“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—though 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—but 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—but stopped herself just barely. She settled back into her seat with difficulty. Marta was right, of course, on both points—though 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—part of her still did not want to believe it—but 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—given that they had already arrived late to the castle—it 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—an 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—a 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—but, 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.

Stolen story; please report.

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—now torchlit, with the small windows giving short glimpses of the rapidly darkening sky—and 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—overshadowed 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—meaning, 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—so 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—on hair arrangements, cosmetics, and more—many 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—or worse yet, smearing some salve upon her face that would undo her ministrations.

She could neither accept, nor could she decline—so, 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—to the discomfort of the broader nobility—a 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—the fake Countess—and 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—and 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.