The lingering fog of the sleeping powder’s effects clung to Edda. Neither the warm flicker of the candle that Marta held nor the woman’s gentle rousing did much to dispel it. The persistent dark of the early morning pressed her into the bed, making her limbs slow and heavy as she rose. Half asleep, she was only just aware of Marta’s words—familiar words, about the kitchens, about the midday meal—and the woman’s quiet departure.
She’d remained confined to her chambers since her return from the library the day before yesterday. The books had stayed cocooned within her blankets and pillows, emerging only during the hours Marta left her to work amongst the servants. But although she had pored over In the Aspects of Mother, Maiden, and Crone until her eyes ached, all she had come away with was a mounting sense of frustration and dread.
That which is most pure is most readily sullied, the author had extolled in their opening lines. And Edda was not sure she had understood much beyond that.
As she had suspected, In the Aspects was a religious text, but rather than scripture, it skirted the border between theology and philosophy. Edda could make neither heads nor tails of it, not the least because considerable sections had been penned in Latin—a language she had only the leanest understanding of. Each chapter—and she had only slogged her way through about half of them—had waded through esoteric argument after argument on virtue and sin, followed by expansive Latin passages that may well have been gibberish to her.
She’d refused to give up at first, vacillating between hope and despondence at each new page. Would there be some inkling as to why this book was important—if, in fact, it was? Some morsel of information that she could use—if not to help her situation now, then to understand the situation she had been in? But by the time she’d set the book away yesterday evening, she’d known the truth of her defeat.
It had been a waste of time.
It had been a silly, stupid plan in the first place. As if she’d be able to find something of use after just flouncing into the library, having no idea of what books it contained and, furthermore, only the barest idea of what she needed. Even if In the Aspects was, indeed, the book Agneta had replaced and, thus, a book that someone in the castle sought—and Edda could be sure of neither of these things—it had been a stretch to believe it would have anything to do with her situation at all.
She sighed, trying to keep her self-loathing at bay. She’d seen twenty-seven springs, and that had been all she could come up with. Because of her own foolishness, the few days her feigned illness had won her had been passed in futility. Today, though still excused from lessons, she would be expected to rejoin Lady Novak and the other girls for supper. And tomorrow, her schedule would return to the one she remembered—the very same that had left her ignorant of anything that mattered.
She was right back to waiting, in the end.
Swallowing her vexation, Edda took a thirsty gulp of the water waiting at her bedside. The cool liquid sent a livening shiver through her body, alerting her to the morning chill. Well, there was something important she had to do this morning, she supposed. Rising, she donned her housecoat, pulling it snug around her as she slipped her icy feet into her slippers. Grabbing the lone candle Marta had left her, she made her way to the vanity; kissing the small flame to the wick of a second candle which waited there before arranging them both to illuminate the space.
She seated herself within the soft pool of light she had created, bending to open the small trunk at the base of the vanity. To one side were the pots and packets that Gretel had given her, neatly arranged with Marta’s usual care. After a moment’s consideration, Edda fetched the two wax paper packages, setting them atop the vanity as she unfolded them one at a time. First, the sleeping powder—not what she was in search of this morning—but still, reassuringly present. Folding it once more, she put it aside. And second, the remnants of the herbal salve that had been left for her wrist.
She faced herself now in the mirror. She had noticed last night, as Marta brushed her still-ruined hair, that her face had begun to clear; her nose returning to its usual slim aquiline, her cheeks and forehead nearly smooth and white once more. Already, it had been five days since Gretel had helped her don her disguise; and already, it was time for her to begin maintaining it herself. She would not involve Marta in this. She would do it herself.
Pressing her finger into the paper, she scooped up the last dollop of salve and, carefully, dabbed it onto her face. Finding the amount to be insufficient, she paused to fetch the small pot from within the trunk, too. Fishing out another small blob, she mimicked what she could remember of Gretel’s movements. It was not so difficult as dying her hair had been. As before, the smell made her nose wrinkle, but both it and the cold tingling sensation soon dissipated.
And at the very end, she dipped whatever remained on her fingers into the ducts of her eyes. They began to sting and water immediately.
Blinking rapidly, she inspected her handiwork; her eyes had reddened, but her skin looked only a bit worse for wear and not quite as raw and bumpy as it had before. Had she used enough? She chewed her lip uncertainly. No, she would wait before applying anything more. It had taken some time to set in the last time, too. She would allow some time to pass and then check again.
Behind her, the rising sun had stained the sky a medley of pinks and oranges, promising another bright, cloudless day. The blackness that had steeped the space outside her candlelight had receded to a hazy grey. There were hours yet before noon, when Marta would return, and whereas she had jumped at the opportunity to continue her reading the day before, this morning, she hesitated.
Despite already knowing that she had failed to find anything of use, part of her still wished to continue her desperate examination of In the Aspects. She had spent so much time and effort already—surely if she just continued, there would be something? Climbing once more into bed, she exhaled impatiently as she patted around beneath the covers in search of the book—more upset at herself for seeking it out again than she was for its refusal to appear instantly in her hands.
Her fingers closed around the spine of a book and she pulled it forth. It was not In the Aspects she had retrieved, but Across the Carpathians instead. Dropping it onto the side of the bed dismissively, she thrust her arms forth again in search of the other book but, almost as soon as she felt it within her grasp, decided that she did not, in fact, wish for it after all. A moment of childish ire, perhaps, but she left it where it lay.
Across the Carpathians sat beside her in its pristine leather binding. Like the other travelogues it had been stored with, it appeared virtually untouched; almost as though it had yet to be opened. It was even more unlikely to be useful. Perhaps, at least, it might prove less mind-numbing company this morning compared to its alternative. Edda had never read a book for the sake of it before; such hobbies were seen as far too worldly for women, and so it had never been encouraged of her. Even now, it felt like a rather frivolous thing to do, seeing as she had effectively nothing to gain from it.
But, well, she had taken the book with her on a whim, and so she might as well open it on a whim, too.
Settling it upon her lap, she turned to the first page. Stamped there in clear, cursive writing were the words:
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Szalai és Fiai
Bookbinders and Traders
Edda frowned slightly, a new possibility slotting into place in her mind. Szalai and Sons. Now that was a connection she would not have made on her own. So, Agneta hailed from a family of book merchants. Did that mean she had brought the books in the chest with her from Buda? That would explain why she had known it was filled with travelogues. And it was certainly a more parsimonious account of why she’d had In the Aspects in her possession, rather than her having stolen it from the library in the short time she’d been at Cachtice Castle.
It also meant that, rather than lending books out as Edda had assumed, the Countess might be acquiring new ones. That would be rather curious. In all her years as Countess, Edda had never heard of such a thing, nor had it been brought to her attention. It would have been considered quite eccentric for the Countess Bathory to be adding to her deceased husband’s collection when her only explicitly reported interest in it was to preserve it as he had left it and—occasionally—to allow those she favored access to it.
But no one else in the castle would have the authority or the capital to purchase so many books at once. It was all bit unusual, as far as Edda was concerned, but not particularly useful or alarming.
Still, Edda’s interest was piqued. What sort of books was the Countess adding to the library? Chewing her lip, Edda flipped the page and began to read.
By the time Marta returned for their midday meal, she had decided that perhaps Across the Carpathians was not so useless, after all. She had become rather absorbed in it as she flipped through the first chapter or two, to the point that she was almost late in burying it once more beneath the covers. And, even after she had set it aside for the day and turned her attentions toward her food, she found that it had spurred a sort of muted curiosity within her; a low simmer of ideas.
She would have to read more. In fact, she wanted to. But, as she cleared the last mouthfuls of soup from her bowl with a heel of bread—her third piece, to Marta’s silent displeasure—she found her mind drifting toward Agneta.
Death—its imminence and, as Edda had discovered, its realization—had the simultaneously terrifying and sobering consequence of bringing one’s life into stark focus. Each triumph and every shortcoming laid bare; Edda had had little to do other than to scour the details of her life as she waited in the dungeons for its end. She must have known even before then, but she had only begun to admit it to herself as she wondered after the names and the crimes of the dozen or so prisoners who had been executed before her.
She had always been exceedingly self-absorbed. She had hardly recognized a single person, then, though each and every one of them had known her. Had hated her.
Edda had barely paid attention to anyone other than herself for the majority of her life. And that was why she knew not a single thing about Agneta, even though she had spent months living at Cachtice Castle with her. That was why it had never occurred to her that Agneta might be useful.
Marta remained at her side that afternoon, fussing and fretting. She’d had little luck yet gathering either the additional salt or the desired information, and the strain of the last few days had manifested in a kind of restless neuroticism. This was in spite of the deepening, darkening bags beneath her eyes—it seemed that as her exhaustion worsened, she became only more frantic. Long after she had helped Edda dress for supper and meticulously fixed her hair three times, Marta continued to pace from one end of the room to the other, arranging this or that.
Edda, reclining upon the bed to keep it from Marta’s attentions, watched her with not a little concern. Only after Marta had organized, then reorganized the vanity—placing the pots and packets Edda had used that morning back into the trunk, then taking them out again, only to replace the pot of salve but leave the packet of sleeping powder—did Edda finally comment, “I’ve half a mind to douse you with that sleeping powder.”
Marta’s fingers fidgeted with wax paper receptacle a moment longer, before she finally set it back upon the vanity. “I thought to leave it…” she trailed off, then seemed to refocus, offering a penitent smile. “I’ve the other half mind to douse myself,” she conceded, after a moment affirming, “Perhaps that would not be unwelcome for a night.”
“Tonight, then,” Edda said, “And for the love of all that is good, sit down and rest before supper. You’ll do neither of us any favors if you collapse into your stew.”
Supper was upon them far too soon for Marta to get any meaningful repose, it seemed. Though, perhaps, the flight of time was hastened by Edda’s growing anxiety. It would be her first time supping among the others since the welcome feast’s realization and, as she joined the other girls and their maids on their way toward the dining hall, her unease only grew. Though the route was familiar, and even the company, it was as though she viewed the other girls through fresh eyes.
Suzsanna and her two maids walked at the head of the pack, behind the servant who had been sent to escort them. Her pointy nose held high; she was doing her best to ignore rest of them. That was not unusual for her. But surprisingly, Cintia had not taken her expected place chattering away at Suzsanna’s heels; instead, she hung back, quietly shooting the occasional glance backward, past her elderly maid to where Edda and Marta followed.
Edda could not fathom what the girl wanted. Of the three, she had always thought Cintia to be the most harmless. She had been notable only for her prettiness, her penchant for blathering on, and, of course, her dogged insistence on befriending the prideful and refined Suzsanna. Edda, for her part, had been rather more focused on Suzsanna herself; but back then, she had considered her more a rival than anything else.
But it was Agneta, now, who Edda most wished to study. She and Ildi hung back from the rest of the group, whispering fiercely to each other just out of earshot. Edda was sure, now, that it had been the two of them outside the library. There could be no error; Agneta, despite her slouchy posture and large spectacles, cut a striking figure with her dark hair and slender build, and Ildi, with her lanky, awkward frame and pasty complexion, would be equally hard to mistake.
Lady Novak awaited them in the same dining room as had hosted the welcome feast. At the sight of her, Edda felt her stomach clench uncomfortably. The lady-in-waiting had donned a more subdued gown this night and, as if the table readied itself to her whims, the fine silver and crystal had been replaced with less exuberant, though no less expensive, porcelain. After curtsies were offered, the maids left for the servants’ mess, and Lady Novak welcomed her guests to be seated with a glowing smile.
“At last, we are all together again,” she declared, turning her sweet gaze upon Edda, “Countess Bathory sends her pleasure that you are able to rejoin us. And of course, I am most pleased as well. I trust you have recuperated well?”
Edda ducked her head demurely. “Most well. Please give the Countess my gratitude for her continued care. It has left nothing to be desired.” Calculating, Edda mustered a shy smile, “And express my deepest regrets for having missed her during my illness. I had hoped to finally make her acquaintance this evening.”
The other girls glanced at each other. It might have been a play of the light, glinting off the gigantic antlers of the wall-mounted stag behind her, but Lady Novak’s eyes seemed to tighten for a moment. “I am afraid she, like you, has remained bedridden, to my sorrow and hers. I offer you my humble presence in return and assure you that she will join us as soon as she is well.”
As skillfully as ever, Lady Novak shifted the conversation away from Countess Bathory and, thankfully, away from Edda, as well. Indeed, just as it had been before, the Countess was an invisible presence within the castle. It was likely that little had changed in the last few days, apart from Edda’s absence. And though it was, in one sense, a relief to confirm it, it still left Edda’s many questions, and growing suspicions, about the Countess unanswered.
But, perhaps, Agneta might be able to give her a little bit more information than she currently had. At this point, anything would do, even if it were only an account of the Countess’s reading list. Just something to make the secretive woman appear more real, more human, and less of the unfathomable and somewhat terrifying caricature that was forming in Edda’s mind.
Barring that, Edda might be satisfied simply learning how Agneta had unlocked the library door with a hairpin. That might have its uses.
Tucking into the lavish supper before her—a considerable affair of flaky meat pastries, juicy cabbage rolls, and spiced peas—Edda made a conscious effort to restrain herself this time, despite her still urgent desire to eat all that was set before her. Instead, she made effort to observe the women around her. Lady Novak was no less charming than she had ever been, and Suzsanna not an ounce less disdainful. But, puzzlingly, when not enthusiastically contributing to the conversation, Cintia’s gaze continued to drift toward her. And, despite Edda’s own measured glances, Agneta might well have been a statue beside her; silent and undecipherable.
Regardless, between bites and perfunctory comments on the lessons she had missed and the ones to come, she watched and she wondered.
And by the time she cleared the last bite of her plum pudding, she had begun to plan.