probable, was to deliver the letter directly to a wagon bound for Ecsed¡ªhopefully, without being seen by anyone else in the castle. Already, she had asked Marta to find out when the next wagon from the village was due. If Gretel trusted the driver¡¯s son, Peter, to bring word from her, then Edda hoped he could be trusted take word back, as well.

    But it might very well be another fortnight before the wagon arrived. Then, it would be a fortnight again before its next appearance with the blackthorn. Edda shuddered. Perhaps she worried unnecessarily. Perhaps it truly was not as urgent as it felt. From what she could remember, nothing nefarious would happen for months yet. So maybe, neither she nor Marta would be in danger from waiting for a few branches.

    But she believed now that witchery was involved. They could not take any chances.

    Edda ran the pads of her fingers gently over the ink. Finding that it had dried, she folded it once, setting it aside and tucking a corner of it beneath the inkpot. The second, more uncertain avenue would be through the friend that Gretel had so evasively mentioned. The woman had given her no information on who they were or how to find them, only that they would retrieve her letters.

    Edda sighed. The letter would just have to wait upon her desk until the wagon came, unless some magic of Gretel¡¯s manifested this friend of hers sooner. She certainly hoped that would be the case.

    While she had labored over the letter, the afternoon had worn on. The sun had moved across the sky and was now out of her view, inching down toward the horizon somewhere to the west. But the sky was still bright and there was plenty of daylight left. The residents of Cachtice Castle still bustled about below her, and somewhere among them was Marta.

    She would be at the tea party now, in a quiet line alongside the other maids, listening and observing as Edda had asked her to. Edda placed her elbows upon the desk, cradling her head with worry. She knew that she should have insisted upon attending; that the best person to identify the commonalities between this party and the one she had already experienced would be none other than herself. She knew, and yet she had asked Marta to go instead.

    Still, even though she had resolved to take matters into her own hands, she relied on Marta. Still, she rendered herself the useless, pampered girl she had always been, hiding away in this chamber as though she were actually ill, when in fact she was just frightened. The weight of her head caused a twinge of pain to her wrist, and she raised her eyes to look at the now loose splint. She gripped the injured wrist with her other hand and squeezed.

    There were only a few things she could remember with certainty about the gathering, and she did not know if it would be enough to tell her whether the two events were the same. She could recall which of the parlors it had been held in, but there were only two parlors used for such small, informal meetings anyway. She could remember that they had spoken of teas, and possibly also of the lessons that would begin the next day. But again, these things were common topics of conversation¡ªthey could not be definitive.

    There was only one thing that might convince her. One mishap that had occurred near the end, that had not happened at any other tea party she had attended. Her wrist pulsed with discomfort, and she eased her grasp upon it. She would just have to wait for Marta¡¯s account.

    For a time, she let her eyes drift across the vast forests blanketing the landscape, still mostly grey and brown with the occasional pocket of dark green. Far upon the horizon, a glittering ribbon of dark blue water announced the Vah River, a sight that she had frequently admired. But she found no solace, no reprieve from her anxieties, now. Although there was nothing more to be done, dark thoughts twisted and coiled about her¡ªdisgust with herself, that she should sit here self-indulgent as ever, and a deep-seated apprehension that something, somewhere, was going wrong.

    But all she could do was wait.

    Wait for Marta to tell her of the tea party and of the missing village girls. Wait for the supply wagon to arrive and then wait for Gretel¡¯s aid. After that, she would wait for months to pass, to see if Marta would die, if another of the girls would be chosen as Countess, if she would be able to return to Hesse or if a blood witch would have her first. Just as she had waited her whole life before this, for others to tell her what to do and say, for them to guide her as they willed, for them to lead her to her destruction.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    A horrible restless frustration welled up within her, and she stood suddenly, slamming a hand onto the desk. She was used to waiting, wasn¡¯t she? The last and final year of her life she had spent in the dungeons, many feet below where she now stood, waiting. Waiting for a scrap of spoiled food, waiting as her body and mind disintegrated about her, waiting as others were taken to their fates, until she was the only one waiting for her own. And here she was, readying to wait again, as she always did.

    There had to be something else she could do.

    But what? Edda stepped back from the desk now and began to pace in the space between the bed and window, unable to contain the nervous energy that welled up within her. What exactly was she capable of, without someone else¡¯s assistance? She could not move about the castle without notice, and it would be inappropriate of her to speak too easily to the servants. She was trapped within this chamber until she was believably well enough to take part in the activities expected of her, and then she would be constrained to them.

    But even were that not the case, she was just as useless. Her entire upbringing had prepared her to live a life of ease and, indeed, she had done just that. Her skill at the lute would give her no answers, her good embroidery would not reveal the blood witch, and no amount of etiquette and dance would save her or Marta. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she paced. She was shackled to an existence of endless waiting, because she had never learned to do anything else.

    She ground her teeth. But if she had time to wait, then she would have time to learn. And she knew of a place that might afford her a great deal of learning, if she could get to it.

    You must choose when to be seen.

    Again, the cursed crow¡¯s words had come to her and, again, she found that they presented her with a tantalizing solution¡ªnot in choosing when to be seen, but in choosing, once more, how she would be seen. Even knowing as she did now that the crow was a witch¡¯s messenger could not deter her entirely. Perhaps, as she already suspected, she was being led toward a new and different demise. But, at least, she would not be quietly awaiting it this time. Approaching it was better than letting it come to her, because if she was already moving, maybe this time she could move to avoid it.

    By the time Marta returned, just as the sun was setting, Edda had quietly made up her mind. It would be a risk, of course, but so was doing nothing. More than anything, it was a risk that would give her something to do other than wallow away in this chamber, with Marta shouldering most of the burden she herself needed to carry if she wanted to survive. How big of a risk would depend on what Marta told her about today¡¯s tea party.

    ¡°How was it?¡± Edda questioned from her place on the settle, almost before Marta could secure the door behind her.

    Even more than she had this morning, Marta looked tired. She plopped herself rather unceremoniously down across from Edda with a sigh, in the seat that already seemed to have become hers in their short time using this chamber. ¡°They¡¯ve dried garlic they¡¯ll send up with supper. And wine, as well,¡± Marta reported. ¡°The cook¡¯s rather tightfisted with her salt, though.¡± Marta produced a small pouch, no larger than her palm, from the pocket of her apron, placing it on the table between them. ¡°It¡¯s not enough. But I¡¯ve agreed to help mornings in the kitchen, so I¡¯ll bring her around.¡± She rubbed a hand over her face. ¡°Or I¡¯ll steal it, if I have to.¡±

    Edda blinked in surprise. Marta, too, seemed surprised at her own words, but she did not retract them. After a moment, Edda simply nodded; somehow, although Marta had never expressed such nefarious intentions before, it did not seem uncharacteristic given their situation. ¡°And the tea party?¡± There was a fresh knot of hope and anxiety in her stomach as she asked the question, for many of her assumptions about the world she now navigated would depend on the answer.

    The creases upon Marta¡¯s brow seemed to deepen, but nonetheless, she recounted the gathering, pausing with pursed lips to consider each of Edda¡¯s oddly specific questions. Indeed, the parlor had overlooked a small, still-wintering garden with a marble fountain as its centerpiece. Why yes, the drapes and upholstery were of a light blue, piped with gold. And, of course, a luxurious black tea from the east had been served with sugar and cream to lighten it, alongside honey cakes and jam.

    ¡°It is almost as though you were there yourself,¡± Marta commented warily, a rather puzzled expression on her face. But it was not enough for Edda to be convinced that she had, because there had been many tea parties in that very parlor¡ªsome of which she had herself hosted¡ªand honey cakes and jam were typical fare for this time of year when fresh fruit was sparse.

    Likewise, the conversations were as Edda had presumed they would be; rather trivial and unimportant. It did not tell her what she needed to know. Nor could she precisely remember what color dresses Lady Novak and the other girls had been wearing, so although Marta could describe these in great detail, the information added little to her mental tally. But tomorrow¡¯s first lesson would take place in the afternoon, leading up to supper, and be on dining room etiquette, just as before. That seemed to promise that the sequence of events had not been majorly disrupted.

    ¡°And was there anything else?¡± Edda prompted, fishing for information she did not wish to share in case Marta found the already odd interrogation too off-putting.

    Marta thought for a beat, then answered, ¡°There was, as a matter of fact.¡± She rubbed a finger over her chin. ¡°Just as I was leaving. I didn¡¯t see the whole mess, but it seems that the young lady with the spectacles¡ªMiss Szalai, I think¡ªtook a bit of a stumble. Must have grabbed the tablecloth. By the time I looked, the last of the honey cakes were on the floor.¡±

    It was¡ªalmost¡ªprecisely what Edda had wanted to hear. She remembered quite clearly how Agneta had tripped over her skirts at the end of the tea party, just as she began to rise from her seat. The honey cakes had ended up on the floor then, too¡ªand Edda, who had been seated beside the unfortunate girl, had seen her teacup join them with a resounding crack. It was the one, defining moment that distinguished this tea party from the numerous others Edda had attended.

    And this was close enough. Agneta had stumbled. The honey cakes had fallen. That no teacup had met its end today was likely because Edda had not been there, and none had been set out for her. Something not quite relief, but akin to it, welled up within her. Things were different this time, but not so different that she could not predict them. That meant that she had at least one advantage, if she could remember enough for it to become useful.

    And she would take any advantage, however small and tenuous, that she could get.

 17. Pretense

    There was a strange banality to the remainder of the evening; as though she and Marta had been plucked out of some terrifying black dream and inserted back into reality. And yet, it was not commonplace at all, but punctuated by small moments that served to remind them both of their, frankly, surreal situation.

    Supper was brought up by the same three servants who had served their midday meal. Nestled among the laden plates was a carafe of sweet, pungent wine, and a small bowl with two bulbs of dried garlic. If her knowledge of what they were to be used for perturbed her, Marta did not show it. Instead, she greeted the servant women with some familiarity, remarking after that day¡¯s events and answering their polite questions after Edda¡¯s health with a smile.

    After they departed, she explained that she had spent some time with them that afternoon, readying the platters of tea and honey cakes that had been served at the tea party. ¡°Proper folk,¡± Marta commented, as she poked and prodded at her plate. She slowly chewed a roasted potato before thoughtfully adding, ¡°They all are, really. The Steward must keep them in a tight line.¡±

    At the end of their meal, Marta deftly peeled the bulbs of garlic, popping each clove out and straight into the wine. She upturned an empty cup over the spout of the carafe, shielding its contents from the open air, before carrying it over to be concealed amongst their belongings. It was all carried out quite sensibly, as if she were doing nothing more than the most normal of tasks, and Edda could not tell if it was the matter-of-fact manner with which Marta approached the protective concoction, or the concoction itself, that brought her a sense of relief.

    ¡°We¡¯ll let it steep overnight, since we¡¯ve little means to boil it,¡± Marta said, returning to her seat with a sigh. ¡°It will have to do.¡±

    Marta had heard nothing of the village girls¡ªnot a whisper nor a peep. It was a delicate topic, surely; one that would not reflect well upon the Bathory household if widely known, and one which the servants would not be keen to spread to outsiders. But no matter how well-trained the servants, their lips would loosen eventually. The Marta from Edda¡¯s memories had certainly had much to say of the goings on at Cachtice Castle¡ªif only Edda had bothered to listen.

    There was no point in brooding over her stupidity now, though. She would listen this time.

    More importantly, Marta had learned that the supply wagon from Ecsed would arrive five days hence. On the one hand, this confirmed Edda¡¯s fears that they would have to wait weeks for the blackthorn. But on the other hand, it also gave her time to prepare how she would deliver the letter to the wagon. Would having Marta do it be too conspicuous, now that the woman was becoming known to the other servants? Edda swallowed, that nervous energy bubbling forth within her again. Might she send it herself?

    She watched Marta closely as the woman readied them both for bed, bustling from trunk to wardrobe, and back to trunk again as she simultaneously gathered their nighttime necessities and began to unpack their possessions. The woman moved with a quick confidence that only belied Edda¡¯s dependence on her. But Edda did not intend to continue this way.

    The vanity was slowly becoming home to her grooming supplies, and what had not found a place atop the polished wood could be found in the small trunk just beside. Soaps, powders, ornaments, and the like; as well as the pots and packets that Gretel had left with her. Most of Edda¡¯s gowns and silks had already been moved to the wardrobe from the larger of her trunks; the other sizable one carried her undergarments, nightwear, and travel clothes. And right beside Marta¡¯s pallet, in a modestly sized chest, were the woman¡¯s own belongings.

    That was what Edda had mapped out, since their arrival yesterday. Such things had been beneath her before. But no longer.

    ¡°Do not leave me abed in the morning,¡± Edda ordered, reclining upon the bed. It seemed to pull her in, soft and warm, and yet she knew that such physical comfort alone would not lull her to sleep. Not when memories of her imprisonment and execution still smoldered on the edges of her mind, just waiting for the chamber¡¯s candles to be extinguished before they flared to life within her. And not when the myriad uncertainties of this second life piled up around her, threatening to collapse in and bury her the moment her eyes closed.

    She reached a hand out for the cup of water that Marta carried, into which she knew sleeping powder had been mixed. But Marta frowned as she relinquished it. ¡°You should rest, Miss Edda. The kitchens start before the sun has risen, and you¡¯ve no reason to wake so early.¡±

    Edda shook her head, raising the medicated water to her lips. ¡°I¡¯ll not sleep here alone without enough salt to bar the door.¡± She might have slept a year, alone and undisturbed, in this very chamber before¡ªbut it felt foolish to do so now. So, she did not lie to Marta with these words. But she did not tell her the full truth, either.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    She drank deeply from the cup, feeling the tell-tale heaviness of the powder come over her. ¡°Very well,¡± she heard Marta say, and then Edda slept, deeply and dreamlessly.

    The chamber still lay in darkness when Marta gently nudged her from sleep. Edda covered her eyes, squeezing them shut without opening them, as the bright, flickering light of a candle burst forth upon her bedside. Groggily, she slid her hand across her eyelids, willing them to open and adjust so she could make out Marta¡¯s plump silhouette holding back the bed curtains. She could not see Marta¡¯s face well in the dancing shadows, but she could tell that the woman had already dressed and readied herself for the day.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be off now, Miss Edda,¡± Marta said quietly, as though hesitant to disrupt the early morning silence. ¡°I¡¯ve left water for you, and I¡¯ll return for the first meal.¡± Marta drew back the curtain, tying it off at the poster.

    Edda grunted her understanding, still too sleepy to speak. Half dozing still, she listened as Marta moved about the room, making her final few preparations before leaving. The muted sound of Marta¡¯s footsteps seemed to cloud her mind, promising to carry her back down into sleep. It was only when she heard the chamber door open, then close, that she shook herself properly awake, rolling onto her side so that her feet dangled off the bed.

    She pushed herself to a seated position. The candle seemed almost blinding, so black was the room; even her view from the window offered nothing but an inky, colorless expanse. Had she ever been roused this early? Her father had valued industriousness, but even in his household she had slept until the sun had risen. As Countess, her day had started even later¡ªsometimes as late as noon. And, she thought darkly, she had had little sense of time in the endless twilight of the dungeons.

    That was enough to get her to her feet. She stumbled slightly as she fumbled about for her slippers, catching herself upon the bed. She shook her head to clear it of the last of the sleeping powder¡¯s potent effects. She had a purpose this morning, and she could not waste time tripping over herself. Grabbing the candlestick from its perch beside her bed, she made her way first to the basin, conveniently hidden beside the wardrobe behind a recessed wall. The water was uncomfortably cold as she splashed it upon her face, but she welcomed the jolt of wakefulness it brought with it.

    It was time to choose how she would be seen.

    Wiping her face upon her sleeve and her hands upon her skirts, began to gather what she needed¡ªnowhere near as assured in her movements as Marta would have been, but no less intent.

    It took her longer than she would have liked. The early morning was a fleeting beast, and she wore it down in her clumsiness as she dressed herself. Always, someone had been there to assist her. Had it ever been such a struggle to fasten her own stockings? The only simple part seemed to be pulling on one of Marta¡¯s oversized chemises, which was easily fastened at the neck. But she was remarkably inadept at buttoning the plain, brown dress, and even worse at tying one of Marta¡¯s crisp linen aprons about her. At the very least, she knew how to tie her own bootlaces.

    A faint light had begun to stain the sky when, finally, she took in her completed handiwork in the mirror. She made a peculiar sight, that was for certain. Her braid, mussed from sleep, had been tucked away into a poorly tied kerchief, which she had pulled almost as low as her eyebrows. The dress floated about her, lumpy where the too-large chemise bunched below it, and the apron sagged considerably about the chest. The entire get-up was almost indecently short on her frame, skimming her knees. But it would have to do.

    It felt very odd indeed to snuff the candle and turn toward the door; outfitted as she had never been before, at a time of day when she had seldom been awake and destined for one of the few places in Cachtice Castle that she had rarely visited. On those few occasions, she had been the Countess; a gracious hostess allowing her guests a brief tour of one of her late husband¡¯s collections. A collection she had, of course, been fashionably disinterested in. She had never had reason to enter this place alone, let alone sneak into it.

    An almost giddy nervousness came over her as she gently pulled the chamber door open, her palm sweaty upon the handle. She peered out into the dimly lit hallway, glancing back and forth to ensure that it was empty. Only an oil lamp or two had been left to burn overnight, casting deep shadows between each pocket of illumination all the way to the staircase. Distantly, she heard a rapid thumping, and it took her a moment to realize that it was her own heartbeat.

    Before she could think better of it, she slipped swiftly and silently out, pulling the door shut behind her as quietly as she could. She got moving toward the stairs immediately, staying to the shadows when possible. It was unlikely she would be seen here; the girls¡¯ maids would rouse them near midday for the first meal, and none of the castle¡¯s servants should be about this tower until then. Nevertheless, she tried her best to walk at an even pace, hunching her shoulders to conceal her height, and schooling her features to hide her rampant nerves.

    It was best to appear as she wanted to be seen, even if no one was about to see her just yet. She knew, quite well, how to pretend to be someone she was not.

    There was barely a sound to disturb her way. Her steady footsteps and consciously slow breaths each only underscored the still-agitated beating of her heart as she began to make her way down the stairs. She glanced out the windows at the nascent morning. The sun was rising now, a pink and orange band across the sky. She had only a few hours, and she would have to monitor them carefully.

    Reaching the bottom of the South Tower, she took a deep, mustering breath. It was time to make her way to the North Tower, where Cachtice Castle¡¯s library lay in wait.

 18. To the Library

    To the unaccustomed, Cachtice Castle was something of a labyrinth. The South and West Towers had been built first, hundreds of years ago now, with a maze of interconnecting corridors between them. Defense had been a greater priority in those days, and though later years of peace and wealth had seen the narrow passageways illuminated and adorned, the path through them was no less convoluted. But Edda had been Countess of this castle for a decade. Even if she had rarely walked its halls unattended, she trailed her memories through them.

    It was unnerving to follow her own footsteps through the empty corridors. Indeed, she had never known them as they appeared before her now¡ªidentical to the ones she had walked before, yet so much more foreboding. It was terrifying in its own way, to be alone in a place where usually there were others; all the worse because she half expected to turn the next corridor and have her ruse uncovered. Certainly, her heart leapt at her throat each time she came to a fork or bend, where down the dimly lit path she might come face to face with a suspicious servant.

    Being seen by a servant would be unfortunate, yes, but not disastrous. Few of the servants had seen her as yet, and she didn¡¯t think it likely that she would be recognized immediately, dressed as she was in Marta¡¯s clothes. Running into the Steward would be another matter entirely¡ªone she had to hope would not come to pass. But even that prospect was less frightening than the one she grappled with in the corner of her mind¡ªthe one she struggled to set aside, that she might not bolt right back to the safety of her rooms.

    Far worse than the Steward might find her in these corridors. She had no blackthorn upon her. The sun had not fully risen yet, and there were no windows here.

    To calm herself, she endeavoured to focus on how she had chosen to be seen today. It was not as simple as the apron and dress she wore, though that was the first layer of it. There was more to playing a role than purely looking the part. This was something she knew from experience. When she had become the Countess, she had changed the way she looked, yes, but also the way she carried herself, leaving behind her own mannerisms for more refined ones. She had not spoken or danced or smiled or even breathed as Edda Belten of Hesse, but as the Countess Elizabeth Bathory.

    And so, as she neared the Grand Hall, which would take her most directly to the North Tower, she tried to become Marta.

    The Grand Hall was a later addition to Cachtice Castle; a vast, opulent space framed by impressive staircases on either end, serving not only to awe guests upon their arrival, but also as host to the castle¡¯s most important gatherings. Beyond even that, it connected the older parts of the castle to the new, with many corridors converging upon it. If there was any place she might encounter another of the castle¡¯s residents, it was here.

    Her steps faltered only momentarily as she alighted upon the landing which overlooked the Hall, not far from one of the staircases that descended into it. Marta would not dawdle when she was about business¡ªeven at the splendor of the Hall before her¡ªbut she might hesitate slightly given her unfamiliarity with the castle. She quickly and surreptitiously scanned the Hall below for movement and, noticing none, continued on.

    The landing thinned to a balcony that lined the second floor of the Hall in both directions; a space for onlookers to retire and gossip at balls, while dancing proceeded below. Edda turned along it, keeping her head straight in a way that Marta might. She was a maid going about her way, she reminded herself. It would be odd if she appeared too unsure. Already, she had hunched forward and rounded her shoulders to make her height less noticeable. But she did not actually wish to go unnoticed. No, she simply wished to appear as though she were exactly where she should be, headed toward a place she had every right to go.

    She had just about made it to the far end of the Hall when footsteps alerted her to the presence of another, somewhere beneath her in the Hall proper. Almost immediately, her heart began to thunder, her mouth dried, and her hands grew sweaty. But she did not allow her sudden apprehension to reflect in her demeanor; rather, she maintained her pace as best she could. If it were another servant, Marta would have no reason to be wary of them. And if it were not a servant, then even if she showed her fear, it would do her no good.

    But no voice called out to her, and the footsteps went about their way in much the same way she did.

    Finally, she passed beneath the large archway that would take her out of the Hall and directly toward the library. Her unease lifted somewhat, but did not dissipate entirely. The corridors in this wing of the castle were noticeably wider, with higher ceilings and more frequent sconces, their warm glow lighting her way. It was far more pleasant to walk through, but also meant that any she encountered would see her face very well.

    Erected within the lifetime of the Count¡¯s great-grandfather, this section of the castle stood as a monument to the Bathory family¡¯s wealth and influence. There were fewer paintings and tapestries gracing the walls, but decorative columns and borders had been carved into the stone itself. Several other corridors branched off to the left and right of the one she walked, but for the most part, it was a straight line toward the base of the North Tower, where a magnificent set of mahogany doors marked the library entrance.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    She could remember being awed by these doors the first time she had seen them. The wood had been worked into delicate grooves and curves all along their length, expertly carved to give the impression of an untamed forest. But today, her eyes slid toward the polished brass doorknobs, a rather abrupt wave of anxiety coming over her as she focused on the keyhole sitting beneath them.

    Silly, stupid Edda.

    The doors would be locked. For good measure, she raised an unsure hand to the doorknob. Grasping the cool metal, she twisted and pushed but found only resistance.

    Her stomach sunk. As far as she knew, the late Count¡¯s library had been hardly used since his passing. Although widely considered to be a respectable collection of books and manuscripts, compiled by a man of great knowledge and taste, the library may well have never existed during Edda¡¯s time as Countess. Save for the few occasions she had entertained guests there, it had materialized in her consciousness only a handful of times, usually at the behest of some curious nobleman. But books were not a feminine pursuit. None had questioned the Countess¡¯s disinterest in the finer details of her husband¡¯s collection, so Edda had had little reason to visit the place in thought or person.

    Perhaps that was why she had forgotten that it was kept sealed.

    To preserve it in the state that her husband had left it, was the excuse Edda herself had given to those visitors who were not granted access. Whether it was, indeed, marital devotion or¡ªas Edda had vaguely suspected¡ªsome sort of political maneuvering that kept the library doors closed to most mattered little to Edda now. She could feel frustration bubbling up within her. She had come all the way here, only to be foiled by her own stupidity. Hadn¡¯t she been ever so eager to use her memories of the past to her advantage? How could she have forgotten something so basic?

    It was at that moment, as she stood berating herself before those ornate doors, that she heard the approaching sounds of hushed voices and hurried footsteps. Eyes widening¡ªfrustration abruptly replaced with fear¡ªshe quickly glanced behind her. They were not yet in sight, making their way down a corridor somewhere behind and to the left of her, but they were not far off, either. If she did not hide, she would certainly be seen as soon as they turned the corner. And she hadn¡¯t an excuse for why she should be in front of the locked library doors.

    Shaking with nerves, she turned away from the library and down the corridor to her right¡ªnot running but walking as quickly and lightly as she could in the direction opposite the voices. She hastily scanned the path ahead, cursing the wide, brightly lit hallway. Not a column or tapestry to conceal her. The voices had turned onto the main corridor now, and, though she could not tell for certain, they did not seem to be moving away from her. Her heart pounded within her chest, so loud she was certain they would hear it before they saw her.

    Panic seemed to blur her eyesight as the voices grew closer, yet she still refused to run. It would be far more unnatural to be caught running, she knew. A maid would have no reason to run, unless she were up to no good. So, Edda maintained a steady pace, so focused on appearing innocuous that she almost went right past the stairwell. It connected to the hallway at a right angle, ascending the North Tower in a gentle curve.

    Doubling back, she ducked into it and out of sight. Hoping she had not been seen, she began a slow climb as she listened, past the rushing sound of anxiety in her ears, to see whether the voices still neared or had made any comment on her presence.

    ¡°Do you understand what you have done?¡± a woman¡¯s voice hissed. They had stopped, it seemed, some ways back from where she was. ¡°This amounts to theft!¡± Edda blinked, pausing with one foot on the next step. Had she heard that right?

    ¡°Hush now, Ildi. Is it here?¡± another woman asked, clearly exasperated.

    The hallways were just silent enough for Edda to hear someone fumble with a doorknob, turning and pushing to no avail. ¡°Mother of curses, it¡¯s locked,¡± Ildi swore, a tinge of desperation in her voice. Were they trying to enter the library, just as she had moments ago? Edda¡¯s heart hammered against her ribs. ¡°We¡¯ll be banished. Your father will have me flogged.¡±

    ¡°Quit your puffing,¡± the other woman said sharply before demanding, ¡°Your hairpin.¡±

    ¡°What!¡± Ildi exclaimed.

    ¡°Give me your blasted hairpin.¡±

    Edda¡¯s breaths shook as she eased herself back down the stairs, flattening her body against the wall so as not to be seen. She should want no part in what Ildi and her difficult companion were about. The library was locked and she had failed; so the smart thing to do would be to stay hidden until they left, and then head straight back to her chambers before she was caught. Edda chewed her lip, listening to the muffled movements of the two women she could not see.

    Despite herself, she was curious.

    There was an assortment of soft rustling and gentle clicking from their direction. ¡°Mother and maiden, Neta,¡± Ildi whined, ¡°Where did you learn such a thing?¡±

    Swallowing thickly, Edda crept closer to the edge of the wall. Her hands were fisted in her skirts to prevent them from trembling. She had not expected to encounter others here, at this time. She could not have known about Ildi and Neta, because she had never attempted anything like this before. Would she really just return to her chambers, having accomplished nothing more than a walk in Marta¡¯s clothing?

    Could she chance a look at them? Did she dare?

    Before she could decide either way, a loud pop resounded from down the hall. Someone gasped in surprise. ¡°That does it,¡± Neta said smugly, and then Edda heard unmistakeable groan of the library¡¯s massive doors opening. Her eyes widened. How had they done it? They certainly had not had a key.

    ¡°Mother and maiden,¡± Ildi repeated, her voice shaking.

    Steeling herself, Edda pressed her chest to the wall and inched forward just far enough to poke the top of her head out from the stairwell. She watched for a moment, then two; her shock and confusion mounting.

    Agneta Szalai extracted a small pin from the door¡¯s keyhole, a triumphant smile on her face. Beside her, her reluctant maid¡ªa wiry, pale young woman¡ªfidgeted uncomfortably. ¡°Come now,¡± Agneta said, slipping into the library.

    With a defeated sigh, Ildi followed, and the library doors closed behind them.

 19. Amongst the Travelogues

    The corridor was silent once more but for the sound of Edda¡¯s own tremulous breaths. She blinked several times, as though clearing her vision might also clarify what she had just witnessed. But there was little mistaking it, was there? Her view of the hallway had been unobstructed, lit brightly by the flickering oil lamps. There was hardly a shadow to be found in the space between where she stood and the library¡ªnothing for her eyes to be deceived by. Those mahogany doors had opened, and Agneta and her maid, Ildi, had disappeared within.

    And, if her ears had heard right, they had stolen something. Or was it that they intended to?

    She retreated into the stairwell, her mind racing. This most certainly sounded like something she did not want to involve herself in. Thievery! She had her hands quite full enough without adding that to the pot. If she still had any sense left in her¡ªafter forgetting the library would be locked, after coming so close to being caught¡ªshe should find her way back to her rooms right this instant. If she started walking now, she could put a reasonable enough distance between herself and the library before anyone else came upon her.

    But Edda hesitated, unwilling to leave the relative safety of her hiding spot. She did not know how long Agneta and Ildi would take in the library. It was possible she¡¯d walk right into them as they left, and she was not entirely sure how that encounter would go. Before today, she had thought of Agneta as quiet, moody, and rather uninteresting. But she had somehow unlocked the door of the library, using a hairpin no less. And there was the uncertain matter of the theft¡­

    Edda chewed her lip, anxiously. She did not know enough about Agneta and Ildi¡¯s activities to guarantee that she could silence them if they recognized her. She was, herself, in a rather questionable state, and in some ways her intentions were little better than theirs. But she could not just wait for them to leave, either.

    Or could she?

    Agneta would have to make it back to the South Tower before the summons came for the midday meal. She would be expected to dine alongside the other girls and¡ªas far as Edda could remember¡ªshe had been neither noticeably late nor absent to any gathering, at least until her sudden nuptials in the summer. Furthermore, if Agneta and Ildi were indeed up to no good, nothing in Edda¡¯s memories suggested that they would ever be caught.

    It was a gamble. Edda glanced upward, to where a sliver of morning light flooded in from a window, half hidden around the curve of the tower. There was still time. The longer she waited, the riskier it would be to make her way back to her chambers. But if her reasoning held fast, the same was true for Agneta and Ildi. If anything, they would need to be more cautious than she if they wished their supposed crime to go unnoticed.

    And, perhaps, once they left, the library door would still be unlocked.

    Edda counted her breaths as she waited, eyeing the window warily in an attempt to keep track of the time. She hoped she would be able to tell if the sun was climbing too high in the sky, but really she was trusting Agneta and Ildi to leave well before noon¡¯s approach. She kept herself pressed closely against the wall at the entrance of the stairwell, near enough to hear if there was movement in the corridor but hidden enough not to be seen from it.

    The time seemed to pass excruciatingly slowly, but it could not have been more than a quarter of the hour before she heard the tell-tale groan of the library doors as they opened once more. Quiet voices, deep in argument, surfaced again within the corridor. Edda tensed, barely breathing¡ªlistening desperately to ensure they were not headed her way.

    ¡°They¡¯ve been through them already,¡± Ildi griped miserably, ¡°They must know it was missing.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯ll look again for it, I¡¯m sure,¡± Agneta replied, sounding rather unconvinced herself, ¡°I put it with the others, so they¡¯ll just think it misplaced amongst the travelogues.¡±

    Those massive doors creaked shut, and the soft scuffs of the women¡¯s footsteps could be heard as they hurried away¡ªback the way they had come, it seemed. Their voices dissipated with their departure until Edda could no longer make out their words. And soon, the only sounds she could hear were her own measured breaths, shaking ever so slightly with anxiety.

    She did not venture out immediately. If the library doors were again locked, she would have to make her way back to the Grand Hall with little delay. She did not want to be caught lingering in this wing of the castle, which had been seldom occupied since the Count¡¯s passing. If Agneta and Ildi had decided to pass through the Hall, as well¡ªfor it was the most efficient path back to the South Tower¡ªshe wanted them to be well ahead of her. So, although her body thrummed with nervous energy, she forced herself to remain where she was for a few minutes more.

    Restless as she was, Edda considered the snippets of conversation she had heard between the two women. She did not want to involve herself in their scheme¡ªthat had not changed¡ªbut something in their exchange had bothered her. They had returned something to the library¡ªlikely a book¡ªperhaps having taken it at an earlier date. Whether that amounted to theft, or just a bit of wrongful borrowing, was not her concern. What she found peculiar was that they had alluded to someone else visiting the library in search of what they had just replaced.

    There were very few at Cachtice Castle who could even read. And the doors of the library opened only with the Countess¡¯s permission.

    It could mean nothing at all, of course. Maybe the Countess intended to lend a book; it had happened during Edda¡¯s time in her role, and it was not implausible that it might have happened before, without Edda¡¯s knowledge. But Edda had come to the library on this day with the vague notion of learning something. This was as good a place to start as any.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    That all depended, of course, on whether the library doors remained unlocked. Steeling herself, Edda poked her head out of the stairwell, sneaking a swift glance down the corridor to where the library lay in wait. There was no sign that anyone approached, and enough time had passed that Agneta and Ildi must be well clear of the hallway. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her sweaty hands on her skirts¡ªsmoothing apron and dress alike¡ªhunched her shoulders and set out once more.

    The short walk back to the library doors was a strained one. She felt even more on edge now¡ªnot only had she nearly been seen here already, but time was increasingly of the essence and still there was no guarantee that she would be able to enter the library. But for all the trouble she had been through, she was determined to come away with something today. She could not bear to return to her rooms as ignorant as she had left them.

    Although Edda had hoped for it, her heart very nearly leapt out of her chest with surprise when the doors to the library eased open at her gentle insistence. The noise they made, even opening to such a small degree, seemed comically loud in the silence¡ªloud enough to wake the entire castle, she felt. Hastily, she squeezed herself past, shutting them behind her in the span of a breath. With her back pressed against the cool wood of the doors, as though to prevent any from following her within, she listened for several long moments¡ªcertain she would hear footsteps converging upon her.

    When, finally, she was able to convince herself that she had not been discovered, she turned her attention to the Count Bathory¡¯s library. It enveloped her, as daunting and impressive as she remembered it. Below the high, vaulted ceiling, mahogany bookshelves stood in long rows, creating shadowy aisles through which visitors might wander. Straight ahead, a massive writing desk sat framed by the shelves; the large windows behind it providing the vast space with its only illumination¡ªthat of a morning which was fast advancing toward noon.

    She hadn¡¯t the time to wander around any longer, she realized. Even if she knew that Agneta had placed the book she sought amongst the travelogues, she hadn¡¯t the first idea of where those were kept. It would take far too long to scan each shelf when she hardly knew what she was looking for. But before her frustration could return full force, her eyes alighted upon a sizable wooden chest set before the desk. Had it been her first time in this library, she might not have looked twice at it. It was finely crafted, with polished iron straps and handles¡ªnot at all out of place in a room so splendid.

    It might be empty. It could be full of garbage, for all she knew. But it was right in front of her. And it was the first time she had ever seen it.

    Edda went straight to it, falling to her knees as she reached it. To her relief, there was no padlock. The lid was heavy, but she pushed it open with only a sharp protest or two from her still swollen wrist. As she took in its contents, she released a breath she had not realized she had been holding. It was half-filled with books. Perhaps these were those the Countess intended to lend out? She could not be certain, but it was the only guess she had to go on.

    The light of the windows was blocked almost completely by the desk and the lid of the chest, but through squinted eyes Edda was able to make out several titles¡ªprinted in fine letters along the ornamented, leatherbound spines:

    The Travels of Benjamin of Tudela

    Sir John Mandeville¡¯s Voyages and Travels

    The Transylvanian Journeys

    For the first time that day, Edda felt a spark of triumph¡ªmuted though it was by her urgency. Were these the travelogues that Agneta had referred to¡ªnot shelved, as Edda had assumed, but gathered in this chest for whatever reason? If she was correct, the book she searched for might be among them. She reached in, pressing her finger along the covers as she continued to scan the titles.

    She had been through nearly half a dozen of them before one caught her interest. Her eyes narrowed. Carefully, she picked it out from its resting place, snug between The Pilgrim¡¯s Chronicles and Across the Carpathians; it appeared a bit older than the others, certainly thinner, with a rougher and more worn binding.

    ¡°In the Aspects of Mother, Maiden, and Crone,¡± she murmured. It was not an account of someone¡¯s travels, that was for certain. Was it some kind of theological text? No, she hadn¡¯t the time now to read through it and find out. She was skilled at reading, but she was more accustomed to correspondence than the scholarly or religious language she might find within. It might take her hours, even days to decipher the book entirely, small though it was.

    She would have to take it with her.

    It was a terrifying prospect. She had wanted no part in Agneta and Ildi¡¯s thievery, and yet she now considered her own. She would return the book, of course, but that did not excuse how her actions would be interpreted if she was caught carrying it off today. Would they throw her back in the dungeons? The thought was like having ice water poured down her back, and her fingers stiffened, dropping the book back into its place.

    She began to tremble, clutching the side of the trunk for purchase. Not the dungeons. Not again.

    Her breaths began to shorten as her chest constricted, and she shut her eyes against the sudden tears behind them. This was madness¡ªall of it. What on earth had she hoped to accomplish here? This had been a stupid, silly plan right from the beginning, and she had known it the moment she found the library doors locked earlier. It was pure, dumb luck that she had found herself here, and she would be pushing it beyond belief if she went any further.

    She could not steal the book and risk putting herself back in that dark, cramped cell ten years early.

    A sharp, lancing pain from her left wrist, warning her of the tightness of her grip, seemed to pause her spiral. She swallowed back a sob as she pushed herself up from the ground, shutting the chest as she did so. The daylight grew still brighter in the peaceful quiet of the library. She had to go back. Already, servants would be about. Marta might even be on her way back to their chambers by this time, and Edda had little desire to explain this excursion to her.

    She turned, taking one step, then two toward the doors.

    Back to safety. Back to ignorance. Back to allowing Marta to take all the risks, while she did nothing but wait, as wilfully stupid as ever.

    She did not know what came over her. She could not have explained it to herself. One moment, she had raised her foot to continue back to her rooms, and the next, she was once more before the open chest, stuffing In the Aspects of Mother, Maiden, and Crone down the front of her dress. For good measure¡ªand with just as little thought¡ªshe grabbed Across the Carpathians, as well.

    Adjusting the baggy apron about her¡ªtying it such that the books were concealed about her waist¡ªand tamping down the fearful tremors that immediately beset her, she began the journey back to the South Tower. In her mind, Marta¡¯s matter-of-fact words from the night before echoed solemnly.

    I¡¯ll steal it, if I have to. She would not let Marta be the only one.

 20. Dumb Fortune

    The controlled thud of the chamber door behind her brought with it a relief so potent that Edda¡¯s entire body began to shake. Somehow, with clenched fists and gritted teeth, she had made her way back to her rooms; maintaining some semblance of normalcy despite the cold sweat that trickled down her back and the relentless drumming of her heart. She might have counted the number of breaths she took on a hand, so terrified she¡¯d been of the books tumbling out from beneath her dress on a careless exhale. But somehow, they¡¯d remained in place, and not one of the servants she had passed on her way had stopped her; pausing only to nod their greeting or offer a passing word of acknowledgment.

    It seemed like her silly, stupid plan had met with dumb fortune.

    Even better, a rapid scan of the chamber showed that Marta had not yet returned. Edda could have laughed and cried, too, at the sight of the empty room. She had made it. But it was not quite over yet.

    Loosening the apron, she fished the two books out, holding them with trembling hands. These had to be hidden, before anything else. Rounding the bed, such that the drawn curtains would conceal her from sight should anyone enter, she hurriedly considered her options. She would have to find a temporary hiding spot, for now; somewhere that Marta would not look upon for a while, at least.

    The bed would have to do. It was already rumpled from use, and Edda could easily prevent Marta from arranging it by remaining within. Kicking off her boots, she climbed amongst the jumble of pillows and quilts and blankets, reaching past the side of the bed she slept on to slide the two books beneath the covers. She did not have time to agonize over whether it was the correct choice, though she certainly wished to. She could see the window from here, with the sun high in the sky; Marta would be back soon, and their midday meal would be at her heels.

    Fueled by her haste, Edda stripped; struggling out of each garment and back into her nightdress. She had just shrugged into her housecoat when she heard the chamber door open.

    ¡°I have returned, Miss Edda,¡± Marta called, ¡°The foods brought up, as well.¡± Though her view of the door was blocked by the bedcurtains, the undeniable sound of footsteps¡ªmultiple sets¡ªcould be heard entering. The servants had come with her.

    Edda¡¯s eyes widened in panic, flitting first to the wrinkled pile of clothing she had left upon the bed and then to her haphazardly discarded boots. She¡¯d planned on returning them to their proper places. But there was no way she could do that now¡ªnot without being seen by Marta and the servants who accompanied her.

    ¡°A moment,¡± she called back, flinching at how high her voice sounded. Moving faster than she ever had before, she clumsily gathered the used garments into a ball, shoving them behind her pillow in almost the same movement that she used to kick her boots beneath the bed. Heart thundering, she stood frozen for a moment¡ªhoping desperately that she had not missed anything and cursing herself with the certainty that she had.

    ¡°Miss Edda?¡± Marta queried, passing around the bed now to where Edda was. The older woman regarded her with concern, ¡°Are you unwell again?¡±

    Despite her best efforts, it took Edda a beat to reply, ¡°Took a stumble off the bed, is all.¡± In as natural a gesture as she could muster, she pulled the bedcurtain closed a fraction behind her, hoping it would conceal any traces of her rushed clean up. Stepping forward, she nodded in the direction of where their meal was being laid out. ¡°A meal will set me to rights.¡± If nothing else, it would distract them both from what Edda had been up to this morning.

    Indeed, the promising scent of food had begun to fill the room and, although her body still thrummed with alarm, she offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Ever unconvinced, Marta returned a doubtful glance, but did not question her further. Instead, she turned to assist the servants. Edda¡¯s knees wobbled as she followed, her urgency fading to unease. She took her usual seat upon the settle, her mouth dry in spite of her appetite and the fragrant fare before her.

    Edda tried her best not to show her discomfort, but with the evidence of her misdeeds just feet away, her expressions felt rather stiff and forced. Luckily, Marta had further accustomed herself to the servants and they paid her little mind as they arranged the table, sharing smiles and the occasional word amongst themselves.

    Once the servants departed, leaving them to dine, Edda calmed considerably. It was one thing to be found out by them, after all, and entirely another to be discovered by Marta. Marta would not report her activities to the Steward.

    The meal commenced with Marta¡¯s worried questions. She seemed to believe, more than anything, that Edda was unwell again. Edda, grateful for the diversion of eating, did not attempt to dissuade her. ¡°I am rather tired,¡± she agreed, ploughing through her bowl of spicy fish stew. She¡¯d need little more reason to stay abed the rest of the day, and Marta would be reluctant to disturb her.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°I¡¯ll rest a while myself, while the sun is up,¡± Marta agreed, picking at her own food, ¡°Then I¡¯ll return to the kitchens to help with supper, and be back to eat with you in the evening.¡±

    Despite declaring that she would rest, Marta continued to totter about the chamber long after Edda had moved herself to the bed. With the curtains closed, the books nestled beside her, and her head upon the borrowed clothing, Edda monitored Marta¡¯s quiet movements¡ªback and forth, from the washbasin to the vanity, and one trunk to another. Surely, Marta would decide to change her apron and notice one of them missing. Or perhaps a bootlace would slither out from beneath the bed and unveil the entire act.

    Her dumb fortune had to run out at some point.

    It was not so much Marta¡¯s admonishment that Edda feared, though the kindly woman could certainly be fearsome when she wished to be. But while Marta might have few reservations about dirtying her own hands if the need arose, she would certainly not allow Edda to do the same. And though some part of Edda still wished that she could leave matters entirely to the older woman, the greater part of her knew that she could not.

    She was no longer the wayward girl of seventeen years that Marta had so faithfully tended. Beyond the decade of memories Edda now had to draw upon, she had already decided that she was done with waiting. Even if nothing she did bore any fruit, even if it was all for her own self-gratification¡ªit was past time for her to act.

    At last, Marta took her leave, announced only by the soft shutting of the chamber door. Alone again in the stillness of her room, Edda set about properly replacing the items she had used that morning. It was a far clumsier affair than she anticipated. Despite her best efforts, she could not smooth the wrinkles from Marta¡¯s garments, nor could she fold them quite as neatly as Marta would have. She had rarely ever folded clothing in her life, after all, and it had always looked much simpler when Marta did it.

    After several frustrating attempts, she could only think to carefully unpack Marta¡¯s trunk, place the poorly arranged articles at the very bottom, and then cautiously lower Marta¡¯s things atop them. At least, if she thought to use them again, she would know exactly where they were and, hopefully, Marta would not suspect anything had been disturbed. When she did, inevitably, come upon the outfit, the unruly creases could be explained away by their unfortunate position beneath everything else.

    Finally, it was time to test whether her dumb fortune had, indeed, manifested anything of use. Settling herself upon the bed once more, with the curtains pulled back just enough to welcome the afternoon light within, she brought out the two books. Across the Carpathians, with its fine leather binding and embossed lettering, certainly seemed the more appealing of the two. Like the stack she had pulled it from, it was undoubtedly an account of some author¡¯s travels through the vast Carpathian Mountains; a range she had often admired as it towered over the town of Hesse. She did not know why she had taken it, except that it had been right next to the only book that stood out.

    In the Aspects of Mother, Maiden, and Crone looked rather more battered and old, its letters stamped onto the worn leather in faded ink. This had to be the book that Agneta had returned, but beyond the questions of how and why the other girl had acquired it¡ªhaving only been at the castle a day or two longer than Edda herself¡ªwas the far more important mystery of why someone in the Countess¡¯s household was interested in it. Was it simply to be lent out? Or was it being sought for some other reason?

    Perhaps most intriguingly, the chest had been half-filled. Had other books accompanied the travelogues she¡¯d found there this morning? And, if so, where had they gone?

    Truthfully, Edda had low expectations of the book before her. Perhaps it would tell her something of what knowledge the Countess currently traded in, and maybe, if her luck persisted, that would become useful at some point. After all, she had been ignorant of not only what was really happening within the castle walls¡ªmurders and witchery, if her executioner was to be believed¡ªbut also of what had happened beyond it. She¡¯d had no idea of the unrest in the village. Perhaps, the discontent went even further than that. And, although she knew the Countess to be broadly respected, Edda had been and was still entirely blind to the political machinations surrounding the woman.

    Ever so briefly, she recalled the man who had first deemed her witch. Who had taken her name and then set her alight. She did not think of him longer than she had to, just enough to remember that he had called himself the Marquis of Heves.

    Not every execution was presided over by a Marquis, let alone one so powerful as hailed from Heves.

    Edda¡¯s fingers shook as she cracked open the book, determined not to be deterred despite her frightening memories and the choking fear that crept into her throat. It had dawned on her already, almost as an afterthought, that his presence and all the fanfare surrounding her death must mean something more. The Countess Bathory had been burned, and even though it had been Edda in her place, to depose of such a prominent noblewoman was no small feat.

    So, indeed, perhaps there would be some merit in knowing more about the Countess¡¯s dealings. In understanding how she ruled her realm, who her allies were, and which of them might become her enemies.

    But, and Edda realized it now with clarity as she began to peruse the opening pages, what she had really wished to find in the library was something that would help her and Marta.

    Something she could use now, to escape or to fight back; something that would make her more than what she was¡ªa victim, at the mercy of forces she still could not fathom.

    And, as the hours wore on and the indecipherable words before her continued on page after perplexing page, Edda became certain that such a blessing would not be so simply found.

 21. Unexpectedly Useful

    The lingering fog of the sleeping powder¡¯s effects clung to Edda. Neither the warm flicker of the candle that Marta held nor the woman¡¯s gentle rousing did much to dispel it. The persistent dark of the early morning pressed her into the bed, making her limbs slow and heavy as she rose. Half asleep, she was only just aware of Marta¡¯s words¡ªfamiliar words, about the kitchens, about the midday meal¡ªand the woman¡¯s quiet departure.

    She¡¯d remained confined to her chambers since her return from the library the day before yesterday. The books had stayed cocooned within her blankets and pillows, emerging only during the hours Marta left her to work amongst the servants. But although she had pored over In the Aspects of Mother, Maiden, and Crone until her eyes ached, all she had come away with was a mounting sense of frustration and dread.

    That which is most pure is most readily sullied, the author had extolled in their opening lines. And Edda was not sure she had understood much beyond that.

    As she had suspected, In the Aspects was a religious text, but rather than scripture, it skirted the border between theology and philosophy. Edda could make neither heads nor tails of it, not the least because considerable sections had been penned in Latin¡ªa language she had only the leanest understanding of. Each chapter¡ªand she had only slogged her way through about half of them¡ªhad waded through esoteric argument after argument on virtue and sin, followed by expansive Latin passages that may well have been gibberish to her.

    She¡¯d refused to give up at first, vacillating between hope and despondence at each new page. Would there be some inkling as to why this book was important¡ªif, in fact, it was? Some morsel of information that she could use¡ªif not to help her situation now, then to understand the situation she had been in? But by the time she¡¯d set the book away yesterday evening, she¡¯d known the truth of her defeat.

    It had been a waste of time.

    It had been a silly, stupid plan in the first place. As if she¡¯d be able to find something of use after just flouncing into the library, having no idea of what books it contained and, furthermore, only the barest idea of what she needed. Even if In the Aspects was, indeed, the book Agneta had replaced and, thus, a book that someone in the castle sought¡ªand Edda could be sure of neither of these things¡ªit had been a stretch to believe it would have anything to do with her situation at all.

    She sighed, trying to keep her self-loathing at bay. She¡¯d seen twenty-seven springs, and that had been all she could come up with. Because of her own foolishness, the few days her feigned illness had won her had been passed in futility. Today, though still excused from lessons, she would be expected to rejoin Lady Novak and the other girls for supper. And tomorrow, her schedule would return to the one she remembered¡ªthe very same that had left her ignorant of anything that mattered.

    She was right back to waiting, in the end.

    Swallowing her vexation, Edda took a thirsty gulp of the water waiting at her bedside. The cool liquid sent a livening shiver through her body, alerting her to the morning chill. Well, there was something important she had to do this morning, she supposed. Rising, she donned her housecoat, pulling it snug around her as she slipped her icy feet into her slippers. Grabbing the lone candle Marta had left her, she made her way to the vanity; kissing the small flame to the wick of a second candle which waited there before arranging them both to illuminate the space.

    She seated herself within the soft pool of light she had created, bending to open the small trunk at the base of the vanity. To one side were the pots and packets that Gretel had given her, neatly arranged with Marta¡¯s usual care. After a moment¡¯s consideration, Edda fetched the two wax paper packages, setting them atop the vanity as she unfolded them one at a time. First, the sleeping powder¡ªnot what she was in search of this morning¡ªbut still, reassuringly present. Folding it once more, she put it aside. And second, the remnants of the herbal salve that had been left for her wrist.

    She faced herself now in the mirror. She had noticed last night, as Marta brushed her still-ruined hair, that her face had begun to clear; her nose returning to its usual slim aquiline, her cheeks and forehead nearly smooth and white once more. Already, it had been five days since Gretel had helped her don her disguise; and already, it was time for her to begin maintaining it herself. She would not involve Marta in this. She would do it herself.

    Pressing her finger into the paper, she scooped up the last dollop of salve and, carefully, dabbed it onto her face. Finding the amount to be insufficient, she paused to fetch the small pot from within the trunk, too. Fishing out another small blob, she mimicked what she could remember of Gretel¡¯s movements. It was not so difficult as dying her hair had been. As before, the smell made her nose wrinkle, but both it and the cold tingling sensation soon dissipated.

    And at the very end, she dipped whatever remained on her fingers into the ducts of her eyes. They began to sting and water immediately.

    Blinking rapidly, she inspected her handiwork; her eyes had reddened, but her skin looked only a bit worse for wear and not quite as raw and bumpy as it had before. Had she used enough? She chewed her lip uncertainly. No, she would wait before applying anything more. It had taken some time to set in the last time, too. She would allow some time to pass and then check again.

    Behind her, the rising sun had stained the sky a medley of pinks and oranges, promising another bright, cloudless day. The blackness that had steeped the space outside her candlelight had receded to a hazy grey. There were hours yet before noon, when Marta would return, and whereas she had jumped at the opportunity to continue her reading the day before, this morning, she hesitated.

    Despite already knowing that she had failed to find anything of use, part of her still wished to continue her desperate examination of In the Aspects. She had spent so much time and effort already¡ªsurely if she just continued, there would be something? Climbing once more into bed, she exhaled impatiently as she patted around beneath the covers in search of the book¡ªmore upset at herself for seeking it out again than she was for its refusal to appear instantly in her hands.

    Her fingers closed around the spine of a book and she pulled it forth. It was not In the Aspects she had retrieved, but Across the Carpathians instead. Dropping it onto the side of the bed dismissively, she thrust her arms forth again in search of the other book but, almost as soon as she felt it within her grasp, decided that she did not, in fact, wish for it after all. A moment of childish ire, perhaps, but she left it where it lay.

    Across the Carpathians sat beside her in its pristine leather binding. Like the other travelogues it had been stored with, it appeared virtually untouched; almost as though it had yet to be opened. It was even more unlikely to be useful. Perhaps, at least, it might prove less mind-numbing company this morning compared to its alternative. Edda had never read a book for the sake of it before; such hobbies were seen as far too worldly for women, and so it had never been encouraged of her. Even now, it felt like a rather frivolous thing to do, seeing as she had effectively nothing to gain from it.

    But, well, she had taken the book with her on a whim, and so she might as well open it on a whim, too.

    Settling it upon her lap, she turned to the first page. Stamped there in clear, cursive writing were the words:This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Szalai ¨¦s Fiai

    Bookbinders and Traders

    Edda frowned slightly, a new possibility slotting into place in her mind. Szalai and Sons. Now that was a connection she would not have made on her own. So, Agneta hailed from a family of book merchants. Did that mean she had brought the books in the chest with her from Buda? That would explain why she had known it was filled with travelogues. And it was certainly a more parsimonious account of why she¡¯d had In the Aspects in her possession, rather than her having stolen it from the library in the short time she¡¯d been at Cachtice Castle.

    It also meant that, rather than lending books out as Edda had assumed, the Countess might be acquiring new ones. That would be rather curious. In all her years as Countess, Edda had never heard of such a thing, nor had it been brought to her attention. It would have been considered quite eccentric for the Countess Bathory to be adding to her deceased husband¡¯s collection when her only explicitly reported interest in it was to preserve it as he had left it and¡ªoccasionally¡ªto allow those she favored access to it.

    But no one else in the castle would have the authority or the capital to purchase so many books at once. It was all bit unusual, as far as Edda was concerned, but not particularly useful or alarming.

    Still, Edda¡¯s interest was piqued. What sort of books was the Countess adding to the library? Chewing her lip, Edda flipped the page and began to read.

    By the time Marta returned for their midday meal, she had decided that perhaps Across the Carpathians was not so useless, after all. She had become rather absorbed in it as she flipped through the first chapter or two, to the point that she was almost late in burying it once more beneath the covers. And, even after she had set it aside for the day and turned her attentions toward her food, she found that it had spurred a sort of muted curiosity within her; a low simmer of ideas.

    She would have to read more. In fact, she wanted to. But, as she cleared the last mouthfuls of soup from her bowl with a heel of bread¡ªher third piece, to Marta¡¯s silent displeasure¡ªshe found her mind drifting toward Agneta.

    Death¡ªits imminence and, as Edda had discovered, its realization¡ªhad the simultaneously terrifying and sobering consequence of bringing one¡¯s life into stark focus. Each triumph and every shortcoming laid bare; Edda had had little to do other than to scour the details of her life as she waited in the dungeons for its end. She must have known even before then, but she had only begun to admit it to herself as she wondered after the names and the crimes of the dozen or so prisoners who had been executed before her.

    She had always been exceedingly self-absorbed. She had hardly recognized a single person, then, though each and every one of them had known her. Had hated her.

    Edda had barely paid attention to anyone other than herself for the majority of her life. And that was why she knew not a single thing about Agneta, even though she had spent months living at Cachtice Castle with her. That was why it had never occurred to her that Agneta might be useful.

    Marta remained at her side that afternoon, fussing and fretting. She¡¯d had little luck yet gathering either the additional salt or the desired information, and the strain of the last few days had manifested in a kind of restless neuroticism. This was in spite of the deepening, darkening bags beneath her eyes¡ªit seemed that as her exhaustion worsened, she became only more frantic. Long after she had helped Edda dress for supper and meticulously fixed her hair three times, Marta continued to pace from one end of the room to the other, arranging this or that.

    Edda, reclining upon the bed to keep it from Marta¡¯s attentions, watched her with not a little concern. Only after Marta had organized, then reorganized the vanity¡ªplacing the pots and packets Edda had used that morning back into the trunk, then taking them out again, only to replace the pot of salve but leave the packet of sleeping powder¡ªdid Edda finally comment, ¡°I¡¯ve half a mind to douse you with that sleeping powder.¡±

    Marta¡¯s fingers fidgeted with wax paper receptacle a moment longer, before she finally set it back upon the vanity. ¡°I thought to leave it¡­¡± she trailed off, then seemed to refocus, offering a penitent smile. ¡°I¡¯ve the other half mind to douse myself,¡± she conceded, after a moment affirming, ¡°Perhaps that would not be unwelcome for a night.¡±

    ¡°Tonight, then,¡± Edda said, ¡°And for the love of all that is good, sit down and rest before supper. You¡¯ll do neither of us any favors if you collapse into your stew.¡±

    Supper was upon them far too soon for Marta to get any meaningful repose, it seemed. Though, perhaps, the flight of time was hastened by Edda¡¯s growing anxiety. It would be her first time supping among the others since the welcome feast¡¯s realization and, as she joined the other girls and their maids on their way toward the dining hall, her unease only grew. Though the route was familiar, and even the company, it was as though she viewed the other girls through fresh eyes.

    Suzsanna and her two maids walked at the head of the pack, behind the servant who had been sent to escort them. Her pointy nose held high; she was doing her best to ignore rest of them. That was not unusual for her. But surprisingly, Cintia had not taken her expected place chattering away at Suzsanna¡¯s heels; instead, she hung back, quietly shooting the occasional glance backward, past her elderly maid to where Edda and Marta followed.

    Edda could not fathom what the girl wanted. Of the three, she had always thought Cintia to be the most harmless. She had been notable only for her prettiness, her penchant for blathering on, and, of course, her dogged insistence on befriending the prideful and refined Suzsanna. Edda, for her part, had been rather more focused on Suzsanna herself; but back then, she had considered her more a rival than anything else.

    But it was Agneta, now, who Edda most wished to study. She and Ildi hung back from the rest of the group, whispering fiercely to each other just out of earshot. Edda was sure, now, that it had been the two of them outside the library. There could be no error; Agneta, despite her slouchy posture and large spectacles, cut a striking figure with her dark hair and slender build, and Ildi, with her lanky, awkward frame and pasty complexion, would be equally hard to mistake.

    Lady Novak awaited them in the same dining room as had hosted the welcome feast. At the sight of her, Edda felt her stomach clench uncomfortably. The lady-in-waiting had donned a more subdued gown this night and, as if the table readied itself to her whims, the fine silver and crystal had been replaced with less exuberant, though no less expensive, porcelain. After curtsies were offered, the maids left for the servants¡¯ mess, and Lady Novak welcomed her guests to be seated with a glowing smile.

    ¡°At last, we are all together again,¡± she declared, turning her sweet gaze upon Edda, ¡°Countess Bathory sends her pleasure that you are able to rejoin us. And of course, I am most pleased as well. I trust you have recuperated well?¡±

    Edda ducked her head demurely. ¡°Most well. Please give the Countess my gratitude for her continued care. It has left nothing to be desired.¡± Calculating, Edda mustered a shy smile, ¡°And express my deepest regrets for having missed her during my illness. I had hoped to finally make her acquaintance this evening.¡±

    The other girls glanced at each other. It might have been a play of the light, glinting off the gigantic antlers of the wall-mounted stag behind her, but Lady Novak¡¯s eyes seemed to tighten for a moment. ¡°I am afraid she, like you, has remained bedridden, to my sorrow and hers. I offer you my humble presence in return and assure you that she will join us as soon as she is well.¡±

    As skillfully as ever, Lady Novak shifted the conversation away from Countess Bathory and, thankfully, away from Edda, as well. Indeed, just as it had been before, the Countess was an invisible presence within the castle. It was likely that little had changed in the last few days, apart from Edda¡¯s absence. And though it was, in one sense, a relief to confirm it, it still left Edda¡¯s many questions, and growing suspicions, about the Countess unanswered.

    But, perhaps, Agneta might be able to give her a little bit more information than she currently had. At this point, anything would do, even if it were only an account of the Countess¡¯s reading list. Just something to make the secretive woman appear more real, more human, and less of the unfathomable and somewhat terrifying caricature that was forming in Edda¡¯s mind.

    Barring that, Edda might be satisfied simply learning how Agneta had unlocked the library door with a hairpin. That might have its uses.

    Tucking into the lavish supper before her¡ªa considerable affair of flaky meat pastries, juicy cabbage rolls, and spiced peas¡ªEdda made a conscious effort to restrain herself this time, despite her still urgent desire to eat all that was set before her. Instead, she made effort to observe the women around her. Lady Novak was no less charming than she had ever been, and Suzsanna not an ounce less disdainful. But, puzzlingly, when not enthusiastically contributing to the conversation, Cintia¡¯s gaze continued to drift toward her. And, despite Edda¡¯s own measured glances, Agneta might well have been a statue beside her; silent and undecipherable.

    Regardless, between bites and perfunctory comments on the lessons she had missed and the ones to come, she watched and she wondered.

    And by the time she cleared the last bite of her plum pudding, she had begun to plan.

 22. A Gift or a Punishment

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    Faint and directionless, the sound began.

    It emerged as though from a great distance, as though from an unfathomable depth. Floating toward the edges of her awareness¡ªindistinct, unobtrusive. Submerged as Edda was within the warm embrace of sleep, in that blissful place where sense and thought are dulled, she barely heard it. Even when she did, when a syllable or two took shape into a sharp tip or a piercing tap, her mind slumbered. It connected no meaning to the sound.

    Perhaps it did not want to.

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    How long did she linger there¡ªin that languorous, unthinking state, with tip after tap hovering, persistent, but just out of reach? There was no way to tell. Sleep warps time; stretching and compressing it simultaneously, a distortion made all the more potent by the sweet, foggy haze of the sleeping powder. Like cotton over her eyes and stuffed into her ears, it resisted every attempt to rouse her.

    Yes, perhaps she remained there for hours. Perhaps only minutes. But it was not long enough.

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    Against her will, the sound began to solidify and her consciousness grasped it, like slippery fingers finding purchase on a ledge. She knew it, then. A comfort in the deafening silence with only her slow, laboured breaths as company. An anchor to a reality where she had withered away awaiting death. A familiar, unwelcome sound. She lurched, trying to pull away, but it only grew closer, unwilling to release her.

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    It was there, in the corner of her cell, behind the cracked, clay chamber pot; that steady, inescapable drip. And then, it grew louder, and she was there, too, upon her paltry bed of straw and stone; her very essence reduced to skin, bone, and agony. No. Not here. Not again.

    Another lurch, more violent this time, more desperate. And then hot, hard pain, blazing up her injured wrist and blooming across the side of her head and hip. She must have cried out, but she could hear nothing except that ominous, relentless tip, tap. Her eyes were open now, rolling wildly from side to side, but there was no light to see by.

    Her entire body shook as she lay there, crumpled in pain and terror. The heaviness of sleep had dissipated almost entirely and yet she did not move, for fear that her prison cell would materialize around her. Confusion battled with panic as she struggled to make sense of the situation. Mother and maiden, please. Not the dungeons. Not again.

    But it was carpet she lay upon, not straw and stone. She was clothed and warm. No hunger gnawed at her breast. But where did the sound come from?

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    As though compelled, she jerked her head upward. Already, her eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, but through the window, she caught the moon¡¯s glow; full, round, and white amidst a sky black with clouds. And there before her, silhouetted against that forgiving light, was the unforgiving black outline of a massive crow. It watched her with one shining red eye, and with malicious deliberateness, rapped its great beak upon the glass.

    Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

    The witch¡¯s messenger had returned, and it wanted to be let in. She knew it as well as the crow knew of the suffering it caused her. And it intended her to allow it entry, just as it intended to drive her to madness with that abominable tapping if she did not.

    ¡°No, no,¡± she whimpered, lips dry and quaking along with the rest of her. She clapped her hands to her ears, frantically attempting to drown the sound out. ¡°Marta,¡± she called, her voice breaking as it faded into the silence without response. Then again, louder, more urgently, ¡°Marta!¡±

    But nothing and no one stirred in the shadows of the chamber. Each time she tore her eyes away from the crow¡¯s unwavering glare, she could make out only the faintest shapes in the darkness beyond the moonlight¡¯s reach. And yet, she dared not take her eyes off the bird for long. She knew that Marta must be there, asleep in her pallet, and yet she may well have been alone with the ominous creature. A memory stirred within her, fleeting but sure¡ªMarta¡¯s round face creased with fatigue, her brown eyes smudged with sleeplessness, and Edda¡¯s own instruction to drink the sleeping powder this night.

    A sob escaped her lips. Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. She pressed her fingers into her ears harder, but still the sound persisted as though it came from within her, louder even than the thunder of her own heartbeat. And perhaps it did, dredged up like some rotten thing from the deepest parts of her memory. She could not forget it. How could she ever forget it?

    She thought first to crawl to Marta. To shake the woman awake, to demand the salt and the garlic and the wine, that they might somehow drive the cursed animal off. But try as she might, she remained rooted in place; paralyzed by her fear and unable to overcome it. For as long as the crow held her in its gaze, for as long as it tapped upon her window, she could do little else but cower.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Or let it in.

    Her breaths felt raw in her throat. Her head had begun to throb, a heavy pulsing from where she had hit it in her fall. Her abused left wrist grew swollen and stiff as she held the hand to her ear; the effort futile, as the noise continued uninterrupted. She did not know how long she endured like that, locked in that losing battle. Seconds blurred together into minutes, as though she were trapped in some black dream. But the pain reminded her that this was no such thing. She would have no such luck, to wake from this.

    But somehow, as the fear settled like a familiar veil around her and her panicked frenzy calmed to a steady dread, a horrible understanding, a terrible acceptance began to grow within her. It was only a matter of time; if she did not open the window tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after, she would open the window eventually. The crow¡¯s unblinking eyes promised her that.

    Choose, the crow had said to her on that night in the forest. Even though it knew there had never been a choice at all.

    She could delay the inevitable, but that was all she would be doing. She could hold herself here tonight, through hours of that haunting sound and the mind-numbing anxiety it brought with it. Morning would come and, with it, relief, and when the sun set next, she and Marta would take the necessary precautions. They would rally themselves and sit together through the night. In the nights to come, perhaps they would take turns sleeping¡ªone standing guard while the other lay restless and terrified of the crow¡¯s return. And then, when they had worn themselves down, when they were almost delirious from the constant vigilance and lack of sleep, it would come back.

    The crow would find a way in; and whether that was before it drove off her sanity, or after, was up to her. That was the choice she had been given now.

    As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, the crow paused its incessant tapping. Slowly, hesitantly, she dropped her hands from her ears, which seemed to ring in the sudden silence. Her heart pounded within her chest as she considered what she was about to do. Quickly, almost guiltily, she snuck a glance in Marta¡¯s direction. There was no indication that she had been disturbed, that the tense confrontation had reached her at all.

    Just as well. The burden of speaking with the beast would be hers alone.

    Still shaking despite her resolve, she stumbled to her feet. The distance between where she had fallen and the window felt unbearably small. Her only consolation, and it was one that still puzzled her, was that her last conversation with the crow had given her, so far, the only hints as to how she might save herself. She swallowed thickly. She had heeded its words, and¡ªas far as she could tell¡ªthe path she was on now diverged from the one she had been on before.

    It had helped her, after a fashion. Perhaps it would again.

    Raising her hand to the latch of the window, she struggled for a moment to bring the trembling limb under control. Even the thought of something that might help her did not eliminate her terror, and her strength seemed to have vanished as a result. It was a witch¡¯s messenger she faced, after all. Who knew what blight it brought with it? Who knew what blight she now invited into her chamber?

    Tip. Tap, the crow reminded her upon the glass. Edda turned the latch down and pushed the window open.

    Frigid air spilled into the room, icy with winter¡¯s last breaths. She backed away swiftly, never taking her eyes from the crow as it hopped past the threshold, alighting with a flutter of wings upon the writing desk. The bed came up behind her, preventing her from putting even more space between herself and the beast. And there they remained for a tense moment, each regarding the other.

    ¡°Why have you returned?¡± Edda whispered, barely able to manage the words but unable to tolerate the crow¡¯s silent scrutiny any longer.

    ¡°You do not listen to the whispers,¡± the crow replied in its otherworldly voice. Gooseflesh rose along Edda¡¯s skin and she pressed the back of her legs to the bed harder, wishing that she might find herself on the other side of it. ¡°You do not listen to the whispers, and they wane with each moon. Soon, new whispers will take their place, and by then, it will be too late.¡±

    Edda¡¯s mind raced. Indeed, she had not much considered the second piece of advice the crow had given her. ¡°I haven¡¯t heard any whispers,¡± she said, bewilderment tempering her fear, ¡°What-what do you mean by too late?¡±

    The crow cocked its head at her, ruby eye glinting in the moonlight. ¡°You escape from the darkness, but the whispers are within it.¡± It paused, and for the first time that night, took its eyes off her. Ruffling its feathers slightly, it looked pointedly in Marta¡¯s direction. ¡°Though there are other things awaiting you there as well.¡±

    Edda felt a foreboding thrill run through her, as though a glacial droplet raced down her back. Wrapping her hands around herself, she stammered out, ¡°I-I don¡¯t understand.¡±

    The crow faced her squarely once again. ¡°But you do.¡± Edda shook her head vehemently. ¡°You have always understood more than you let on.¡± The crow¡¯s eerie voice seemed to take on a harder, more severe tone. ¡°You understood, and yet you did nothing, and now you squander the gift you have been given pretending that you do not understand.¡±

    Edda¡¯s eyes widened and the very core of her seemed to convulse. And yet, through the rush of shock, and fear, and confusion, a trickle of anger found its way. Her voice grew louder with her frustration, ¡°It is no gift to return to this cursed place!¡±

    Caw caw caw, the crow seemed to laugh¡ªbut there was no mirth to be found in it. Its red eyes were cold, unforgiving, and Edda could only ball her hands into fists beneath their judging glimmer.

    It knew. Oh, it knew. She could not escape its knowing. It would not let her.

    The crow spread its massive wings, then, and for a horrible moment, the moon seemed to disappear behind it. The chamber was plunged into a darkness so absolute that Edda felt her heart stop. She gasped, scrambling backward onto the bed. In a voice that seemed to surround her, to penetrate her to the very bone, the crow intoned, ¡°A gift or a punishment. You will be the one to decide.¡±

    With a mighty heave that sent everything upon the desk flying, the crow launched itself toward the vanity. In the blink of an eye, it grabbed the folded packet of wax paper that had been left there, before circling back around to the open window in a fluid glide that left Edda¡¯s bed curtains rustling.

    ¡°No!¡± Edda cried, as she realized, too late, what had been taken.

    But already, the witch¡¯s messenger was little more than a disappearing speck on the face of the moon.

 23. A Blind Eye (Part I)

    The sleeping powder was gone.

    Edda did not have to see that it was missing to know that the crow had taken it. And yet, after a moment or two of terrified shock, she scrambled over to the vanity, struggling to discern the shapes atop it in the low light. Desperate, she swept her hands across, searching for that tab of folded wax paper that she was sure had been left there¡ªto no avail. Anxiety clamored with fear and confusion within her. And anger, too.

    The sleeping powder, of all things. Did the crow mean to stop her from sleeping? Was that how she would hear these whispers it so adamantly wished her to listen to? Edda swallowed; a vain attempt to moisten her dry mouth. She could not understand the beast¡¯s motives, but it seemed that if she disregarded its advice, it would simply force her to do as it wished anyway.

    Yet, the crow had not tried to harm her¡ªnot this night, and not the last time. It had given her words that had helped her, at least so far. Perhaps these whispers were meant to do so, as well. But as Edda¡¯s mind worked to decipher the meaning of the crow¡¯s ominous words, she could not bring herself to like the conclusion she came to.

    What sort of whispers did one hear when none were awake to say them? And what else awaited her in the dark of night? She could only believe that this was some ploy that would have her at a blood witch¡¯s mercy.

    Some sleepy movement from Marta, still blissfully unaware of all that had unfolded, caught Edda¡¯s attention then, distracting her from the terror of her thoughts. And she realized, suddenly, how cold the chamber had grown with the window still ajar. She was shivering prolifically in her thin nightdress, and no doubt Marta would soon be doing the same even beneath her thick blanket. Hurrying over to close the window, Edda was surprised to see a weak smudge of orange across the eastern horizon; visible even despite the heavy, dark clouds and the lingering moon.

    A small comfort, that it was closer to morning than she had realized. She stood there for a while, mulling over the crow¡¯s words with her hand upon the glass. Berating herself for not demanding answers, and, at the same time, relieved to not know them. Angry at the crow for what it had said to her and, most of all, angry at herself for the truth in its words. Angry and frightened, and beneath those far more palatable emotions, the least palatable one of all¡ªguilty.

    Clenching her teeth almost painfully, she spun to survey the shadowed room around her. Parchment had been scattered all about as the crow took flight, and the inkpot on the writing desk had been knocked over. A mess that, if left as it was, she would have to explain to Marta, who would undoubtedly wake any moment now. Taking a shaky breath, she set about gathering the parchment¡ªhopeful that the task would take her mind from that which she did not wish to confront.

    But it was as the crow had said. She had always understood more than she let on. So, when had she first begun to turn a blind eye?

    Long before she had ever reached Cachtice Castle, that was for sure.

    Crouching awkwardly, half hobbled by her dress, she picked up page after page. And with each page, a memory seemed to surface¡ªmemories from so long ago that even Marta did not appear in them. Countless family dinners; her stern father at the head of the table speaking of that day¡¯s business with her eldest brother, Simon. Sometimes Ivar would be there, as well. And each of them carrying on without so much as a flicker of the eye or a falter of the voice, even as the servants shuffled uncomfortably with the noise they could all hear, but refused to acknowledge.

    She had ignored it, too, wilful though her food tasted of dust. Every question about the crying baby and the screaming woman bitterly swallowed, because it was easier if she did not ask what no one wanted to answer. And it was easy, too, to pretend that it was normal when everyone around her seemed content to do the same. To convince herself it was normal.

    Edda¡¯s eyes blurred with tears, but she choked them back angrily; crumpling the parchment she had gathered to her chest. That had not been her fault, and neither was anything that had happened at Cachtice Castle. She had only ever done what was expected of her. She¡¯d had no hand in the chaos that unfolded¡ªin fact, she had suffered and died for it. That made her the victim. How dare the crow suggest otherwise?Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Stumbling to her feet, she returned her stack of parchment to the writing desk, avoiding the ink that had pooled on its surface. Without warning, she had the urge to press her palms directly into the liquid. To stain them black, to see them dirtied; to feel the viscous substance oozing between her fingers and down her wrists. A childish desire to luxuriate in the mess before her, the mess she had found herself in.

    She looked down, studying her hands as she restrained the impulse. The room darkened further as the moon and meagre sunrise were overtaken by the promise of rain. But still, she could see that her left hand was distended stiff and ugly purple. And yet, the right, even in this morning¡¯s dusky light, stood out for its pale whiteness. The fingers long and thin, the nails trimmed neatly. Cleanly.

    It was not her fault. It could not be. But had she turned a blind eye?

    It was like this, frozen in contemplation, that Marta found her not long after. Edda had not even heard her rise, but she certainly heard Marta¡¯s gasp as she rounded upon her, catching sight of the spilled ink and the swollen wrist.

    ¡°I lost my footing,¡± Edda explained without a pause, ¡°Came upon the desk, and the inkpot fell right over.¡±

    ¡°Oh, Miss Edda,¡± Marta murmured, worry evident in her expression. Reaching toward Edda¡¯s face, she gently moved her thumb across the tender bump that had begun to rise on the side of her head. Lips squeezed into a tight, upset line, Marta did not press further.

    Rather than helping in the kitchens, Marta insisted upon staying with Edda that morning. They spent those few hours in quiet preparation for what would be Edda¡¯s first day rejoining the other girls for both meals and lessons. She did not look forward to it. At the very back of her mind were the half-wrought plans she had concocted to learn more of what Agneta knew. But today they were the least of her worries.

    Not only did the crow¡¯s haunting words play over and over in her mind, but she could not shake the feeling that, by allowing it into her chamber, she had invited something far more nefarious in, as well. Her dread only seemed to grow as the day devolved into a miserable downpour, so overcast that they needed candlelight to brighten the room. Rain beat at the windows, and if she allowed herself to relax for even a moment, it was as though that horrid tip, tap could be heard all over again.

    Of course, she kept from Marta the true reason for her tense silence, citing the fall that had renewed the pain of her wrist and granted her the lump on her head. Studying Marta in the mirror as the woman painstakingly applied Gretel¡¯s herbal salve to her injuries, Edda was reassured to see that she, at least, appeared better rested. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes appeared less dark and creased with exhaustion. Still, she regarded Edda with her usual anxious concern.

    There was little point in adding to the woman¡¯s stress by telling her that¡ªagainst her advice¡ªEdda had spoken again with the witch¡¯s messenger. That the beast had been but a span or two from her as she slept, none the wiser under the sleeping powder¡¯s effects.

    The writing desk had to be wiped down with a strong alcohol, which a servant was sent to fetch. The ink had seeped into its smooth, wooden surface, and despite Marta¡¯s best efforts, a dark patch remained even after the last trace of the substance had been removed. Edda¡¯s letter to Gretel had been ruined in the spill, and so, before leaving to the midday meal, she hurriedly penned another with what ink remained in the pot.

    This time, she included sleeping powder in her request. Tomorrow, an hour or two after dawn, old Soos¡¯s supply wagon would arrive. She would deliver the letter herself, directly to his boy, Peter, and then would come the agonizing wait. An entire fortnight without either the blackthorn for protection or the sleeping powder for respite from the fear of being unprotected.

    Folding the letter once more below the now-empty inkpot, she and Marta readied for their departure. Edda¡¯s uneasiness must have been evident upon her face, because, just as they approached the door, Marta produced the small sack of salt she had been saving. ¡°It¡¯s not enough to bar the door as I¡¯d like,¡± she said quietly, chewing her lip, ¡°The cook¡¯s still stubborn. But let¡¯s line the threshold, anyway. I hope it will work as we intend for now.¡±

    Indeed, they did not have enough. Still, Edda found a kind of solace in the placing of that fine line of salt across the doorway. If only they could line the windowsill, as well, to keep the crow away. Already, it was stretched as thin as a grain in some places. But perhaps it would be enough to ensure nothing entered their room while they were away that day. Or when they returned that night and she faced whatever awaited her in the darkness¡ªwhether it be her memories of the pyre or the witch that had put her there.

 24. A Blind Eye (Part II)

    Closing the door carefully behind them, Edda¡¯s skirts seemed to swish about her knees for a moment, caught in a sudden draft from the hallway. She paused, more startled than chilled, but the lone servant who awaited them seemed unperturbed. The patient, grey-haired woman greeted them politely as they waited for the other girls to join them.

    As it had been in Edda¡¯s memories, the midday meal was held in a smaller dining hall, rather less formal than the ones suppers were hosted in. Wooden beams lined the ceiling, and the walls were plastered with a light floral design, complementing floors that had been tiled after more modern sensibilities. With the shutters closed against the gloom outside and the hearth crackling warmly, it might have been a cozy affair. It might have been, but it was not.

    It was not simply that Steward Lukacs was there, though that was a part of it. He did not seat himself at the table where Edda and the other girls had arranged themselves, nor did he partake of the food with them. But, with Lady Novak attending the Countess for the day¡¯s first meal, as she usually did, he took it upon himself not only to oversee their table service, but also to engage them in polite conversation.

    But whereas Edda had found him charming and refined before, she felt nothing but unnerved in his presence now¡ªfar more so than she had with Lady Novak the night before. Each time his eyes grazed her she was reminded of her arrival a few days past, with her face and hair marred. He had recognized it; she was certain of that, now. And seated as she was today, amongst three young women who should have been nearly identical to her in appearance, she fancied that she could feel the weight of his displeasure upon her once more.

    The smiles he addressed her with did not reach his eyes, and Edda could barely taste the food she shoveled into her mouth.

    As the discussion at the table drifted toward the first ball of the season¡ªa topic that Edda knew would reoccur in the months leading up to it¡ªher discomfort only grew. She could remember this conversation, in some form or another. Could remember the excitement and exuberance she had felt, hearing of the grand preparations and the extensive invitations. But, as she listened to Steward Lukacs recite a few of the more notable guests they were expecting, the crow¡¯s words seemed to echo in her mind.

    You understood, and yet you did nothing.

    She had picked up on a pattern of sorts, during her years at Cachtice Castle. And she was reminded of it now, as the Steward listed this Baron, that gentryman, and this or that vassal knight. Many of the names were familiar to her; they had attended numerous of the Countess¡¯s feasts and balls in the last decade. But there were other names, too, that she did not hear¡ªthe names of other Counts, of Earls, and of Marquises; prominent figures who were sometimes in attendance, and other times conspicuously absent. It was a pattern she had never questioned.

    After all, it was the Countess''s decision whom she chose to invite.

    She looked to Agneta for what must have been the first time that day. The sullen girl swirled her food about her plate, her spectacles balanced precariously upon her nose. She looked as she usually did¡ªas though she would rather become one with her chair than be spoken to. It was not her plans to engage with Agneta that she thought of now, though. No, it was the fact that Agneta would find a husband among the attendees of the first ball, very suddenly and quite unexpectedly. She would be the first of them to leave Cachtice Castle.

    There was no way Edda could have known of that last time, of course. But she knew of it now, and something about it bothered her.

    Her fork clattered loudly against the plate in front of her as it slipped out of her frozen hands. Quickly, she picked it up again, offering a contrite smile to the startled faces that had turned toward her. ¡°My apologies,¡± she murmured, ¡°Please continue, Steward Lukacs.¡±

    ¡°Rather infirm despite her hearty appetite,¡± Suzsanna commented drily, just loud enough for her words to be heard at the table. Cintia covered her mouth, stifling a gasp at the jibe, but Edda did not offer a reply. The Steward resumed, and Edda noticed that Cintia¡¯s eyes had joined his in lingering upon her.

    Following the meal, the young women were escorted to the same parlor where Edda had met with Lady Novak on the night of the welcome feast. Lady Novak herself had yet to arrive, but the servants had already arranged the materials they would need for their afternoon embroidery practice. Finely polished, hardwood hand hoops, swaths of linen, and spools of colorful cotton thread had been neatly laid out upon the center table. A carved wooden box, its lid secured with brass fasteners, also sat amongst them; Edda knew that within, smaller accessories like fine bone needles, scissors, and metal beads would be stored.

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    Edda had always rather enjoyed embroidery, and she had become quite skilled at it over the years. It had been a point of pride for her that her designs rivalled that of real noblewomen. Today, of course, it would be an unprecedented challenge, what with her left hand swollen and splinted to the best of Marta¡¯s ability. Nevertheless, it was a familiar activity; one which might soothe her temporarily, even if it could not stop her fear-filled thoughts entirely.

    Rather without thinking, she seated herself upon the couch she had usually occupied during these lessons. But, to her surprise, it was not Agneta who took up position beside her, as it had been in her memories, but Cintia. On the couch across from them, Suzsanna scowled as she and Agneta settled in beside each other.

    Leaning toward her, Cintia offered her a nervous smile. ¡°Miss Belten, I¡ªI hope you will forgive my forwardness. I have been wanting a word with you ever since¡ªwell, ever since you were ill.¡± Reaching behind her for a moment, she fished about in her skirts and quickly produced a small, stoppered glass bottle, just smaller than the palm of her hand. She held it out to Edda. ¡°You see, I¡ªwell, my younger sister, as well, Karolina¡ªalso am terribly afflicted by travel. Even strong foods cause me upset sometimes. Karoly swears by a tincture of lemon balm¡ªand I do too, of course.¡±

    Cintia bit her lip, pushing the small bottle toward Edda. Realizing that Cintia meant to give it to her, Edda took it, her eyes flitting from the clear oil within the bottle to the Cintia¡¯s beaming face. She was certain that her mouth was agape with surprise. This had not happened before. ¡°You mean me to have this?¡±

    ¡°Yes!¡± Cintia said excitedly, ¡°It really does wonders for nausea. Why, it drives off an aching head, as well. All you must do is put a drop upon a handkerchief and take in the vapors.¡± She lowered her voice conspiratorially. ¡°To be honest, sometimes I¡¯ll breath it directly from the bottle.¡± She giggled slightly. ¡°When Panna isn¡¯t looking, of course. My maid.¡±

    So taken aback was Edda that she almost forgot to get to her feet at Lady Novak¡¯s arrival. Curtsying alongside the other girls, she clutched the small bottle of tincture in her hand. It was cool and solid, and somehow bolstering. As Lady Novak said her greetings and bid them sit again to begin that afternoon¡¯s activities, Edda¡¯s eyes were drawn to Cintia once more. The girl, with her delicately pretty face, wore a pleased smile.

    Edda did her best to offer one back, nodding quietly in acknowledgment. And Cintia¡¯s smile grew even brighter at the exchange.

    Even though she was already hindered by her injured wrist, Edda did not release the bottle of tincture until hours later; she kept it against her palm even as she struggled to hold the embroidery hoop steady. She did not know why she did so. Perhaps Cintia¡¯s kindness had moved her, or perhaps it was the reminder that things could be different this time. Likely, it was both. But even together with the rhythmic movement of her good hand as she poked and pulled thread through cloth, she could not evade her thoughts entirely.

    Cintia would be the second one to leave Cachtice Castle.

    Oh, she tried to think of other things. Tried to turn a blind eye, as she had always done. But it was too late now to pretend that she did not notice. Not when both she and the crow knew just how much she had seen and pretended not to see.

    Dozens of promising young women had debuted beneath the Countess''s patronage. And Edda had, effectively, been the Countess. But, of the ones who had found husbands, the majority of them had done so at the kind of balls that would be hosted this summer. Opulent balls where the guest list was remarkably long, but¡ªto the knowledgeable eye¡ªsocially limited. One and all of the invitees were of lesser nobility, often direct vassals of the late Count; the sort of folk who swarmed about a powerful woman like the Countess, eager for her favor. It would benefit them little to oppose her, even if they could find the leverage to do so. And what rumors they spread amongst themselves would likely not reach the ears of anyone influential enough to do anything about them.

    Flinching as the needle she held pressed into the pad of a finger, Edda halted her clumsy movements. Her ailing wrist had begun to ache horribly with the strain of stitching, and so she abandoned the hoop and her unfinished design upon her lap. Rolling the tincture of lemon balm against her palm, her eyes traveled from Agneta, half-heartedly at work across from her, to Cintia, eagerly absorbed beside her. She even chanced a glance at Suzsanna, who seemed rather more interested in Lady Novak¡¯s piece than her own.

    She could not concern herself with them. She had already decided that. Maybe one of them would be groomed to take her place as Countess this time, or maybe not. Things might still unfold for them exactly as they had last time, with first Agneta, then Cintia, and finally Suzsanna departing the castle. Subverting what was in store for her did not guarantee anything would be different for them, right? Guilt threatened to well up in her throat and choke her, but she swallowed it down hard. It was not her concern, not when she had died the last time. All three of them had lived.

    Edda squeezed her eyes shut, wishing for all the world that she was actually blind.

    All three of them had lived, right?

 25. The Approach of Night

    Had she not burned to death beneath the charges of murder and witchcraft, Edda might have convinced herself that her thoughts were nothing but a delusion¡ªseeded after months spent in isolation and torment, birthed from the terror of her death and the futile days she had spent in its aftermath. Had she not, just hours ago, cowered before the omniscient red eyes of a witch¡¯s messenger, perhaps she would have allowed herself to forget the terrible possibilities she now considered.

    She wished to. My, but she wished to. But she would not be allowed to, this time, would she?

    Even now, there were still other dreadful realizations awaiting her, lingering on the edges of her consciousness. Eager to be known after she had turned away from them so long; deceiving herself into acceptance, fooling herself into ignorance. It had been easy to do so when those around her had not batted an eye to it. It had been especially easy to do so when the reward had been a life that would never have been attainable otherwise. She had been a Countess.

    Silly, stupid Edda had blindfolded herself, that she might pretend to be a Countess.

    ¡°Miss Belten, are you quite well?¡± Lady Novak¡¯s voice emerged, gentle with concern.

    Edda¡¯s eyes blinked open in surprise, shaken from the thoughts that had begun to consume her. She still sat amongst the other women with her embroidery hoop abandoned in her lap. It was no time, now, to lose her composure. ¡°I am, my lady,¡± she said quickly, with a small smile that she hoped did not seem forced, ¡°I was just taking a moment¡¯s rest.¡±

    Lady Novak smiled with her usual sweetness, ¡°It does take a spot of endurance, doesn¡¯t it?¡± She returned to her work with a nod, and¡ªafter shooting her an irritated look¡ªSuzsanna, who had paused to observe the exchange, returned to hers as well. The parlor fell quiet once more, with only the soft shuffling of fabric on fabric or skin. And Edda¡¯s thoughts, despite her best efforts, continued to spiral, writhing along with the pain of her wrist.

    The afternoon of embroidery and idle chatter gave way to the evening meal, and the drumming rain to a miserable, foggy drizzle. By the time they were seated at the table, Edda¡¯s exhaustion had made her heavy¡ªladen with the memory of the crow¡¯s words and the memories of her decade of wilful obliviousness. The weight dragged her thoughts down, closer and closer to her dreadful suspicions.

    The meal did not help, of course. It took her considerable effort not to mindlessly eat herself into sickness again, when the food before her offered the most potent distraction. Listening and even occasionally contributing to the mundane conversations at the table only worsened her fatigue. And as she followed along, nodding and smiling and carefully picking apart her food, a tight ball of frustration and anxiety pulsed within her.

    There was so much at stake, and yet here she was putting on a fa?ade of normalcy, reliving the same drudgery that had killed her and Marta and¡ªshe feared¡ªpossibly others at this very table.

    The final dish, a dense, jelly-like confection of boiled apples, honey, and cinnamon, was served. It had been one of her favorites, a specialty of Cachtice Castle¡¯s cooks, but Edda did not join Cintia and Suzsanna in the chorus of compliments that were to be relayed to the kitchens. It took the last of her self-control to pause between each spoonful of the thick, sweet dessert, when she felt rather more like bringing the bowl to her lips and gulping it down whole. By stuffing it all in, to leave no more room for her dread to grow, for her every sickening thought to expand and take shape.

    It was a horrible, horrible thing to consider.

    And yet, as she and the other girls bid their polite and grateful goodnights to Lady Novak, she realized how naive she had been to think otherwise. Not for the first time, she trailed behind the group on their way back to the South Tower, studying the backs of the three young women before her. Contending, yet again, with a possibility she had refused to consider the first time around. The shadowy, cramped corridors seemed to close in around her; each winding step narrowing her field of vision until all that was before her was what she had been terrified to admit.

    Perhaps, whatever evil lurked within the walls of Cachtice Castle did not prey on servant girls alone.

    She¡¯d had her fears already, of course, about at least one other person whose life had found its untimely end at Cachtice Castle. Indeed, Marta¡¯s death had been too sudden and too convenient. But in her mind, Marta¡¯s fate had been linked to her own; entirely separate from the matter of the missing servant girls. If Edda was not to become the Countess, then Marta would live, and if Marta lived, then Edda could not become the Countess. As long as this was true, she had assumed that she and Marta would be afforded the same protections as the other guests.

    It had not occurred to her to question how safe the other guests had been.

    It was overwhelming. Far, far too overwhelming to realize just how many self-serving assumptions she had made and never questioned. A decade of them, slotted together like the pieces of some awful puzzle, each a testament to her ignorance and denial. The perfect foundation for the betrayal that had killed her. She swallowed thickly, barely able to squeeze out an acceptable farewell to the other girls as they reached their rooms. Barely able to look at their faces, lest her fear and self-loathing consume the last of her fortitude.

    Pushing open her chamber door felt more burdensome than ever before, but at last, after what felt like an excruciating eternity, she hefted the door closed behind her.

    ¡°Miss Edda?¡± Marta called from where she was crouched over near the writing desk. Turning her head to regard Edda, she explained, ¡°Blasted inkpot fell over again,¡± before straightening, and placing a carefully arranged bundle of dirty rags atop the desk. ¡°Let me fetch you a cup of water. I know you will say you are well, but you do not look it.¡±

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    Edda collapsed into one of the settles with a groan, hardly fit to hold herself up let alone muffle the unladylike sound. She felt like she had been wrung entirely dry and, as Marta thrust a cup of water into her hands, her eyes stung with unshed tears. She pinched the bridge of her nose, determined to hold them back. It would not do. It would not help her now.

    Ever attuned to her distress, Marta sat down beside her, reaching a hand out to cover one of Edda¡¯s. ¡°What¡¯s happened, Miss Edda?¡± she asked softly, soothingly.

    The question was almost enough to undo her, as such questions are. But somehow, Edda kept herself balanced on that tenuous brink; the urge to throw herself, sobbing, into Marta¡¯s arms held at bay by the disgust she felt at her own stupidity. What had happened? What in the name of the blasted mother and the bloody maiden had truly happened? Perhaps, far more and far worse than Edda had been prepared to face.

    But she would have to. This time, she really would have to. And the first thing she needed to know, increasingly for herself as well as for Gretel, was what had befallen the missing girls. And, right now, Marta was the only way she had to find out.

    ¡°Have you heard anything of the servant girls?¡± Edda asked, her voice trembling slightly.

    Marta¡¯s hand tightened on hers just enough to be felt. ¡°I overheard some talk, just today,¡± she admitted. She seemed almost hesitant to continue, but at Edda¡¯s expectant look, she kept on, ¡°The one named Varga helped in the kitchens, I heard. Ran off nearly three months past on one of the supply wagons from Tice. Apparently, it hasn¡¯t been back since.¡± Releasing Edda¡¯s hand, Marta closed her eyes and reached up to her temples. As though fighting off an aching head, she began to move her fingers in small circles. ¡°Each fortnight when the wagons come, they wager whether the driver will be back.¡±

    Edda frowned. ¡°And nothing of the other?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Marta said slowly, shaking her head slightly, ¡°I haven¡¯t yet mustered the courage to ask.¡±

    There was a sliver of relief amidst the frustration that Edda felt at this information, or lack thereof. The servants¡¯ words seemed to corroborate the story that Varga had run off with a lover, regardless of what Gretel believed. Even so, that left the mystery of where Olah, the other missing girl from Ecsed, had ended up. Until she knew for certain what had happened to them both, she could not rule out that something terrible had already taken place at Cachtice Castle.

    She could not rule out that something terrible might happen again¡ªnot just to a faceless servant girl, this time. Perhaps, she herself would be in danger far sooner than the decade she had been gifted before.

    Edda shuddered, wanting to resist the idea, but unable to. ¡°You must ask, Marta,¡± she pleaded, voice quavering, ¡°We must be sure.¡±

    Marta sighed, dropping her hands from her face. ¡°I¡¯ll listen, Miss Edda. And I¡¯ll ask when I feel I will be answered.¡± She shook her head, as though to dislodge a thought from her mind. ¡°I dearly hope the villagers are wrong. Dearly.¡±

    Edda wished for that to be the case, too. For their superstitions to remain just that, and nothing more. For her own suspicions to be just as ungrounded; for both Olah and Varga to be alive somewhere. Because then, perhaps she might be convinced that Agneta, Cintia, Suzsanna, and the dozens of other young women who had been servants and guests at Cachtice Castle had survived, too. Then, she might be able to stifle the damning thought that she had lived as a Countess while they had died, right where she might have seen them had she cared enough to look. Then, most of all, she might be able to convince herself that her actions so far had saved her instead of putting her directly into harm¡¯s way.

    The evening drew to a close, with the rain at last lifting to reveal a clear, black sky. The waning moon hung bright and low, but its cold light offered no comfort. Outside the flickering candlelight, the night seemed watchful, expectant, and, even as Marta assured her that the salt still lined the doorway, it felt as though something had crept in with the setting of the sun.

    Remorse and terror plagued her in turn, and the familiar routine of preparing for bed bordered on menacing. It was as though each humdrum step portended the crow¡¯s demand. You must listen to the whispers, the beast had beseeched her. It had given her no choice, taking the sleeping powder as well as any control she might have had in the matter with it. She would have to listen, whether she wanted to or not.

    But maybe the whispers needed to be heard. She despised the thought of heeding, again and again, the advice of a witch¡¯s messenger. But the crow¡¯s words had helped her already¡ªat least, she hoped it had¡ªand perhaps it once again offered her something of use. A hint for how she might alter the course of events, just as she had when she changed her appearance. Or maybe even a way that she might learn of the events that had happened already and that might still come to pass.

    So, she would listen, though she could not fathom and did not wish to imagine from whose lips the whispers would come.

    Reclining upon her pillows with the bottle of lemon balm clasped in her fist, she watched as Marta fussed about in search of the lost sleeping powder. Despite her resolve, she was reluctant to end the woman¡¯s needless search. Some part of her wished to prolong it until morning, that she might keep the candles lit and Marta awake to face the night with her. But neither the brightness of the chamber nor Marta¡¯s colorful swearing soothed her any; only the smooth, cool bottle of tincture rolling against her palm seemed to ease her agitation, just barely.

    Alas, Marta threw her hands up and announced the powder misplaced. ¡°Will you do without it?¡± Marta queried, discontent with the outcome she had been forced to accept. She wrung her hands anxiously. ¡°I can sit up while you sleep, Miss Edda. If it will help you rest.¡±

    Edda considered the offer greedily. Almost instantly, she thought to throw out her plans, whispers be damned, for even a few moments to lose herself in sleep and forget about the fears frothing within her. But it was not to be. Not tonight. She took a deep, shaking breath, and shook her head, ¡°I will do without it, Marta.¡±

    Intuitively, she knew she would not be able to find a restful sleep even if Marta climbed into bed and held her like a babe. Without the sleeping powder, her mind raced from one terrible thing to the next¡ªand as soon as it calmed, the memories of her prison cell and of her death would be there to greet her. She would not sleep this night. She would not even attempt it.

    She understood, then, why the crow had taken with it the sleeping powder. If it had been left behind, she would have taken her dose without hesitation like the coward that she was. She ground her teeth together, once again stifling her miserable tears. She would not cry.

    But as Marta readied herself for bed as well, Edda had one last thought, ¡°Would you leave a candle burning beside me? And open the bedcurtains?¡± It could not hurt to have some light, and to be able to see across the room to where Marta slept. Perhaps, once she was sure Marta slumbered, she might even distract herself with the books still hidden in the sheets beside her.

    It was not an unwelcome prospect, and it was perhaps the first she had had that day. Yes, she could read. When the whispers came, she would listen, but until then, she need not sit alone with her thoughts.

    And so began her first night facing the darkness she had avoided since returning to life.

 26. What Waits in the Dark (Part I)

    The baby was crying.

    Edda looked up. Up and up, the staircase stretched before her, steep and narrow and dimly lit. The walls and ceiling closed in the farther her eyes went, like a long tunnel that grew smaller and smaller as it ascended. It felt as though she would be crushed if she chose to climb it, suffocated as she neared the top; so contorted into the space that turning back would be an impossibility.

    The only way left would be forward, then, toward the heavy door at its pinnacle. It drew her eyes to it, like the distant but unavoidable peak of some terrible mountain. Looming above her in painted grey wood. Sinister, with a thick beam slotted across the door, keeping it barred from the outside.

    For years, she had stood at the bottom of this staircase, just as she did now. Frozen in place, looking up toward that terrifying door behind which the baby cried.

    How many steps separated her from that door? She had never been able to count them. Each time, the dark wood would blend together right before her eyes, grain blurring into ledge blurring into grain. One step became three, three became five. Expanding as she focused. Constricting as she turned her attention. No, she had never been able to count them. Eventually, she had stopped trying. There were too many. There were not enough.

    Still the baby cried, its loud, shrill peals echoing throughout the house. Echoing within her head. Was she the only one who heard it? It had always felt that way. At least the woman was not screaming today.

    Strange.

    She looked down at herself with a jerk. A plain brown dress hung off the emaciated remains of her body, worn and dirtied; little more than a rag splattered with foul-smelling oil. Her legs were slick with it, too, and hot with urine. There was cold stone and rough straw beneath her bare feet, themselves black with grime. She spun, suddenly frantic.

    Behind her and on either side were unforgiving grey walls, their every crack and crevice horribly, sickeningly familiar. She had spent days and weeks and months in their company, with little to do but study them and her hunger. They crowded around her now, as though eager to grab a hold of her. As though to keep her here once more, hoping and dreading and hoping and dreading until only dread was left.

    A pit opened up in her stomach, and she felt bile rise rapidly in her throat. She was in her cell in the dungeons beneath Cachtice Castle.

    But in front of her were stairs, leading up and up and up. Without a second thought, she started for them. Bracing her hands on the stairwell like she kept the mouth of some starved beast from closing upon her, she took one step, then two. Her horror at finding herself once more imprisoned drove her forward, clouding her mind to the claustrophobia of the climb before her.

    And then the baby stopped crying.

    She stumbled, nearly falling backward, gripped by a fear so poisonous that it left her stunned. Halfway up now, her head seemed to spin as she fixed her eyes upon the door that awaited her, so close that she could make out the peeling paint and rusting hinges. And that sturdy beam in its brackets, preventing those inside from leaving.

    Her entire body quaked in a silence filled only by the loud hammering of her heart. In a silence where the baby¡¯s cries and the woman¡¯s screams should have been.

    She could go no further. But she could not go back either, and so she stood there trapped between one hell and the next. Paralyzed by the past before her and the future behind her.

    The smell and the sound of the pyre found her before the heat did. The very same acrid scent of burning hair and flesh that had choked her last breaths. And the deafening crackle of the flames, so loud they almost drowned out the triumphant cries of the people, celebrating as she burned. Her lungs seized within her chest. The pyre had taken her once and it would have her again.

    ¡°No,¡± she whimpered, ¡°No, no, no.¡± She began to cry as she slowly, painstakingly took another step forward. And then another. She did not dare look behind her, but she knew the flames crept closer from the lick of warmth upon her legs. There was oil on her dress, she remembered; the oil she had been doused with to further ignite the flames that had killed her.

    If she did not climb, she would be consumed.

    And so, she climbed and climbed and climbed, taking each step a little faster than the last as the fire began to nip at her heels like a hungry dog. Sobbing, weeping, resisting as the stairwell squeezed in about her, suffocating her just as much as the black smoke that filled her nostrils. Every drop of moisture in her eyes and mouth had evaporated as the inferno slowly, inevitably encroached upon her.

    Climb or be consumed, was all she could think. And so, she climbed toward the top of the stairs, where the door, behind which she would find only silence, watched and waited.

    At last, she collapsed upon it, heaving without sound and scrambling against the coarse wood with hands that shook with fear. The heat was immense already. If she did not open the door, her skin would soon begin to blister and boil. She found the beam, pushing and pulling at it with mounting desperation. She did not want to die again. Not like this.

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    Somehow, someway, she hoisted the beam from its place. It clattered to the floor beside her, and she kicked at it, feeling the flames flare up and kiss her legs as it tumbled down the stairs behind her. She might have hesitated, had not the promise of searing agony been upon her. She might have paused before the door and wondered if she could handle what was within. But as the first embers of fire clung to her skirts, as though to drag her back to the pyre, she did not.

    Pulling the door open, she flung herself inside.

    And woke, eyes wide and hands pressed firmly over her mouth. Edda¡¯s palms muffled her ragged gasp, lips stuttering against them as she swallowed the shriek that threatened to follow. Her eyes rolled wildly, insensible with fear. She dared not breathe, let alone move in that overwhelming silence. The baby was not crying. The woman was not screaming. But she had opened the door.

    The seconds passed with painful slowness. Motionless, awareness came sluggishly to her fear-addled brain. There were tears streaming down the sides of her face, into her ears and onto the wet pillow below her. Cold sweat had dampened her clothing, and she shivered in rhythm with the shaking of her icy fingertips. And try as she might to remain quiet, her heart drummed loudly, tellingly against her ribs. She would be heard. She would make the first noise, after the baby had finally gone silent.

    Before long, her lungs demanded air. It was perhaps this purely physical need which focused her, allowed her mind to clear and her eyes to see. The ceiling above her was vaulted and ornate, illumined just barely by the cool light of the moon through the window. In the corners of her vision were the posters of the bed she lay in, curtains neatly tied, and a small shift of her head revealed that Across the Carpathians rested, still open, in her blanketed lap. The room was dark, meaning that the candle at her side had burned down to the wick.

    It was her chamber at Cachtice Castle. She must have fallen asleep, despite her best efforts. And yet, even as that knowledge settled, even as her voice readied to call for Marta, some part of her¡ªsome unconscious, primitive part of her¡ªinsisted that she remain quiet.

    Still trembling, she pushed herself up in bed, moving as soundlessly as she could. The need for air was too great, and at last, she sucked in a breath, her stomach clenching with panic at the muted sound. She held it for a time, as though in wait. As though expecting that something had heard her. But even as nothing stirred, she almost could not bring herself to release it for fear of the noise.

    At last, the pressure mounted too far and she exhaled; softly though unsteadily. She frowned, watching a misty plume of air appear before her. Gooseflesh rose all along her arms. Even last night, with the window open, she had not seen her breath. Why was it so cold? Her head immediately snapped to the side, eyes searching the window to ensure it was shut and secured.

    Indeed, it was. So, why?

    It did not occur to Edda, then, that her eyes followed the same path that the crow¡¯s had the night before. Past the pool of moonlight into the shadows of the room, to the wall across from her where Marta lay, slumbering in her pallet. Her eyes grazed over the sleeping woman, obscured beneath her blankets, to settle in the corner.

    Where something stood; its back to her and its face resting in the crook of the room.

    Before even registering what it was she saw, Edda clamped her hands over her mouth once more, so tight and so hard that she must have loosened her teeth. Like the instinct of an animal hunted, she knew immediately that she should not attract its attention; that if she so much as whimpered, it would turn to her. And once it saw her, there would be no escaping.

    Body vibrating with a quality of fear she had never experienced before, she studied the thing with unblinking eyes¡ªtoo terrified to look away, lest it hear the rotating of her head. She wanted to disbelieve her sight, to deem it a hallucination or a black dream. Perhaps even to question her own sanity. Maybe then, she could simply wake Marta with a shout, and have the woman assure her that there was nothing there.

    But every fiber of her being insisted otherwise.

    The crow¡¯s haunting words from the night before returned to her¡ªthe promise of whispers and of other things in the dark. And so, too, did her own frightening conclusions about what those words meant. Fresh tears began to trickle down her face as she desperately muffled her shallow breaths.

    It must be a blood witch. But even as she considered the possibility, she knew it was not. Although she could only see its back, the thing before her was no child. Even as it stood hunched forward, it was tall enough to scrape its fingers across the lowest part of the ceiling; thin fingers, tipped with dirty nails. Long enough to encompass her neck. Her breath shuddered, try though she did to keep it under control. No, it was no child before her.

    She longed to shut her eyes. To hide beneath the blankets like the scared child she had now become. But her eyelids had forgotten how to close, and she did not have the courage to move her hands from her mouth, lest her screams bubble forth uncontrollably. The more she looked, the more horrible the sight before her became.

    Swathed in stained white cloth, she could see little of the thing¡¯s body. Its hands hung loose at its sides, swaying just enough for her to know that it was awake. And then, there was its head. A hastily suppressed whine rose in Edda¡¯s throat. Patches of fine, stringy locks were upon that white pate; but it was not that which frightened her the most. No. It was the twisted and unnatural way the thing¡¯s head hung forward, limp and useless.

    Its neck was broken.

    Edda could do nothing. Fear had paralyzed her upon the bed, her eyes glued to the monster as she prayed that her low breaths and incessant trembling would not alert the thing to her presence. Her limbs had grown numb as the temperature within the chamber continued to drop, and even the quilts that covered her felt like sheets of ice. Hopelessness began to overtake her, now, as her tears slowed to a stop.

    Was this what the crow had intended for her? To contend with this monster the entire night? She had been wrong to expect anything else from a witch¡¯s messenger, and she realized that now with certainty. It had steered her toward a different death¡ªfar earlier than the one she had died before and¡ªshe pressed her lips together to stifle a moan of terror as the thing before her shifted just slightly¡ªperhaps far worse.

    Locked in the spiral of her thoughts as well as the stillness of her body, she almost did not notice the movement in the corner of her eye. It might have gone unnoticed, in fact, but for the rustle of cloth. But for the sudden, startling sense that someone was now looking at her.

    And then the whispers started.

 27. What Waits in the Dark (Part II)

    ¡°I¡­my¡­silence¡­remember¡­¡±

    The whispered words held no meaning, at first.

    The fear that had begun to settle around Edda like dust in still air was, suddenly, awhirl again¡ªfreshly stirred by the breached silence. Petrified already by the horrifying thing that swayed and shifted in the corner, her blood curdled with the soft, murmurous sounds that now rose up. For several, excruciating moments after the voice reached her, she could do nothing but gape at the monster¡ªcertain that the noise would spur it to turn and meet her eyes.

    But it remained where it was, undisturbed.

    Expecting the whispers, even resolving to listen to them, had not prepared her in the slightest for the mind-bending terror she felt at hearing them beside her now. Reality itself seemed to slip, the frigid chamber warping and righting itself with each of her cloudy breaths, still muffled behind her hands. She was at the very ends of her sanity, of that she was sure¡ªif she had not finished with it, already. Should there be more to this night than what she had already endured, the hysteria that she kept at bay by will alone would, without a doubt, overwhelm her.

    And she knew, somehow, that the moment the creature heard her, it would come.

    ¡°¡­reach¡­name¡­you¡­¡±

    Whether it would reach her before the dead girl whispering at her bedside was another matter entirely.

    Edda could not turn her head away from the monster and so, she could only see the girl from the corner of her eye. It was enough, more than enough, to have a vague impression of this new visitor; indeed, she was little more than an outline that flickered into and out of Edda¡¯s consciousness. Like a shadow in the likeness of a human, the girl stared at her with filmy grey eyes and whispered to her in words she was too scared to comprehend.

    ¡°I reach¡­my¡­¡±

    And Edda knew, of course, that the girl was dead. From the moment the crow had stolen the sleeping powder, some part of her had suspected that it would come to this. The dead woke when the living were asleep, after all, but the girl was not the blood witch she had been expecting. Somehow, Edda knew with visceral certainty that the entity beside her was something quite different¡ªdifferent, too, from the monstrosity in the corner of her room. She was a spirit, Edda supposed; the final echo of a life.

    It was a strange intuition, this knowledge. Perhaps, it was born of kinship, as Edda herself had been dead not so long ago.

    Of course, such things existed in superstition, too, but in the stories of her youth, spirits were not a thing to be feared. Rather, they were memories of loved ones lost, lingering on for a time after their passing. Sometimes appearing in dreams before they faded away with the last of the prayers said for them. Even so, Edda would bet every coin in her purse that any who believed spirits were harmless had never actually seen one standing at their bedside. To dream of something was a far more tender fate than to face it in reality.

    ¡°¡­my name¡­swallows it¡­¡±

    Nevertheless, any relief inherited by the fact that she was not in a blood witch¡¯s company was quickly decimated by the ominous movement of the monster in the corner, and the dead girl¡¯s lifeless eyes intent upon her. She swallowed down a dry sob, her tears frozen in her eyelashes. Oh, she must be mad at last. Or, at least, she hoped that was the case, for that would be simpler than confronting what was now before her.

    If the dead girl was not a blood witch, then she must be a blood witch¡¯s victim. And that was the furthest thing from a consolation Edda had ever conceived of.

    ¡°¡­remember¡­¡±

    The disjointed whispers continued, floating up to brush her ears before falling away into an incomprehensible mutter. She could see the girl¡¯s bloodless lips working through each word, and yet there seemed to be no force behind her utterances. Indeed, the spirit shimmered as though on the verge of disappearing. Against her will, Edda remembered what the crow had told her¡ªthat the whispers would wane with each moon. How many moons had this spirit¡¯s whispers gone unheard?

    She had to listen; cursed crow be damned¡ªEdda knew she had to listen. Despite the abject terror of the situation, despite her growing certainty that she had lost her sane mind¡ªthis was her first real opportunity, and perhaps her last, to understand what was happening at Cachtice Castle. To hear of it, perhaps, firsthand. The thought brought a sickening lump to her throat.

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    ¡°¡­reach for¡­name¡­¡±

    If only she were brave enough to close her eyes; to trust that when she opened them again, the thing in the corner would not have its spindly fingers about her neck. Perhaps then, blinded to the unbelievable sight before her, she might stem the tides of terror that buffeted her, drowning out the girl¡¯s whispers in wave after wave of sheer fright. But she was a coward. A silly, stupid coward, even more so in the midst of this waking black dream. She could hardly even get herself to breathe. How would she get herself to listen?

    She did not have to think long on it.

    Abruptly, the girl leaned over the bed, extending a pallid hand toward her. Despite her effort not to make any noise, Edda jumped¡ªfighting the urge to throw herself off the other side of the bed, away from the reaching fingers. The mattress creaked beneath her, and she only just stifled a whimper of terrified surprise¡ªbefore freezing at the quiet commotion.

    Across the room, the monster seemed to pause, listening. And Edda trembled fearfully, her gaze trained on it even as she watched, peripherally, as the girl¡¯s white hand closed over her own¡ªthe touch firm and burning with cold.

    The spirit¡¯s ethereal voice reached Edda as though it spoke within her head. Like the final notes of a song, or the wind that carries the last of winter, it whispered to her, ¡°I reach for my name, but the silence swallows it. You are like me, but you remember.¡±

    The chill that coursed through Edda¡¯s body was indescribable. Did it stem from the icy hold upon her arm¡ªfar realer, far stronger than Edda had thought possible? The spirit herself seemed to have solidified now, the previously fluctuating silhouette more human, more stable than before. Or was it the words that the dead girl spoke that incited this cold fear? An insinuation of a life lost¡­and a reminder of a death escaped.

    The spirit seemed to wait, as though for an acknowledgment, but Edda could not respond¡ªnot without alerting the monster. Without facing her directly, she could just make out the girl¡¯s face¡ªgrey and expressionless in death. Not older than Edda herself, surely. The thought made Edda¡¯s insides convulse with a distress she could not express, and the spirit¡¯s grip upon her arm tightened.

    It did not feel threatening. Rather, she almost felt as though the girl sought to comfort her. And so, with the barest of movements, Edda nodded her head, terrified, but willing the spirit to know that she listened.

    ¡°I yearn for what I do not remember. And cannot forget what I do,¡± the girl said, ¡°Only the end remains, and I wish it were not so.¡±

    Edda gulped, uneasy, her mind working frantically to decipher the spirit¡¯s words. Understanding came haltingly, almost unwillingly. For the first time since she had seen it, Edda looked away from the thing in the corner¡ªmeeting the spirit¡¯s gaze with eyes that bulged in muted fright. Although the girl¡¯s words were regretful, her eyes were clouded and vacant. The eyes of a corpse, with no memories of the time before death had taken her. But Edda knew that she needed to hear what the spirit longed to forget¡ªand so with her quick glance, she implored the girl to tell her.

    There was a heavy silence, filled only by Edda¡¯s rapid breaths¡ªhardly audible through her trembling fingers.

    ¡°The skinless ones came first,¡± the dead girl whispered, ¡°I could not outrun them.¡±

    Edda¡¯s heart stopped in her chest.

    ¡°I was not lucky, for they did not eat me themselves.¡± The girl¡¯s voice seemed to intensify, to raise in pitch. Her image slipped away, then returned, as if tethered somehow to her hold on Edda. ¡°My blood sipped sweet, so they served me to the witch.¡± Edda felt weak, feverish with the fear that now beat within her, replacing the erratic cadence of her heartbeat. It was all she could do not to weep in horror at the girl¡¯s emotionless words.

    There was a pause; a dreadful one, where Edda was certain she would lose herself to the churning, drumming, throbbing terror. But the spirit released her suddenly then, and the unexpectedness of the loss had Edda tearing her eyes from the monster once more. Horrified, she watched as the girl¡¯s form quivered and shook.

    ¡°They served me to the witch,¡± a crackle of emotion broke through¡ªraw and frightened as Edda felt¡ªreaching a crescendo with the girl¡¯s next words, ¡°and she plays with her food.¡±

    The girl¡¯s face and body crumpled. Edda could describe it no other way. The mask of death she had worn fell in upon itself, collapsing as her form disappeared, bulging and twisting as it materialized again. There was an abrupt and violent shift, like a flash of lightning without any brightness, and then the dead girl solidified.

    She stood at Edda¡¯s bedside still, but she was herself no longer. Instead, a blood-soaked apparition had taken her place.

    ¡°She plays with her food,¡± it shrieked, loud and angry as thunder.

    Tears of blood streaked down a face contorted in anguish, and those dead eyes were bloodshot and alive with fury. As she moved her head to settle her glare upon Edda, it fell upon her shoulder¡ªunsupported. A jagged chunk of flesh had been taken from her neck¡ªbitten off, the wound gnawed, Edda realized with horror¡ªleaving little more than a strip of flesh to hold her head to her body.

    Like vomit rising up within her throat, Edda felt the scream come forth. How many, vile and bitter, had she swallowed back down this night? In the end, it was no matter. As her eyes fell to the ghost¡¯s hands, frozen in a rictus of pain and mutilated almost beyond recognition, the scream split her lips, spilling forth uncontrollably.

    In the corner, the thing turned.

 28. Fear and Breath

    She screamed. Blessed maiden, how she screamed.

    ¡°¡­Edda¡­Miss Edda!¡±

    A hot, bruising grip upon her shoulders. A furious, world-shifting jerk, and a series of violent shakes. The breath that fueled her ear-splitting scream disappeared from her lungs as if sucked out of her.

    ¡°Miss Edda! Awaken! I beg you, awaken!¡±

    Everything disappeared as Edda felt her eyes roll back into her head. For a second, the briefest second, she fancied that she saw the inside of her skull; a luminous pink mass streaked with red. Not the black-red of the blood upon the butchered girl before her, but the bright, pulsing red of her blood within her. And then her eyes righted and she stared into Marta¡¯s panicked face, the woman¡¯s eyes wide and watering with fright.

    ¡°Miss Edda!¡± Marta cried, her voice high and shrill.

    Comprehension dawned for them both as Edda¡¯s eyes focused, but the sight of Marta was not enough to stay her terror. Edda twisted and turned in Marta¡¯s grasp, struggling to keep one eye upon the room¡¯s corner and the other at the opposite bedside. The chamber spun. Where were they? Mother and blasted maiden, where were they?

    ¡°Mother in hell, Miss Edda!¡± Marta was almost shouting now, panting with alarm and exertion both as she grappled with her struggling charge. Her touch was scalding against Edda¡¯s chilled skin, her hands an unyielding knot on Edda¡¯s upper arms and the only obstacle in the way of Edda flinging herself to the floor in her desperate, fearful confusion. ¡°Mother in hell!¡±

    The dark room¡¯s shadows churned restlessly, and Edda¡¯s eyes moved frantically through them, searching. She felt something akin to madness come over her; certainly, she was now hysterical in her writhing and whimpering. But she knew what she had seen and felt and heard. The dead girl¡¯s sudden wrath; her furious glare, her pained shrieking. The slow, intentional turn of that horrid thing toward her. Had it seen her? Blood and bloody curses, had it seen her?

    But as the seconds slipped away into minutes, taking with them the flickering afterimages in her eyes, the darkness began to still. And in that darkness, there was only emptiness.

    Edda slumped forward, wracked by horrified, uncontrollable sobs. Nothing. There was nothing there.

    Marta¡¯s entire body seemed to lurch as Edda¡¯s resistance gave way. There were tears on her cheeks, shining despite the dim light, and the sight of them escalated Edda¡¯s own weeping. Not releasing her for even a moment, Marta yanked her into a crushing embrace.

    ¡°Mother in hell. Mother in hell,¡± Marta chanted, her hands restlessly rubbing along Edda¡¯s clammy, cold skin; whether to inspire some semblance of warmth in her frozen body or calm in her rattled mind, Edda did not know. She hid her face in Marta¡¯s wrinkled nightdress, shivering and wailing and finally, finally allowing herself to close her eyes.

    She was incoherent, nigh on inconsolable, for some time. She could not fathom how long, as her descent from the emotional height she had been thrust upon warped her perception of it. All she was sure of was Marta¡¯s sturdy, anchoring presence, into which her bitter moans and dreadful fears both were absorbed. The woman rocked her back and forth, murmuring to her quietly even as her own voice quivered and broke. And slowly, slowly, she picked her way down the steep and jagged mountain of her own mind back onto numb, but solid ground.

    Only then did Marta shift to look at her, smoothing Edda¡¯s damp hair from her face. ¡°A black dream?¡± she questioned, anxiously.

    Edda¡¯s words would not come. The scream that had ripped from her, the sobs that had followed it; together they had shredded her throat, leaving her tongue leaden, her spit metallic. Even if she could speak, she did not know what to say. Her eyes were closed now, and she refused to open them even to acknowledge Marta¡¯s question¡ªunwilling to face what she might see, and unwilling to face what she might not.

    A black dream. It hadn¡¯t all been a black dream. But what of it had been real?

    Edda swayed, weak in Marta¡¯s arms, and the woman cursed, holding her tight. Here, now, with her eyes pressed so tightly shut she saw blooms of light upon her eyelids, with the blood that had run cold at last becoming warm¡ªthe calm seemed to blur the line, to smudge the edge between wakefulness and sleep. Yes, she knew what she had seen and felt and heard. But could she trust herself?

    A ball of something, phlegmy and bitter, rose in her abused throat. None of this felt real.

    A gentle but insistent tap on her cheek revived her from the catatonic haze she had begun to slip into. ¡°Miss Edda, please,¡± Marta whispered, and something, some inkling of despondence in her tone, finally peeled open Edda¡¯s eyes. Marta¡¯s brown eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and uncertain, her mouth a tense line.

    Almost immediately, Edda¡¯s tears threatened to overcome her again; relief mixing with disbelief and the sharp, uneven remnants of fear. Her lips trembled as she shook her head, forcing hoarsely out, ¡°Not a black dream.¡± She shuddered as she said it, loathing the admission. But if nothing felt real, then she had to assume that everything was.

    Marta could only blink, her grip on Edda tightening imperceptibly. There was a heavy silence. Edda could almost see the thoughts flitting around behind Marta¡¯s eyes; worry and dread warring for dominance. ¡°You were just¡­¡± her mouth worked wordlessly for a few seconds, as though her breath had stuck in her lungs, as though her thoughts refused to take shape, ¡°You were just sitting here, Miss Edda. With your eyes open. And then, you started screaming.¡± Her last words were little more than a shrinking whisper.

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    Edda shook her head again, as though to reject Marta¡¯s words. ¡°Didn¡¯t you¡­you didn¡¯t see them?¡± She lifted an unsteady finger first to the bedside, where the angry ghost had glared, and then, hesitantly, fearfully, to the corner where the thing had stood in wait. Where it had turned. Where it had, possibly, seen her.

    A tremor racked her body, like liquid ice sliding down her spine.

    ¡°What?¡± Marta asked, following Edda¡¯s gesture, before settling back upon her face¡ªeyes round with bewilderment and not a small amount of terror. ¡°Miss Edda, it¡¯s only us two.¡±

    As though it had come unhinged, Edda¡¯s head continued to move from side to side, her denial faint but resolute. ¡°It¡¯s not safe,¡± she said softly, trying to stem the wave of panic that threatened her once more, ¡°Marta, it¡¯s not safe here.¡± Disentangling herself from Marta¡ªwho went rather unwillingly¡ªEdda tossed Across the Carpathians, which had fallen askew in her lap, over onto the sheets beside her.

    Marta gave the book a cursory glance, a brief and inexplicable expression flashing over and then falling from her face. ¡°We cannot leave the castle, Miss Edda,¡± she said, ¡°We¡­Your father would¡­¡±

    Marta was right, of course. They had no way of leaving, and no where to go. But anything, Edda realized, anywhere, would be better than in this chamber where that thing had been, where the dead girl had uttered those terrifying words, and where they both perhaps still lingered, angry in the shadows¡­Edda threw off her blankets, swinging her stiff legs so that her feet brushed the floor beside where Marta now stood. Terror slid between her ribs like a knife. She and Marta would have to pass by both the opposite bedside and the corner of the room to leave the chamber.

    But she could stay here no longer. No. She needed out of this place, where reality and dream had merged, where fear and breath had become one.

    ¡°Please, Marta,¡± Edda implored, her voice low and anguished, ¡°Even¡ª¡± An itch rose in the back of her mind, the memory of something to be done today. Something important. But it refused to surface from the fog of urgency that had taken her. ¡°It¡¯s not safe here,¡± she repeated instead, pushing herself to her feet. The movement sent the room awhirl again, and she felt Marta¡¯s bolstering hands upon her waist.

    Again, Marta was silent for a time, her hold on Edda firm but uncompromising. Surely, Marta must find her erratic, perhaps even mentally unsound. But it did not matter; she would drag Marta out of this room with her if she had to. Eyes darting about agitatedly, Edda fastened her hand onto Marta¡¯s wrist and turned¡ªfaltering as the corner came into view but averting her gaze just as quickly.

    If she no longer saw them, perhaps they no longer saw her. It was, still, hardly a comforting thought. No, if anything, the fear twisted and coiled about her lungs, squeezing and straining at the very notion that those apparitions remained, present but beyond her sight. What the dead girl intended; Edda still could not fathom. The spirit had touched her, but it had not hurt her. It¡¯s haunting words, she would have to decipher later.

    But the monster in the corner¡­Edda thought of the thing¡¯s hands, those horrible, elongated fingers. The hair on her neck stood on end, and she knew, somehow, what those fingers promised.

    She did not want to die again.

    She would keep her head down and head for the door. She had not run in longer than she could remember; even just standing as she did now, her muscles cramped and cried from her earlier tensions. But she would run. She had no choice.

    Yet, heavy as a stone, Marta refused to budge. ¡°Wait, Miss Edda,¡± she said, her voice soft and easing as she pulled her back, ¡°Just wait.¡± Marta took a deep breath. ¡°We¡¯ll¡ªwe¡¯ll go to the kitchens. Perhaps a spot of fresh air will do us both good. But, please, let us dress ourselves first. Please.¡±

    Desperate though she was, Marta¡¯s words gave her pause. Like sifting through wool to find thread, her mind alighted upon what she had almost forgotten in her fear and frenzy. The courtyard near the kitchen would be where the supply wagons arrived. They would start trickling in between early and midmorning. If she did not pass her message to the wagon driver from Ecsed today, she and Marta would have to wait a month for blackthorn.

    A month for sleeping powder.

    She could not wait another night, let alone a month. Not with what had awaited her in the darkness that the sleeping powder alone had kept at bay.

    The realization was enough to sober her, to dampen her hurry the slightest amount. ¡°Just¡ªjust my cloak,¡± she replied, ¡°Just my cloak and boots, Marta. And for you as well.¡± Again, the words spilled from her like a plea, ¡°It is not safe here. We must go.¡±

    Marta looked to her sternly. ¡°You¡¯ve had a fright, Miss Edda. Just a fright,¡± her last words fumbled, as though she herself was unsure of them. Catching herself, she continued, ¡°We will dress, and we will take some fresh air. But we will dress.¡±

    Marta¡¯s words held an air of finality, and with Edda¡¯s panic quietened to a hard prickle of apprehension now, she knew that the woman would brook no further argument. Still, Marta seemed to ready them faster than she ever had before, pulling their hair back into quick knots without her usual care in brushing, and outfitting them with uncharacteristically little consideration. She did not even stop to light a candle, and neither of them paused at the washbasin to clean themselves. And although Marta ensured that Edda¡¯s cloak and dress were properly fastened, her own apron still hung off her as they made ready to depart.

    They had almost passed the corner of the room; the corner that Edda had been steadfastly ignoring as Marta dressed her. Somehow, she had managed to convince herself, through trick and try, that if she simply did not look, they might somehow be safe. And so, she kept her eyes downcast even as her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest, that knife of fear slipping and sliding with each breath. Indeed, they had almost passed the corner of the room when Edda remembered the letter for Gretel.

    She hated to turn back for it. Perhaps she could just tell the wagoner¡¯s boy what she needed; perhaps that would be enough. But Gretel had asked for letters, and she had written one, after all. It would be the easier, more certain way to ensure that the supplies they needed arrived the next time the wagons did. And Edda needed to be certain that they did. She could not take the chance of a mistake.

    But as she came upon the writing desk, her eyes seeking the inkpot under which she had kept the missive, confusion spiked her fear. Her breath caught, truncated by surprise. A clump of dirtied rags sat on the corner of the table, and the inkpot had been moved.

    ¡°Marta,¡± she said, ¡°Marta, where is the letter that I left here, on the desk?¡±

    Marta had already passed the bed and had stopped to wait for her. ¡°What letter, Miss Edda?¡± she responded, somewhat impatiently. ¡°There was no letter last evening. Just the inkpot upon the floor.¡±

    For once, Edda did not waste time thinking through what this might mean. The letter was gone, and she did not know who or what had taken it. What, truly, had she invited in by allowing the crow its entry? Something really had been in this chamber, and she needed to leave it before the sinking feeling in her stomach affixed her to the stone floor.

    If nothing felt real, then she had to assume that everything was.

 29. A Memory of Hunger

    The fear that chased Edda from the chamber did not diminish as she and Marta entered the hallway, stepping over the thin, useless line of salt they had laid the day before. Oil lamps nestled within metal braziers flickered them an unwelcome greeting as the door shut, casting a warm but dim light between pools of shadow.

    Yet, these were not the only sources of light to receive them this night. Bleary-eyed and frightened behind their candlesticks, Cintia and Suzsanna passed hushed murmurs between them, lingering at the threshold of their own rooms. They had been awakened by the screaming, of course, and Marta offered the two some words of reassurance as they passed.

    But Edda could not bring herself even to look at them. Almost unconsciously, she had taken the small bottle of lemon balm with her, and she fingered it now within the folds of her skirt. Guilt and a renewed sense of hopelessness settled itself over her as Marta led the way down the tower steps. Edda followed close behind, hovering enough to brush the other woman as they walked.

    How certain she was, now, that Cachtice Castle had been their coffins. That it would be yet again.

    There had been death, of course, in her time as the Countess, and even before then. Death, after all, is one of life¡¯s only certainties, and even a privileged life such as she had lived could not avoid it. Her mother had died when she was still a girl. Marta had died shortly after they had reached the castle. And others had died, too, in the years that followed; from disease, from conflict, from age, even from execution.

    And yet, those deaths had been different. Perhaps it was the invincibility of her youth that had made them so. Perhaps, her own self-absorption rendered even the passing of those close to her something separate, something distant. Mourning was no stranger to her and yet death had been.

    But it was a stranger no longer. She had died once already. Death, which had been but an abstraction, a far horizon, had rushed toward her. It had not been so long ago that she had longed for death in her dungeon cell, fantasized about it through months of deteriorating sanity and physical decay. And when it had come, crisping her skin and cooking her flesh, she had wished for life instead.

    It was hard not to dwell on it, even with the veil of numbness that had descended upon her. Within that hollow cloak, the fear had dimmed; and yet, its edge could still be felt as Marta led them down a set of corridors Edda had never walked before. She knew it must be the servants¡¯ path toward the kitchens. And yet, they felt like the stone bowels of some great beast; darker and narrower than even the cramped and winding halls in the older parts of the castle. Had the missing servant girls made their way through this place? Was this where they had fled from the monsters that roamed Cachtice Castle?

    The implications of that night¡¯s events simmered low in her mind, just waiting for her attention to bring them to a boil.

    Other servants appeared before them, passing intent about their morning¡¯s early errands. Each pale face seemed tight and withdrawn, even as they exchanged quiet greetings with Marta, even as they looked to Edda with silent concern. Did she imagine it? She did not know. But it was clear to her, now. It did not matter what she thought was imagination. It did not matter whether she had passed a night of black dreams, or a night of hallucinations, or a night of bleak reality. None of that mattered, not really.

    In those dreadful whispers the crow had wished her to hear, in those horrifying apparitions she had endured, she had witnessed a vision of death. A death that had befallen a servant girl, she believed, and one that might befall another of the castle¡¯s young women. A death that, just as easily, might be her own.

    She swallowed, feeling faint and stumbling slightly as they wound their way through the labyrinthine passages. She caught herself on Marta¡¯s warm, solid shoulder, hesitating to release her even after the spell had passed; unwilling to lose contact in this unfamiliar place, afraid that she might lose herself in the dark tenor of her thoughts.

    ¡°Miss Edda?¡± Marta queried softly, worriedly, glancing back toward her.

    They had paused in a shadowy stretch of corridor, lit only by a melting candle upon a ledge. There was a faint smell of beeswax and of the sanded wood below their feet, the planks creaking as a tired looking older manservant passed them with a polite acknowledgment. When he had passed from sight and ear, Edda asked a question she already knew the answer to. ¡°Marta, how long does one mourn the dead?¡±

    Marta blinked several times, taken aback by the question. She looked in the direction they were going, before taking Edda¡¯s hand and resuming their journey. ¡°Three moons is customary,¡± she answered in a low tone. There might have been just a hint of something, some exasperation perhaps, in her voice.

    Edda pressed her lips together, and continued walking. She did not release Marta¡¯s hand.

    The smell of baked bread and savory meats wafted toward them well before they felt the heat of the kitchens. Inexplicably, Edda felt her stomach grumble and twist with hunger, a sensation so pronounced that she clutched at her abdomen with her free hand, stiff and swollen though it still was. The moist warmth of the cookfires had begun to condense on her face by the time they came upon the large but otherwise unadorned wooden doors. They had been left slightly ajar, and Marta swung them open to reveal a cavernous room of white-washed stone.

    It was jarring, indeed, to go from the stark stillness of the hallway to this luminous and abundantly outfitted space. Along one side, wicker baskets and barrels were neatly arranged underneath rows of shelves, upon which countless jars and bowls of spices, pickles, preserves, dried goods, and others rested. At the back wall, a long, recessed space had been carved out of the stone; here, fires burned at a low crackle below heavy pots, steam rising from their mouths. And across from where she and Marta stood, a truly impressive door was open, beyond which Edda caught a glimpse of the courtyard in the dusky morning light.

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    Edda gaped, momentarily stunned out of her stupor that such a place had existed without her ever having known of it. She had not had reason to visit the kitchens. As guest and later as Countess, food had always been brought to her wherever in Cachtice Castle she happened to desire it. Her stomach cramped sharply at the thought of the many meals she had eaten that had originated here. She was hungry, devastatingly so. In fact, the hunger that now gripped her sent a spike of terrible anxiety through her, for it felt not unlike the first time she had gone without food for days; not unlike the beginning of that time when a hunger so hollow and empty had made its home in her body.

    A handful of aproned older women who were already at work looked up at their entrance; two of them were up to their elbows in flour and dough at one end of a long, central table and at the other end, another two wielded knives upon an assortment of tubers. They smiled, calling good mornings to Marta which she returned with a cheerfulness Edda was certain she did not feel. ¡°I¡¯ll be right there to help, Dora,¡± Marta said to a woman handling a carrot, ¡°Miss Edda¡¯s with me today; I¡¯ll accompany her out for some air first.¡±

    There was a focal point to the kitchen¡¯s busyness, a hugely rotund woman who bustled from pot to pot, ladling soup and stew, adding pinches of things into the mix. This woman alone had not turned to look at them, and, still without a glance their way, she boomed, ¡°Lukacs¡¯ll have my neck if he knows one of the ladies was down here, Marta.¡± Her voice seemed to echo in the chamber, reverberating off the high ceilings.

    Edda could see Marta¡¯s shoulders tighten. ¡°She wasn¡¯t well, Ani.¡±

    The woman, Ani, turned her rosy face toward them. She glistened, as though coated in a slick of oil. ¡°Then you take her someplace else. This ain¡¯t no place for the ladies, Marta. This ain¡¯t no physician¡¯s quarters.¡± Marta seemed to bristle, but she was silent. Ani addressed Edda with her eyes, two dark almonds set high above the apples of her cheeks. ¡°No disrespect, Miss. None meant.¡±

    Edda nodded, and with the movement, dark spots peppered her vision. She swayed, clutching for Marta who made an exclamation of surprise. Even Ani¡¯s plump face, set as it was with displeasure, crumbled quickly into concern. Edda¡¯s stomach folded in on itself, and it was like she had returned to the dungeons again. It was like all she had eaten for weeks were curds of spoiled milk and dried straw.

    And that with the smell of food all around her.

    The other women had stopped what they were doing. Marta now supported her, and Ani had gathered in close, raising her plum-like hands to help. Vaguely, Edda knew that they said her name, but as her sight narrowed further, as her belly wrenched within her, she found herself too weak to hear them, unable to even consider a response. Her lips were too heavy, her throat too constricted to form a scream, but she knew that as soon as the darkness took her, she would awaken in her cell as nothing more than a ravenous existence of bone and pain.

    It closed in.

    At the edge of consciousness, with only a pinprick of light left in her eyes, she was aware of fat fingers prying open her mouth. Something was shoved in, a cube of something hard that, almost immediately, began to spread sweetness upon her tongue. Her terror seemed to dissipate as it dissolved. She sucked on it greedily until it had all but disappeared, and another took its place. And another, and then several more.

    A feeling of coolness against her back was the first sensation she noticed, apart from the blessed taste in her mouth. Gradually, the chalky stone of the high ceiling reappeared above her. They had set her down against a barrel, and when she looked about her, it was as though she were shielded by a curtain of skirts, so crowded in around her the women were. Marta was among them, she was sure. Their words came and went, mentions of healers and physicians. She could not focus well, but she was not in her cell, and that was enough for now.

    A cup was brought to her lips, and cool herbal water entered her, dribbling down her chin before she could swallow it all. She was parched as well as hungry, she realized, raising her hands to take the cup from whomever held it. She downed it with a series of decidedly uncouth gulps; but she needed it. And she needed food.

    ¡°S-something to eat,¡± she choked out.

    The skirts parted, and Ani¡¯s bulky form filled her field of view. Her voice was loud, but the earlier irritation had gone from it, ¡°I¡¯d knew you¡¯d want for it. I¡¯d seen starving looks before.¡± The woman bent, surprisingly nimble, and with her proximity came a tray, stacked high with hot bread, and cold meat and butter and cheese.

    Before it had even been placed on her lap, Edda reached for the first thing her fingers found; a slice of cheese that gave pleasantly to her teeth and was sharp on her tongue where before sweetness had lingered. Then, a piece of cured meat, salty but delicious. And finally, a heel of bread so hot that it burnt her fingertips and melted the butter as she dipped it; but it was fluffy and malty and wonderfully solid.

    She ate until the tray was cleared, until every crumb was inside of her and even the traces of butter had been licked from its small dish. And then, Ani wordlessly replaced it with a fresh helping, and Edda ate even more, until her shriveled stomach reinflated, until the gnawing hunger was replaced by uncomfortable fullness. Only then did Ani gently wrangle the tray from her hands, and Edda felt only a momentary regret to see it go.

    By that time, the other women had returned to their workstations¡ªEdda listened as Ani berated them back into place¡ªand only Marta hovered about her, speechless with worry. But words spilled out of her as Ani approached again, words of apology and of gratitude and of self-deprecation, which Ani promptly halted with an upheld hand. ¡°There¡¯ll be none starving under my eye, Marta. I¡¯m no physician, but I¡¯m a cook, and the Miss was hungry. It¡¯ll be alright.¡±

    Were there tears in Marta¡¯s eyes? Edda could not be sure from this distance. But slowly, Marta nodded, whispering her thanks and allowing Ani to guide her over to one side of the long table where a sack of potatoes were now being handily peeled. With a deep breath, and more than one tense glance Edda¡¯s way, Marta¡¯s hands grew busy and, as they did, the creases on her face began to soften.

    And somehow, someway, Edda felt herself softening as well, in the warm, rhythmic clamor of the kitchens; surrounded by Marta and Ani and the other women who toiled quietly, each of them taking turns to look over at her with far more tenderness and care than she deserved. She felt no hunger or pain or even fear. Not even discomfort plagued her at her seat upon the stone floor, with the curved barrel hard against her back. Now, she was well and truly exhausted, having reached the far ends of what she was capable of handling.

    And, just like that, her head dropped forward, and she slept.

 29.5 Across the Carpathians (Excerptum IV-V)

    From the travel accounts of Antal Farkas, chronicler and cartographer commissioned by House K¨®v¨¢cs, recorded during his survey of the Carpathian Mountains in the years 1512 through 1514.

    Compiled in the year 1520.

    <hr>

    Excerptum IV

    By the twentieth day of Maius, Anno Matris Sanctae 1512, the run-off that had swelled the waters of the B¨¦ga River receded, along with the bitterly cold spring rains. After enduring several days on its southern banks, anxious at the prospect of further flooding, I was at last able to venture a crossing under clear skies. Following along due west, I came to a section narrower than the rest, and after testing its depth with several large branches, determined that it must be shallow enough for me to lead the mule across.

    Still, the animal balked, as such beasts are wont to do; the water was as cold as the winter snows that yet lingered and fed it high up in the Rusc? Peaks, and the riverbed soft and muddy after being worn away by the torrents of the past days¡ªtreacherous footing. Still, we alighted on the northern bank in one piece, to find it much the same as the wilderness through which we had trudged since departing Curtea a fortnight ago.

    The foothills at the base of the Rusc? sloped ever upward, a gradual but relentless climb toward the harsher terrain nearer the peaks. Thick, untouched forest blankets much of the land; beech, oak, and spruce, each taller than the last, and only now budding as I passed through. In the valleys between hills, I found meadows¡ªstill asleep from winter¡¯s touch¡ªand clear, clean meltwater streams. The ground itself is remarkably rocky, firm beneath the tree cover, but rather slippery without.

    It was here, upon this slick ground, that I sustained my first mishap of the journey. It is rather easy to grow complacent with one¡¯s thoughts in the tranquility of this wilderness; birdsong, the scurrying of small creatures, the breath and march of the mule beside you, and your own steady labor meld into a fine lullaby. Indeed, it was in something of a stupor that I found myself amiss of some protrusion or other, perhaps a stone or a root, and squarely then upon my face.

    Already, I had been heading in the direction of a small village, one C?uva, described to me by the locals of Curtea; supposedly an ancient but now dwindling community nestled right at Rusc?¡¯s mighty feet. Settlements would grow fewer and farther between, I¡¯d been told, and this would be one of the last until I reached the mountain plateaus. Those were perhaps a moon away or more depending on the conditions, but this last village might be within a day¡¯s reach after crossing the B¨¦ga.

    I had planned to make my way there rather more leisurely than that, sketching and drafting, and making camp where I could. But now, dazed from my fall and with not a little blood upon my brow, it seemed prudent to make my way to the village as soon as possible. There is little in the way of observation to be done when one is seeing double of everything before him.

    Thusly, I leaned upon the beast, who was already burdened with my supplies, and slowly we made our way in the direction I hoped would take us to the village. Well into the afternoon, I happened upon the semblance of a dirt road, snaking its way between two hills and, upon following it, came to the first of the village¡¯s fields; patches of flattened earth, yet untilled, and rudimentarily enclosed by wooden fencing. Small sheds and the odd barn followed, of well-maintained timber and thatch, and finally a single cluster of cottages, stone-bottomed with wattle and daub tops, and none larger than a room or two in my estimation.

    One got the sense of walking into a place breathing its last, but breathing nonetheless. Despite its diminutive size, folk were about¡ªfew of them younger than forty springs with perhaps two lonely children¡¯s laughter. There was little suspicion of strangers, which I myself found strange. Still, because of this I was immediately taken into the healer¡¯s hut, for there was no inn in this village. They laid me upon a bed of woven rushes, itself on a packed earth floor, leaving my supplies not far from my side, and taking the animal to be cared for.

    By the time the healer arrived, I had begun to drowse pleasantly, lulled by the cool afternoon breeze through the open door and the throbbing of my own head and face. I will admit I gave a start upon seeing her, stooped and so wrinkled that she appeared to have lost all distinctiveness about the face. I was unsure for a moment, in my disorientation, whether she was a woman or, in fact, a walking fold of skin.

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    That first day in C?uva, I attributed this misinterpretation to my head injury, which had rendered my vision blurry and my mind somewhat unsure. I would come to understand that my initial perception of her was rather more accurate than I had given myself credit for.

    <hr>

    Excerptum V

    The villagers called her a bone witch. This was revealed to me not long after I arrived in a passing comment by one of the local matrons, one Mistress Dalma, who had been assigned to bring me my meals. It was a term I could recall semiconsciously, like a distant memory from childhood or perhaps something mentioned by an elder in a village I had passed through during my youth. Certainly not something that had any place in civilized society, but that endured yet in these remote parts.

    The days following my convalescence saw low, wet mists rolling down Rusc?¡¯s side. It covered the dirt road like a carpet of clouds, clinging to the sides of buildings, and making it almost impossible to see beyond one¡¯s own hand. I was told to remain in the village a while longer until it passed and, given that I had neglected much of my surveying on the way here, I opted to accept the offer. But conducting such work given the fog proved pointless, and so I spent much of my time in the healer¡¯s hut, which had become my temporary abode, poring over my notes and maps. I was checked on regularly by the healer, who always seemed to come in the dark of night, and by Mistress Dalma when it was light out.

    I never heard the healer speak, but Mistress Dalma served as a kind of translator between us. She articulated with much the same dialect as heard in Curtea, augmented by a slight rural lilt, and informed me that hers was indeed the common tongue here; so it was not that the healer did not understand my speech, or that I would not understand hers. Rather, I would learn that the old woman had eschewed the ability to speak entirely.

    And so, it seemed, had most of the people in the village.

    This puzzled me, at first, but I supposed that such is not beyond the realm of tightknit communities. Indeed, I had heard stories of the families of deaf and mute children anticipating their needs quite exactly, of aged grandparents too weak to form an utterance communicating with but gestures. But this seemed to go beyond even that, and the more time I spent in the village, the more unsettled I grew by it.

    The day I had arrived, I had noted the laughter of children. Indeed, I heard them still during those foggy days, their loud giggles rather frightening unaccompanied by any chatter. C?uva was a village of silence, and yet its people moved about with all the purpose of regular folk, sightlessly within the mists. I wondered if they even spoke amongst themselves in their own homes, but I dared not leave the hut after dark to find out. It felt as though I were on the periphery of a rolling wheel, each turning spoke held together, somehow, by the woman they called a bone witch. I did not know how I knew this; perhaps it was an intuition that came to me amidst my nighttime encounters with the woman, which had taken on a dreamlike quality.

    Indeed, in these dreams, the bone witch gazed at me with eyes buried within a folded and drooping face; the skin sagging as though there were nothing beneath it at all.

    I became so unnerved, in fact, that even before the mists had risen, I thought to leave the village. I would not do something so cowardly as sneak away, however, after the hospitality they had showed me¡ªthis, and the fact that I knew not where my mule had been kept¡ªand so I floated the idea to Mistress Dalma, with whom I had developed some rapport. She was a plump lady with a smiling face, and she simply agreed to my proposal without any attempt to convince me otherwise. It should have relieved me, but somehow it did not.

    I made haste to depart the next day, well before the sun had risen; my supplies replenished in exchange for a few silver¡ªquite generous of me, but such was my desire to leave this place. C?uva was just as silent in these early morning hours as it was during the day¡¯s height, and the eeriness of this fact was not lost upon me. My mule had been brought to the hut and tied upon a post at some point before I set foot outside, and I loaded her up swiftly, eager to be out of the place even if it meant a return to complete solitude. In my hand, I carried my horn lantern, and its glow barely permeated the fog that had already begun to gather in the morning chill.

    As I turned to leave C?uva behind, some noise behind me, some rustle, stopped me in my tracks. I stole a glance over my shoulder. The old bone witch stood in the doorway of the hut I had just left, her own lantern in hand. Well, not so much in hand as hung over the stump of her wrist. Like melted wax, the skin dripped from her arm, dangling, as though the limb were entirely boneless.

    I consider myself a brave man, indeed, but I did not pause again on my way out of C?uva, and I did not look back either.

    <hr>

    Addendum, Anno Matris Sanctae 1520: This would not be the last of my strange experiences in the villages of the Carpathian Mountains. It would not be the last of my encounters with bone witches, either, of whom I would come to learn a great deal, indeed.