The controlled thud of the chamber door behind her brought with it a relief so potent that Edda’s entire body began to shake. Somehow, with clenched fists and gritted teeth, she had made her way back to her rooms; maintaining some semblance of normalcy despite the cold sweat that trickled down her back and the relentless drumming of her heart. She might have counted the number of breaths she took on a hand, so terrified she’d been of the books tumbling out from beneath her dress on a careless exhale. But somehow, they’d remained in place, and not one of the servants she had passed on her way had stopped her; pausing only to nod their greeting or offer a passing word of acknowledgment.

It seemed like her silly, stupid plan had met with dumb fortune.

Even better, a rapid scan of the chamber showed that Marta had not yet returned. Edda could have laughed and cried, too, at the sight of the empty room. She had made it. But it was not quite over yet.

Loosening the apron, she fished the two books out, holding them with trembling hands. These had to be hidden, before anything else. Rounding the bed, such that the drawn curtains would conceal her from sight should anyone enter, she hurriedly considered her options. She would have to find a temporary hiding spot, for now; somewhere that Marta would not look upon for a while, at least.

The bed would have to do. It was already rumpled from use, and Edda could easily prevent Marta from arranging it by remaining within. Kicking off her boots, she climbed amongst the jumble of pillows and quilts and blankets, reaching past the side of the bed she slept on to slide the two books beneath the covers. She did not have time to agonize over whether it was the correct choice, though she certainly wished to. She could see the window from here, with the sun high in the sky; Marta would be back soon, and their midday meal would be at her heels.

Fueled by her haste, Edda stripped; struggling out of each garment and back into her nightdress. She had just shrugged into her housecoat when she heard the chamber door open.

“I have returned, Miss Edda,” Marta called, “The foods brought up, as well.” Though her view of the door was blocked by the bedcurtains, the undeniable sound of footsteps—multiple sets—could be heard entering. The servants had come with her.

Edda’s eyes widened in panic, flitting first to the wrinkled pile of clothing she had left upon the bed and then to her haphazardly discarded boots. She’d planned on returning them to their proper places. But there was no way she could do that now—not without being seen by Marta and the servants who accompanied her.

“A moment,” she called back, flinching at how high her voice sounded. Moving faster than she ever had before, she clumsily gathered the used garments into a ball, shoving them behind her pillow in almost the same movement that she used to kick her boots beneath the bed. Heart thundering, she stood frozen for a moment—hoping desperately that she had not missed anything and cursing herself with the certainty that she had.

“Miss Edda?” Marta queried, passing around the bed now to where Edda was. The older woman regarded her with concern, “Are you unwell again?”

Despite her best efforts, it took Edda a beat to reply, “Took a stumble off the bed, is all.” In as natural a gesture as she could muster, she pulled the bedcurtain closed a fraction behind her, hoping it would conceal any traces of her rushed clean up. Stepping forward, she nodded in the direction of where their meal was being laid out. “A meal will set me to rights.” If nothing else, it would distract them both from what Edda had been up to this morning.

Indeed, the promising scent of food had begun to fill the room and, although her body still thrummed with alarm, she offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Ever unconvinced, Marta returned a doubtful glance, but did not question her further. Instead, she turned to assist the servants. Edda’s knees wobbled as she followed, her urgency fading to unease. She took her usual seat upon the settle, her mouth dry in spite of her appetite and the fragrant fare before her.

Edda tried her best not to show her discomfort, but with the evidence of her misdeeds just feet away, her expressions felt rather stiff and forced. Luckily, Marta had further accustomed herself to the servants and they paid her little mind as they arranged the table, sharing smiles and the occasional word amongst themselves.

Once the servants departed, leaving them to dine, Edda calmed considerably. It was one thing to be found out by them, after all, and entirely another to be discovered by Marta. Marta would not report her activities to the Steward.

The meal commenced with Marta’s worried questions. She seemed to believe, more than anything, that Edda was unwell again. Edda, grateful for the diversion of eating, did not attempt to dissuade her. “I am rather tired,” she agreed, ploughing through her bowl of spicy fish stew. She’d need little more reason to stay abed the rest of the day, and Marta would be reluctant to disturb her.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“I’ll rest a while myself, while the sun is up,” Marta agreed, picking at her own food, “Then I’ll return to the kitchens to help with supper, and be back to eat with you in the evening.”

Despite declaring that she would rest, Marta continued to totter about the chamber long after Edda had moved herself to the bed. With the curtains closed, the books nestled beside her, and her head upon the borrowed clothing, Edda monitored Marta’s quiet movements—back and forth, from the washbasin to the vanity, and one trunk to another. Surely, Marta would decide to change her apron and notice one of them missing. Or perhaps a bootlace would slither out from beneath the bed and unveil the entire act.

Her dumb fortune had to run out at some point.

It was not so much Marta’s admonishment that Edda feared, though the kindly woman could certainly be fearsome when she wished to be. But while Marta might have few reservations about dirtying her own hands if the need arose, she would certainly not allow Edda to do the same. And though some part of Edda still wished that she could leave matters entirely to the older woman, the greater part of her knew that she could not.

She was no longer the wayward girl of seventeen years that Marta had so faithfully tended. Beyond the decade of memories Edda now had to draw upon, she had already decided that she was done with waiting. Even if nothing she did bore any fruit, even if it was all for her own self-gratification—it was past time for her to act.

At last, Marta took her leave, announced only by the soft shutting of the chamber door. Alone again in the stillness of her room, Edda set about properly replacing the items she had used that morning. It was a far clumsier affair than she anticipated. Despite her best efforts, she could not smooth the wrinkles from Marta’s garments, nor could she fold them quite as neatly as Marta would have. She had rarely ever folded clothing in her life, after all, and it had always looked much simpler when Marta did it.

After several frustrating attempts, she could only think to carefully unpack Marta’s trunk, place the poorly arranged articles at the very bottom, and then cautiously lower Marta’s things atop them. At least, if she thought to use them again, she would know exactly where they were and, hopefully, Marta would not suspect anything had been disturbed. When she did, inevitably, come upon the outfit, the unruly creases could be explained away by their unfortunate position beneath everything else.

Finally, it was time to test whether her dumb fortune had, indeed, manifested anything of use. Settling herself upon the bed once more, with the curtains pulled back just enough to welcome the afternoon light within, she brought out the two books. Across the Carpathians, with its fine leather binding and embossed lettering, certainly seemed the more appealing of the two. Like the stack she had pulled it from, it was undoubtedly an account of some author’s travels through the vast Carpathian Mountains; a range she had often admired as it towered over the town of Hesse. She did not know why she had taken it, except that it had been right next to the only book that stood out.

In the Aspects of Mother, Maiden, and Crone looked rather more battered and old, its letters stamped onto the worn leather in faded ink. This had to be the book that Agneta had returned, but beyond the questions of how and why the other girl had acquired it—having only been at the castle a day or two longer than Edda herself—was the far more important mystery of why someone in the Countess’s household was interested in it. Was it simply to be lent out? Or was it being sought for some other reason?

Perhaps most intriguingly, the chest had been half-filled. Had other books accompanied the travelogues she’d found there this morning? And, if so, where had they gone?

Truthfully, Edda had low expectations of the book before her. Perhaps it would tell her something of what knowledge the Countess currently traded in, and maybe, if her luck persisted, that would become useful at some point. After all, she had been ignorant of not only what was really happening within the castle walls—murders and witchery, if her executioner was to be believed—but also of what had happened beyond it. She’d had no idea of the unrest in the village. Perhaps, the discontent went even further than that. And, although she knew the Countess to be broadly respected, Edda had been and was still entirely blind to the political machinations surrounding the woman.

Ever so briefly, she recalled the man who had first deemed her witch. Who had taken her name and then set her alight. She did not think of him longer than she had to, just enough to remember that he had called himself the Marquis of Heves.

Not every execution was presided over by a Marquis, let alone one so powerful as hailed from Heves.

Edda’s fingers shook as she cracked open the book, determined not to be deterred despite her frightening memories and the choking fear that crept into her throat. It had dawned on her already, almost as an afterthought, that his presence and all the fanfare surrounding her death must mean something more. The Countess Bathory had been burned, and even though it had been Edda in her place, to depose of such a prominent noblewoman was no small feat.

So, indeed, perhaps there would be some merit in knowing more about the Countess’s dealings. In understanding how she ruled her realm, who her allies were, and which of them might become her enemies.

But, and Edda realized it now with clarity as she began to peruse the opening pages, what she had really wished to find in the library was something that would help her and Marta.

Something she could use now, to escape or to fight back; something that would make her more than what she was—a victim, at the mercy of forces she still could not fathom.

And, as the hours wore on and the indecipherable words before her continued on page after perplexing page, Edda became certain that such a blessing would not be so simply found.