The silence in the small room felt deafening; all the more so because the sounds of life going on continued uninterrupted just outside. Marta had stayed awhile after righting the contents of the tray, offering soft apologies and bidding Edda emerge from beneath the quilt where she had hidden herself. When Edda simply turned away from her attempts to soothe her, Marta had left quietly, with a mumbled promise to check the market for black pigment.

But there was no point to any of it, was there? Hot tears dampened the pillow beneath Edda’s head. Even if pigment was found, would freckling and blemishing her face really have presented her a solution? It was a weak disguise, and Edda knew it. A few marks on her skin were not enough to conceal her. But she was desperate, like a fly caught on the edges of a spider’s web, struggling to escape before the spider caught on. But it was already stuck—was there any point to feebly thrashing?

She did not know how long she remained abed, frozen on her side with eyes open and unblinking. She vacillated between the urge to ransack the trunks in search of the pigment she knew must be there and the heartfelt conviction that, even if she found it, the outcome would be the same. The result was a kind of numb paralysis from which she was sure she would never recover.

But when the door to her room quietly creaked open, Edda knew instinctively that it was not Marta who entered. Startled out of her stupor, she spun to face the intruder, keeping the quilt pulled up to her eyes as though it offered some protection. Her rapid pulse remained and was joined by a sense of unease at the sight of Ivar. Despite his concern for her the night before, she still could not forget his part in the events that had preceded it...perhaps she would never see him as simply her brother again.

“I am sorry to startle you,” he began, looking genuinely apologetic, “I did not wish to wake you if you were still sleeping, but it is all the better that you are awake.” He took a seat on the edge of Marta’s empty bed, looking profoundly discomfited. His uniform had been neatly smoothed once more, and his dark hair had been pulled back into a short queue. He looked like the Ivar she had known most of her life—ordered and restrained, but somewhat awkward when faced with his much younger sisters. “How—how do you fare, Edda?”

Edda was tempted to ignore him, but her lingering fear of him prevented her from sinking back into the hopeless torpor she had found herself in. “I am well, Ivar,” she said quietly, adding quickly, “But I will be even better after another night’s rest.”

He nodded, “That is as I hoped. You and Marta will leave for Cachtice Castle before noon tomorrow. I’ve hired a coach to see you there.” Before noon tomorrow! She was nearly out of time, and with nothing to show for it. But something else about Ivar’s words surprised her, enough to keep the desolation at her declining situation from overwhelming her once more.

“Will you not be joining us?” Edda asked.

He paused, considering, and then nodded again. “I will remain in Ecsed until the afternoon, and then depart directly back to Hesse in the evening.” This was not as she remembered. Perhaps noting her confusion, Ivar explained, “I’ve learned of some matters that I must report to the Lord Captain. Matters I cannot simply send ahead by pen.”

Edda frowned, rattled by his change of plans and barely cognizant of his reasoning. Ivar had come with them to the castle before, and had stayed a few days thereafter, inspecting the castle guard in between hovering over her like a stoic guardian. Part of her was grateful that she would not have to be in his presence for much longer—but part of her was wary about what else his absence could change for her. Suddenly hesitant to find out, it occurred to her that if his plans had changed to avoid the castle entirely, perhaps she could venture to do the same.

“Take me with you, Ivar,” she implored, her voice shaking more than she had expected. If she could simply return to Hesse, to the safety of her father’s house, all of this could be forgotten. She would never hope to be more than a common merchant’s daughter again. She would live quietly under her father and eldest brother Simon, seeing Ivar only when he was on leave from the military, and be content with Franka’s affections.

Ivar’s eyes brightened, his awkwardness lifting as though he had finally solved some great puzzle, and a crooked smile played on his lips. “Is that what’s been bothering you, Edda?” he reached forward to place his hand on her own, and she barely suppressed the urge to jerk away. This was not the Ivar from the future, she reminded herself. But her hand still began to sweat beneath his grasp. “I am sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. We were all so pleased when the invitation came, and you appeared so eager these past months. I didn’t stop to wonder that you might grow anxious about being away from home.”

She hadn’t given much thought to being away from home, the first time around, nor had she come to miss it over the ten years she had been away. Only Franka she had longed for, sorely and terribly, but the girl had been unable to visit due to her delicate health. They had written to each other often, at the beginning. But the letters had eventually trickled to a stop and Edda, swept away by her new life as the Countess, had never questioned it. Now, she felt tears well up in her eyes as she thought back to her home in Hesse, her comfortable existence alongside not just Franka, but the rest of her family, and even the servants.

“Please take me home, Ivar,” she beseeched, going so far as to grip his hand herself, “I am not fit for this. I haven’t the slightest idea of what to do.” And she meant it, but not in the way he understood.

“Now, now,” he comforted, his smile fading at her tears; he had never been good with these sorts of emotional displays. Eleven years her elder, such displays had long been left behind in boyhood and so, it seemed, had his ability to navigate them. “This is a wonderful opportunity for you, Edda—for all of us. With the Countess as patron, you can find a better match than father could provide. A noble match, even! Isn’t that what you’ve always desired?”

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Yes, she had wanted such things once; more than the noble match, she had wanted the courtly lifestyle. The recognition and regalia. And she had had it and more; and it had been unctuous and sweet and a delicacy like no other—until it had killed her. So, she shook her head at his words, sniffling miserably, “I desire to return to Hesse.”

He exhaled, seeming to grow somewhat impatient with her, but his hand still held hers gently. “You know I cannot take you back, Edda. We have already accepted the countess’s invitation. It would spell ruin for father if we offended her so.” He paused for a second. And then, when he spoke again, Edda knew he was thinking of other matters—matters he thought more important than her wilful desire to return with him. “And I need you to write to me, Edda. I need you to write to me about matters inside the castle.”

Still dejected from his refusal, Edda had only just enough sense to recognize that Ivar’s request was strange. She had never written him such letters before. “Letters?” she sputtered.

He released her hand and stood, and Edda could see that their conversation was coming to an end. “Yes. Write me letters of Cachtice Castle, of the servants, and the other girls. And write me of the Countess, too.”

Edda’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She knew, from her own memories, that she would never meet the Countess. At first, she had thought it because of her common blood, but even she had picked up on the fact that the woman was rarely seen even by the other castle inhabitants. Only the steward and her lady in waiting seemed to attend her directly. And the bizarreness of the woman’s reclusiveness had faded into a convenient oddity when Edda had begun to take her place.

“Why?” Edda found herself asking.

“Is it that strange to receive letters from one’s own sister?” he teased, reaching forward to pat her head in finality. Edda flinched this time, but he did not seem to notice or, if he did, he chalked it up to an emotion other than fear. Ivar made his way to the door, turning one last time before opening it to reassure her once more, “You will be quite alright, sister. Marta will be with you and will ensure you are taken care of.” He stood in the doorway. “Be well, Edda. Write me the letters.” And then, he was gone.

Edda almost went after him, whether to plead with him to take her back to Hesse or to insist he explain to her why he wanted these letters, she couldn’t be sure. It was a tentative, half-formed realization, but something more than his choice to forego the castle had changed about Ivar since they had arrived in Ecsed the night before. There was something he had left out of their conversation.

Was he simply concerned about her, after her erratic behaviour the night before and her tears today? Oh, she was certain he had been alarmed, but she knew that Ivar saw her as little more than a child—easily moved one way or the other, and best firmly supervised. He had expressed little interest in her time at Cachtice Castle in the few, perfunctory letters she could remember from him, and she had not graced him with any details in the one or two she had written back. So, for him to request that she write to him now meant that something he had learned recently in the village of Ecsed had interested him. He had said as much, hadn’t he?

But what?

Whatever it was, it hadn’t worried him enough to stop his own sister from continuing on. Yet again, Edda was becoming increasingly aware of how little she knew about much of anything. She had not been particularly interested in learning about the Countess’s estate, of which Ecsed was part, back then. The Countess herself—the real Countess—had managed those responsibilities in private. So, what exactly was it about Ecsed that was sending Ivar straight back to Hesse, to his superior no less?

Edda was still mulling over this when Marta returned from her visit to the village market. As Marta had predicted, she was empty-handed. Edda had already surrendered the idea of defacing herself with the black pigment, but she felt a terrible pang of disappointment, nonetheless. This had been the only avenue she could think of—after all, she knew without a doubt that she resembled the Countess, and that she had been selected to impersonate her because of it—and she had thought it would be the one thing she could control.

Bloody bones, she just needed one, small thing under her control. Just one thing so that she could ensure her last breath would not be of smoke.

Blood and smoke.

Maybe there was still something she could do.

Some time after supper—a supper which Edda could not stop herself from scarfing down, much to Marta’s chagrin—Edda requested that Marta call for the healer. It was just late enough that Ivar would be abed, which was exactly what Edda needed.

“My hand!” she cried, with just enough drama to set Marta on alert—but not so much to have her scrambling with urgency. She held out the injured limb for good effect, and was surprised to note a bumpy, red rash had risen up her forearm from beneath the splint. Just as well. “It is hurting terribly, Marta. Just awfully. I think I must see the healer again—perhaps it is broken after all!”

“If only there was any other than that blind crackpot of a woman!” Marta huffed, indignant as she pulled a housecoat on over her nightdress, “I knew it was worse than she made it out to be. I’ll be not a moment, Miss Edda.” And out the door she went, intent on her task.

Edda moved swiftly. She knew she did not have much time before Marta returned. Turning to the table beside the bed, upon which sat a pitcher and two cups among other things, she reached for the small, folded wax paper the healer had left behind the day before. The sleeping powder. It was surprisingly unwieldy to unwrap—even if one of her hands had not been bound in a splint, her fingers shook just slightly with haste—but she managed it.

Taking a pinch, about the amount the healer had given her the night before and a little extra for good measure, she sprinkled it into one of the cups. Just as awkwardly, but with equal speed, she refolded the wax paper and returned it to its place. Making sure to keep her eye on the cup she had added the powder to, she poured water from the pitcher into them both.

Marta returned just as she set the pitcher back down, and Edda tamped down her nervousness.

“Are you alright, Miss Edda?” Marta asked, her breath slightly heavier than before, “I’ve sent for the healer. The boy’s running to fetch her now.”

Edda nodded. She kept her injured arm curled near her body and reached for one of the cups with the other. “It is hurting terribly. So terribly, Marta.” She took a sip from the cup, while motioning to the one that remained on the table. “I’ve poured some for you, too.”

Marta’s eyes softened. “My thanks, Miss Edda.” She came around, taking a seat on her bed with a sigh. “I’ve no clue why there must be so many floors in a village inn, or why the innkeeper’s room must be at the very top!” Taking the cup with gratitude, Marta drank deeply.

It took a great deal of trouble to lift Marta’s legs onto the bed. After realizing how heavy they were, and after several complaints from her wrist, Edda almost gave up and left the woman to sleep as she had fallen; twisted, with her feet on the floor and her head on her pillow. But no; Marta had played her part tonight, and just because Edda needed her out of the way for the next scene did not mean the woman deserved to awaken in discomfort tomorrow. And so, with Marta fast asleep in the bed next to her, Edda sat and waited.