Edda woke slowly, as though floating up from a great depth. She was conscious, first, of light behind her eyelids and the distant, muffled sounds of day; voices, clinking cutlery, clanging pots, a chair being pushed back from a table. Beyond even that, the creaking of wagons and the barking of a dog. She was warm, cocooned in soft linens. Sleep was loathe to release her from its bind, but she found herself equally reluctant to go. She did not move or open her eyes. Would it all disappear at the first sign of her wakefulness? Would she find herself, once more, in the dungeon beneath Cachtice Castle?

Against her will, the sweet grogginess of first awakening dissipated. Her mind cleared, and she opened her eyes to the empty room, lit brightly with late morning sunlight. She was at the village inn in Ecsed, not at Cachtice Castle; for that she was grateful. No one seemed eager to rouse her from the bed—Marta had probably left her to rest—which meant she still had some time to figure out what was happening, and how she could escape it.

And she had to escape it. The thought of facing the dungeon and her own execution once more…she swallowed thickly, fear grasping at her with icy hands. A memory of gnawing hunger and the brink of madness. And another memory of the fire licking her legs, sloughing her skin off in its wake. As terror threatened to overtake her, her jaw and fists clenched simultaneously—and the sudden pain of her injured wrist brought her back to the present.

She released a shuddering breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The memories felt too real, too fresh to be a black dream. It defied all logic, but those things really had happened to her. Somehow, she had come back from the dead. She had gone back a decade into the past, to when it had all begun. And somehow, she would have to figure out how to survive what awaited her.

Slowly, she pushed herself into a seated position. She was not sure how reliable her memories of this time were, and try as she might, she remembered few pertinent details. She had been entering her seventeenth spring, giddy with the excitement of an invitation from a respected countess and the prospect of living among cultured young noblewomen rather than her wealthy but common family. Tea parties. She had wanted to attend tea parties.

The fact of the matter was, she had had little on her mind and had cared even less for what occurred around her. She was the least equipped person for figuring out how to survive what had happened to her. Perhaps that was what had made her the ideal prey for the intricate plot she had found herself at the center of; a plot she still did not understand.

She understood nothing, really, now that she thought about it. And she was not sure she wanted to understand, either. The things she had been executed for were so far out of the realm of possibility that it terrified her to even think she had been accused of them. Witchcraft? Murder? These were the purview of naughty children’s tales and low superstition. They played no part in the reality she had lived in.

Part of her even disbelieved that this really was the same past she remembered. A number of things had already been different. Maybe she could just wait and see what happened. Maybe it would all turn out alright this time.

But no. The risk of doing nothing was too great. And she was certain that things were different now only because she, herself, had behaved differently.

Swinging her legs off the bed, Edda awkwardly poured herself a cup of water from the pitcher that had been placed on the bedside table, probably by Marta in anticipation of her thirst. She moistened her cottony mouth with it as she considered her options.

She could run off into the forest again, like she had last night. That had given rise to some positive results in delaying her arrival to the castle. It was certainly the easiest course of action, as far as she was concerned. But—and she despised the thought as soon as she had it—she knew that, if Ivar did not immediately find her again, she would more than likely be sending herself to the grave ten years sooner than need be. Even had both her arms been in good working order, she had no capacity for surviving in a forest. The very thought of it was laughable.

Then you must return to Cachtice Castle and change your fate with your own hands. The blighted crow’s words came to her again. And she knew the bird was right. If this really was the past that she remembered, then she would likely not be in imminent danger for years, yet. Of course, she did not know at which point she had become tangled in the web that would lead to her demise; perhaps, as the crow had alluded, the tragedy had already begun. But maybe it was not too late for her to break free.

When Marta entered the room some time later carrying a tray of steaming stew and fresh bread, Edda had already made up her mind. “You’re awake!” she proclaimed, launching into a series of worried questions which Edda promptly assuaged. At Marta’s insistence, Edda propped herself up on the bed, her stomach rumbling. It was all she could do not to grab the food and begin eating immediately. Something that was not cold gruel or stale bread or sour milk. Something that was not straw.

“I feel almost right again,” she assured the woman, eagerly balancing the tray on her lap using her splinted hand. “I can feed myself, Marta,” she noted as the woman reached for the wooden spoon. Edda grabbed the utensil immediately and wasted not a second before digging in, her earlier plans temporarily forgotten. Mother and maiden, it was the best thing she had ever tasted.

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Marta seemed hesitant to take her word for it, but relented, sitting back on the empty bed across from where Edda lay and eying her warily. “Master Ivar wishes to stay another night in the village,” Marta revealed slowly, “I think it’s for the best, as well, Miss Edda.”

Edda looked up in surprise, her mouth full. This was certainly not unwelcome news. “Yes,” Edda said readily, “I think that is for the best.” She had been steeling herself to throw a fit convincing enough to warrant another night or two in the village, but now she would not have to. Barely missing a beat, she continued to eat. Already, she had nearly finished her stew. It took her the entire bowl to realize that Marta was frowning in concern, but even so she could not stop herself from tearing into the bread.

“Is anything the matter, Miss Edda?” Marta questioned gently.

Edda swallowed a mouthful of the warm, buttery bread and barely stopped herself from demanding that Marta fetch her another helping. No, nothing was wrong. Other than the fact that she remembered what it was like to starve and needed to do everything in her power to prevent herself experiencing it again. “I am well, Marta.” The older woman still seemed unconvinced, but Edda was ready to turn to other matters. “My black pigment, Marta. Where is it?”

“Pigment?” Marta reiterated, her face scrunched in confusion, “Why, I was not aware you owned black pigment.”

Edda rolled her eyes; of course she owned black pigment. Franka had managed secretly to obtain a pot of the stuff and had given it to her as a parting gift. Sweet, beloved, devious Franka—always outsmarting their watchful father and brothers. Marta had not approved of it, of course, but had dutifully packed it in one of the trunks they had brought with them. Edda knew this, because in the coming months, she would use the pigment to accentuate her eyes and draw beauty marks prior to the various social engagements hosted at Cachtice Castle.

“I am certain it is in one of my trunks, Marta. Please.”

Suppressing her protests that no black pigment would be found, Marta began to search the trunks under Edda’s expectant eyes. Yes, the black pigment was where she would start. It was horribly difficult to remove, and left stains on the skin, so she had applied it lightly and only for special occasions before. But now, perhaps she could use some of the pigment’s shortcomings to her advantage.

As the minutes passed and the pigment did not appear, Edda grew increasingly impatient. She knew the pigment had been brought on the journey, she was sure of it. There was no way she would have misremembered Franka’s gift, and no way she would have left it behind in Hesse. It had been important to silly, stupid Edda back then—for appearing pretty and fashionable amongst the young noblewomen. But it was even more important now—because now she needed it to help her stay alive.

After the better part of an hour, Marta turned to her in surrender. “I’m sorry, Miss Edda,” the woman said, “I cannot find it.”

“Impossible!” Edda exclaimed, her voice raising. Marta visibly flinched. She pinched the bridge of her noise in frustration. She wanted to shout, and perhaps she should. She could attribute it to yesterday’s madness and not even have to apologize. But no, it would not do to get upset at Marta. Perhaps the pigment would be found once the trunks were properly unpacked, when they reached the castle. Of course, that did not help her now. She needed the pigment before they departed the village. “Take some coin from my purse, Marta. Fetch me some pigment from the market.”

Marta blinked uncomfortably. She made no move to find Edda’s coin purse.

“Well?” Edda urged, growing annoyance in her voice, “I don’t want to hear that I am too young or too pretty for pigment, Marta. Just go fetch me the blasted pigment.”

Marta continued to hesitate, seemingly unsure of what to do. Finally, she said, “I am sorry, Miss Edda. I will check the market, but we are no longer in Hesse. It is unlikely that anyone deals in pigment here.”

But she was right, wasn’t she? This was the small, country village of Ecsed, not the bustling merchant town of Hesse. Edda felt her anger and anxiety bubble over, then burst, and she pushed the empty tray off her lap. It clattered to the floor loudly, the wooden bowl and spoon bouncing and rolling. Marta jumped in shock at the younger woman’s outburst, and immediately began a string of apologies as she rushed to gather the scattered utensils.

This would never work. There was no way she’d be able to do anything. Just like before, she was completely powerless. For a brief moment, she had thought she had found something small under her control. But she could not even have a pot of bloody pigment to carry out the feeble plan she had concocted. After all, she could not be asked to play the countess if she did not look the part.

And that was what had happened. She, Edda Belten of Hesse, bore a resemblance to the Countess Elizabeth Bathory. She had, not once during her stay at the castle, seen the Countess herself. But the Countess’s steward had called the likeness uncanny. Fateful, the Countess’s lady in waiting had affirmed. And Edda, young and filled with delusions of grandeur, had lauded this fact over the castle’s other guests, as though the luck that had shaped her face and form in a likeness of nobility somehow elevated her to that status. She had comported herself as a peer amongst peers, despite her blasted common blood. Had thought it somehow inevitable that she receive the same respect and accommodations as those far above her station.

So, when at the time of the harvest a few months from now, she had been asked to stand in for the mysterious Countess herself—she had agreed. Of course, she would act as the Countess; attend the soirees and the parties, wear the gowns and the jewels, curtsy and repeat the words fed to her. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world; and if they had asked, it could not have been such a strange thing in the first place, right? Surely this counted as an endorsement from the Countess herself. And they had asked her again, and again, and again, until she was no longer Edda. Until she had left Edda behind and taken on the identity of the Countess Elizabeth Bathory.

Silly, stupid Edda. Silly, stupid, stupid, stupid Edda.

With no one to remind her of who she was, she had become what they made her. And it was silly, stupid Edda who had died for it.