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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—not 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—if 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—but 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.

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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—sometimes 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—nowhere 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.