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—well, 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—” 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—and 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.

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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—especially now that she had admitted her terrifying suspicions—but 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.”