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—hopefully, 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—they 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—disgust 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.

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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—not 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 it 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—some of which she had herself hosted—and 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—Miss Szalai, I think—took 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—almost—precisely 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—and 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.