She did not know how long she stood there, her neck straining backward as she stared up at the sky the crow had vanished into. But that was how she stayed, until the already faltering dusk faded, and the overcast sky turned truly black. By then, her ragged breaths had slowed, and her wet cheeks had dried stiff and cold. Her dress, though of a sturdy thick wool for travelling, had been torn in various places, and the chill of early spring began to creep in.
She did not want to go to Cachtice Castle. The very thought of it inspired a fear in her so primal that it took all her effort not to take off running again. To run so long and far that her lungs burst, and her feet bled, and she could not find her way back even if she changed her mind. But she did not want to die, either, and it was this equally frightening prospect that kept her standing where the crow had left her. Choose, it had told her. But she still could not.
And that was where she was when her brother, Ivar, came upon her. She had heard him calling for her by then, shouting her name and scrambling urgently through the dense undergrowth somewhere behind her. But despite the lantern he carried, the thickness of the forest and her utter stillness had concealed her from him until he was almost directly upon her. He erupted into the small clearing where she stood with such abruptness that he almost dropped his only source of light and hope of finding their way back to the road.
Panting with surprise, relief, and not a little anger, he grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her around to face him and shaking her with barely constrained violence. “Have you lost your bloody mind?” he boomed, breath hot between them. His normally stern face was twisted with rage, but it was quickly rearranged when he noticed her pale face and felt her quaking beneath his hand. He looked her up and down, trying to the locate the source of her disquiet. “What on mother’s blessed earth has happened, Edda?” he implored, his voice quieter but still fraught with emotion. His hand was firm, bruising on her shoulder.
A trickle of cold fear made its way down her spine at the sight of him. She could not help but recall the brute force with which he had struck her back in her cell. Or the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as she had been consumed on the pyre. It had not been so long ago, for her, though perhaps for him it was far in the future. He was her brother, and he knew her, and because of that he would not hurt her. Not right now. She gulped, willing herself to speak, but could not find her words.
“Speak, Edda,” he urged, squeezing her shoulder as though to spur her on. She could only recoil, shaking her head, and averting her eyes. “Bloody, rotting bones,” he swore as it became clear that she would remain silent. He released his hold on her shoulder to grab her hand and, lantern aloft, he began to lead them back in the direction of the road. Edda went with him, offering little resistance despite her trepidation. Choose. But just as she always had, she let someone else make the choice for her.
After what felt like an hour of carefully picking their way through the interlocking branches, they began to make out the panicked voices of Marta and the hired coachman, and a faint glow of light could be seen off in the distance. They had found their way back, though Edda would not have cared either way.
“I have her!” Ivar called forward, and Edda could hear Marta’s loud exclamation of relief.
Under the bright pool of light that spilled out onto the road from the lantern-lit carriage, the full extent of Edda’s physical state became apparent—to say nothing of her mental situation, as she remained silent and trembling. She was covered in vomit, and her clothing was in tatters. She had numerous bruises and scratches from her fall and subsequent flight through the woods, including several on her face that concerned Marta greatly. But worst of all was her wrist, which had now become quite club-like in appearance, distended and purple with swelling.
“It’s broken, I just know it,” Marta wailed, “It’ll never be right again.”
They had helped her back into the carriage, where she and Marta now sat. The door was open, and Ivar and the coachman stood just outside in tense conversation, wary of Edda’s poor constitution. Marta fussed over her, wiping bloody scratches with a damp handkerchief and demanding that she keep her left hand elevated on the backrest of the bench. For her part, Edda felt little pain; the panic, the terror, the sheer impossibility of her situation had given way to a resigned exhaustion. Choose? She almost laughed. She had never had any choice in this.
“We’ll not make it to the castle, sir,” the coachman explained, “Not in good time, and not in the dead of night like this.”
“Blood and blasted maiden,” Ivar swore repeatedly, beginning to pace back and forth in a tight circle. His thick, dark hair was in disarray from the evening’s exertions, and he ran his hands through it restlessly. He had donned his navy soldier’s uniform for their arrival at Cachtice Castle this evening, but it now looked rumpled and scuffed. He was not a man who tolerated disorder in himself, and the unusualness of his behaviour roused Edda just slightly from her stupor. He glanced into the carriage, eyes resting on her swollen hand. “My sister needs a healer tonight.”
“We could make for Ecsed village,” the coachman offered, “It is well on our route, and closer.”
“Then let us make for the village,” Marta interrupted, shrilly, sticking her head out the open door, “An inn, and quickly. Miss Edda must be tended to, and she must rest.”
For a moment, Ivar looked like he might protest Marta’s intrusion. Instead, he shook his head and halted his pacing, his mind obviously set. “To Ecsed, yes. Let us make us haste.”
Presently, the carriage door was fastened shut, and they lurched into motion once more. Ivar had returned to the front with the coachman, and Edda was left with a stricken Marta. The older woman chewed her lip with worry, clutching at her skirts and cursing the road for every bump and roll. She hardly took her eyes off her injured ward, but she did not ask questions, and for that Edda was grateful.
“That bloody blackened beast of a crow,” Marta muttered, content to lay the blame elsewhere. The carriage jostled along to its new destination as the night deepened around them.
Edda’s mind felt numb and foggy. She did not want to think about what was happening. It was almost too much to grasp. In what she perceived to be no more than a day, she had gone from a barely living prisoner, to a witch burned alive, and now...now, she had gone back to the beginning of it all. Had everything been a dream? Were her memories of the last decade, of the last year, of her last day, just some sort of horribly lucid black dream?
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Even if they were—was she willing to risk her life by ignoring them?
Already, the future has changed. Indeed, things were unfolding differently from what she remembered. For one, there had been no mad foray into the forest or talking crow before. The carriage had had no reason to stop, in her memories. For another, she knew for a fact that they had arrived at Cachtice Castle this night, been welcomed by the steward and served a small night-time meal alongside another group of late arrivals. She had retired to bed well past midnight, but in her own private room—her first time sleeping without Franka and Marta in the same chamber.
And tomorrow, she would have woken in those finely outfitted quarters—far too luxurious for one of her standing—completely oblivious to the way she would be lured, over the course of the days and months and years that followed, to her death.
But this time, they would stop over in the village of Ecsed. No doubt, with the perturbed state of their party, they would stay the night. Perhaps they would not even leave for the castle until after the midday meal.
That gave her something she had not had before—time. And with time, perhaps she could find a way to escape.
Edda was still churning over this possibility when they arrived in Ecsed, at the village inn. Accommodations were hastily made by her brother—rooms arranged, luggage unloaded, and horses seen to. A runner, a bleary-eyed boy of no more than twelve, was sent by the innkeeper—himself in his nightclothes—to fetch the healer. And Edda was all but carried by Marta and Ivar out of the carriage and into the room she would share with the older woman.
Ivar was ushered out, and Marta began her work. First, she peeled Edda out of her ruined dress, gingerly navigating the offended wrist. Then, with a bowl of hot water provided by the innkeeper’s wife and a clean towel, Marta wiped her from head to toe, clearing off dirt and twigs and blood. A nightdress was donned and Edda’s hair—mussed from her flight, despite having been braided and pinned—was released, brushed, and plaited.
Marta left as soon as Edda had settled into bed, mistrustful of the innkeeper to not be abed by the time the healer arrived. Finally, Edda was alone. A single candle burned on the table beside the bed, but it was enough to illuminate most of the small room. There were two beds very close together, a washing stand with a pitcher of water and a discretely placed chamber pot, and just enough room to store the trunks they had brought with them from Hesse.
In the quiet of the room, she could almost imagine that it had all been a black dream. Her arm had begun to throb sharply, but the pain only highlighted all the other sensations she had not experienced in so long. She had grown up with far better furnishings, but the bed on which she lay felt softer than any she had ever lain on before. The linens were the smoothest she had ever felt, and the candlelight so gentle. Tears slid from her eyes. Was this what comfort had felt like?
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Her heart jumped to her throat at the sound of approaching footsteps. Panic almost set in, but these footsteps were not the heavy ones of iron-toed boots on hard stone. They were softer and quieter—leather soles on creaking wood.
The door swung open. It was Marta—her face decidedly displeased—followed by a bent old woman, with Ivar in the rear. The young boy who had run to fetch the healer stepped into the room for a moment, dropping a heavy satchel near the door with little decorum, before ducking out and pulling the door shut behind him. The small room felt cramped with all four of them present, but neither Marta nor Ivar seemed willing to step out.
“Miss Belten, I presume,” the old woman stated, in a voice that seemed far too strong for her bony frame and wispy grey hair. She approached the bed without hesitation. “Sit up now and let me have a look.” It took Edda a moment to arrange herself into a seated position. The old woman extended a wrinkled hand to assist her, which she did with a surprising amount of strength, and then ensured that a pillow was in place for Edda to lean back on.
Any words Edda might have said were promptly silenced as the woman grabbed her chin. Her head was turned this way and that, and a set of spry fingers worked along her jaw, as though tracing the shape of her teeth.
The woman leaned forward, coming uncomfortably close. It was only then that Edda noticed the milky film covering both of her eyes. She blinked in astonishment, and the woman shot her a largely toothless smile. “Not to worry, dearie. The eyes have gone, but I still see just fine.” In a quieter voice, loud enough for only Edda’s ears, the old crone added, “See enough to smell the blood and smoke on you.”
Edda felt her face drain of color. But the woman had moved on now to looking at Edda’s wrist. She grasped it firmly, and despite her shock at the woman’s words, Edda yelped in pain.
“Now just what are you doing!” Marta screeched, stepping forward only for Ivar to place a firm, warning hand on her shoulder. The plump maid bristled with outrage, but did not continue her tirade beyond several quietly indignant statements that sounded suspiciously like, “Blind as bat and a worm!” which were ignored by all present. Edda, in particular, was still reeling from the woman’s earlier words.
“She’ll live, despite Mistress Jozsef’s fears,” the old woman said after some minutes. Marta huffed audibly with annoyance at the woman’s jab. “The wrist is not broken, but well and truly twisted. I’ll set it so that she stays off it and give a salve for the swelling. Best avoid it for a fortnight or so.” The woman gestured, without looking, to the satchel that had been dropped near the doorway, and Ivar promptly fetched it for her. She rummaged around in it, first setting a tab of folded wax paper on the nearby table (“The salve,” she affirmed) and then laying strips of linen onto the bed beside Edda.
Ivar hovered behind her for a moment before returning to his place beside the door. “And what of her...” Ivar wavered, “hysterics?”
The old healer turned to face him, that same gummy smile on her leathery face. “I’ll have to agree with Mistress Jozsef’s diagnosis. A black dream, most like. I’ve some sleeping powder I’ll leave with you. She’ll be out like a doused fire with just a sprinkle of it, and after a night or two of sleep she’ll be back to rights.” Another tab of folded wax paper appeared, this one slightly smaller, and was set beside the other one on the table.
The woman worked quietly under the watchful gaze of Marta and Ivar. Despite her earlier roughness, her touch was remarkably gentle as she first applied the strongly herbal salve onto Edda’s wrist and forearm, and then fashioned a neat splint from a few smooth sticks and a length or two of cloth. Edda watched in silence; her initial surprise at the woman’s words replaced with disbelief. She must have imagined it—there was no other explanation.
Finally, the healer carefully unwrapped the second parcel of wax paper. Nimbly, she pinched off some of the white powder within and, squeezing’s Edda’s lips open with her other hand, peppered it onto her tongue. She was lowered onto the bed and within moments, a wave of drowsiness washed over her. Distantly, she knew the room’s three remaining occupants conversed for a time. As though through a deep haze, she perceived the opening and closing of the door as Ivar and the healer departed.
So fast and hard, indeed, did sleep tighten its grip on her that she felt a prickle of fear at what it would bring with it. She tried to fight it off, struggling to keep her eyes open, to move her limbs, to make a sound. But it was no use. With every blink and breath, her body grew leaden. Only her chest rose, slow and deep, as she was overtaken. Her last thought lingered, an image of the old healer and her milky, knowing eyes. An echo of her words, and the faint scent of blood and smoke.