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.

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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—that 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.”