You must choose when to be seen, the crow had advised her. She could not forget its cryptic words, and yet she struggled to decipher them. Being seen did not seem like something she could choose. The moment she left her room at the inn tomorrow, she would have little to no control over being seen—even less so when they reached the castle. And now that she knew that a blood witch perhaps awaited her there, the crow’s words seem even more implausible. There was no place for her to hide. No action she could take, it seemed, that would allow her this choice, in its most literal sense. And yet, she wished for it.

At some point following her arrival at Cachtice Castle the first time, her resemblance to the Countess had been noted—perhaps by the steward, perhaps by her lady-in-waiting, perhaps by them both. Or perhaps by someone else entirely. She did not know why they had waited several months to approach her with their ploy. Neither had ever treated her with unkindness, but there was much she did not understand about their motivations. All she knew was that when they saw her, the wheels would begin turning, carrying her toward a fate she had no interest in repeating.

She could not choose when she would be seen. Both man and—she shuddered—blood witch would lay eyes upon her. But perhaps she could choose how she would be seen.

“I must change my appearance,” Edda mustered. Gretel raised a wispy, white eyebrow in response, and Edda continued, “I haven’t the slightest idea how. I had thought that with some pigment…but it would not be enough. I cannot look like myself.”

The old woman cocked her head to one side, thoughtful. “Why would you need to do such a thing? I’m certain none would be displeased upon seeing you.”

Edda steeled herself to take the step that she knew was necessary. The Countess had been renowned for her beauty. And though Edda had never met her, the many years spent acting as the woman had taught her an important thing about her—and it was something they both shared. Vanity. Surely, they would not choose an ugly girl to stand in for a woman of famous beauty. Edda had even reasoned—weakly—that a few freckles and blemishes might be enough to turn their eyes away from her. But no. There was too much at stake, already too much that could go wrong. And giving up her beauty was likely nowhere near enough to pay for her life.

“That is the heart of the matter. I want to be displeasing.”

Gretel stroked her chin pensively. She studied Edda with those sightless eyes, as if trying to decode the reasoning behind such a bizarre request. Finally, she said, “There seems to be much you have not told me.”

Edda was not sure she wanted to speak of it. Already, she had admitted her death to this woman—it had spilled from her, almost uncontrollably. But there was much more than that, wasn’t there? Ten years’ worth of memories—most of them the shallow and frivolous experiences of a merchant’s daughter who had made herself out to be a Countess, and all of them vague and undefined in her mind. The ones that stood out for her—the ones that threatened to overwhelm her—were her memories of the last year. Her arrest and interrogation. Her long, tortured imprisonment. And her execution.

If she were to begin telling this tale in its entirety, where would she even begin? Would any of what she knew even be helpful or important? Blood and bones, she had not even known of what had happened in the village, had not even heard whisper of it in her decade at the castle. Just how much of her experience there had been a carefully curated illusion that she had been too stupid to see through?

Edda pressed her lips together, looking down at her shaking, white hands. Her wrist ached. “There is much I do not understand,” she said softly, “I do not know how to tell you. Part of me still struggles to even accept what has happened—what I failed to see happening.”

Gretel nodded. She reached out a hand, gently covering one of Edda’s hands with her own. “It is alright, girl. My old eyes tell me enough, and you can tell me the rest in time.” She drew away, and once more Edda found herself cold without that comforting touch. Gretel turned to her satchel, which she had left on Marta’s bed. She opened it and began to search. “Until then, you have assured me of your help. Be assured that you will have mine, as well.”

A small bloom of relief. “Thank you,” Edda said, quietly, “I would not manage this on my own.”

“Oh, you’d have managed something, if only for a time.” Gretel smiled her toothless smile, pulling a small, stoppered pot from her satchel. “We will make do with what we have. More salve.” She set it aside upon the bedside table, where the wax paper parcels from the night before remained. “About a month’s share, give or take.”

Edda frowned. “For my wrist?”

Gretel gestured to Edda’s forearm, to the rough, red rash that had spread there. “For your face, dearie.”

Realization dawned on her. Of course! This would do a much better job of concealing her features than a few spots, which themselves might be easily hidden with powder. The salve had raised her skin with bumpy irritation—not only inflaming it red, but also marring its texture. She reached for the pot of salve as Gretel continued to rummage through her bag but hesitated with it in her hands. Would this be the same as applying an oil or a lotion? Even for such things, Marta and, after her, various maids and servants, had always been the ones to look after her.

But now, if she intended to go through with this, she would have to start taking care of things herself.

As though reading her mind, Gretel spoke, “Apply it every five days, thereabouts. Give it here.” Putting her satchel aside momentarily, Gretel swiftly took command of the pot, removing the stopper, and dipping her wrinkled fingers inside. “You only need a small bit. See?” She offered her fingers up for Edda’s inspection, a dollop of white-green paste atop them. The smell of herbs made Edda’s eyes water, and she turned her nose away. “Don’t be fussy now. The smell doesn’t linger long.”

Stilling Edda’s head with a firm hand upon her chin, she began to apply the fragrant paste along Edda’s forehead, nose, and the top of her cheeks. There was a cooling sensation that quickly gave away to tingling, and then to nothing. Faster than Edda could comprehend, the old woman dipped her coated fingers into the fleshy duct of first her left, then her right eye, with a touch that was feather light but deliberate. Immediately, Edda backed away, startled and blinking rapidly as her eyes begun to sting and water.

Gretel gave her another gummy smile, replacing the lid on the pot and wiping her fingers on her shawl. “And if you put just a little in the corner of your eyes, it will redden them, as well. Just a little, mind you.”

Edda nodded obediently, though she still rubbed at her irritated eyes. She did not like the idea of it, but it would probably help. Reddening her eyes might help dull their impression. She did not know if the Countess in fact had greenish eyes like her own, but she assumed they must be close in color. At the very least, she would not look like she usually did, and for now that was the best she could hope for.

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Finally, Gretel alighted upon the item she had been searching so intently for. She pulled out another pot, this one quite a bit larger than the last, and of a darker red clay. “There’s more?” Edda inquired, nervous even though this was what she had asked for. Already, her stomach was beginning to twist at the thought of her ruddy, pimpled face. She knew she needed to do this if she wanted a chance at getting by unnoticed at the castle, but mother and maiden would she have preferred not to have to do it at all.

Gretel opened the pot to reveal a thick, stinky red substance, somewhere between a powder and a paste. Edda nearly gagged at the smell of it. “A cleansing drug,” she said apologetically, “Difficult to make, so it is only ever used as such. But it is also a particularly potent dye.”

“A dye?” Edda questioned, confused. Already her skin and eyes were red. What more did Gretel intend to discolor?

“Your hair is particularly striking,” Gretel said, “If you wish to look unlike yourself, then this will certainly go a long way.”

The person Edda had been for most of her life would have forcefully declined; and the person she was now still had a small urge to. She had always been attached to her hair; it grew long and straight, black as a deep pool and as shimmery as its surface. She had thought it her best feature, and Marta had always taken great pride in its care. But now, as she watched Gretel pour water into one of the cups that still sat on the nightstand and then begin to mix a scoop of the red substance into it, she recalled the time she had spent in the dungeon.

Others had always fixed her hair for her. So, in the first days, when it had fallen into disarray, she had been at a loss as to how to deal with it. She had tried to comb her fingers through it, removing straw and debris, because in those early days she had had energy, and hope, and it had seemed important to her. But quickly, it had knotted and—without brushing or washing—chunks of it had matted painfully to her scalp. Every shift of her head had pulled, sore and incessant. And she had started to wish for shears, to grasp and hack at each filthy tangle until not a strand of it was left. She began to resent it for her helplessness to be rid of it. For her helplessness in general.

And then, time had passed—countless days and months in that dark, dank cell—and she had grown hungry and weak. And clumps of it had started to fall off, leaving her with increasingly large patches of raw, bare scalp. And she had cried, a bit, of horror but also of relief, however small that feeling had been. She had been attached to her hair for most of her life, yes—but its only use to her in that horrible place had been a momentary feeling of release when it was no longer a part of her.

And so, she stood from the bed and undid the braid that Marta had so lovingly arranged. Her fingers were clumsy, as she was not used even to undoing her own hair, but she fumbled through it herself. Shrugging off her nightdress, she stood bare before Gretel—numb but determined to see this through. Following Gretel’s instructions, she separated her hair into several smaller parts and, rather ineptly, smoothed the viscous, foul-smelling paste through each section, listening as the woman instructed her on how and how often she would have to do it herself. It was not often, but already she dreaded it.

When they were finished, Gretel removed the now-soiled splint from Edda’s wrist, using the linens that had bound it as a headscarf to wrap Edda’s hair away from her face and shoulders. They rinsed their soiled hands in the washbasin, and Edda covered herself with the bed quilt as they waited for the dye to set. There was a brief silence as all they had done and discussed settled in around them, thick as the pungent smell emanating from Edda’s hair.

“I will need to reach you when these run out,” Edda stated, gesturing to the nightstand, now crowded with the addition of the small pot of salve and the larger pot of dye. Her eyes had not stopped watering since Gretel had dabbed salve into them, and she wiped them tirelessly.

“You may need to reach me well before then, dearie,” Gretel corrected, “Write to me of what you find in the castle. I will send a friend to retrieve it.”

Edda did not ask how a blind woman would manage to read her letter, though it was not lost on her that Gretel was now the second person, behind Ivar, who had asked for letters of Cachtice Castle. She would have many more letters to write than the first time she’d been there. “A friend?”

A small smile played on Gretel’s lips, as though she kept an amusing secret to herself. “You will know her when she arrives. And she will come when you need her.” Edda frowned, dissatisfied with the mysterious words, but before she could pursue her line of questioning, Gretel continued, “Every fortnight, a wagon from the village takes supplies up to the castle. Old Soos drives it. His boy, Peter, will bring word from me.” The old woman thumbed her shawl, a habit of hers, it seemed.

The room’s only candle flickered vigorously, attracting Edda’s eyes. With surprise, she noted that it had almost burned down to the wick. Perhaps a quarter of an hour left. Outside the window, there was only the darkness of deep night; even the sounds of the normally bustling inn had stilled. Quite suddenly, the fear that busyness had held at bay returned. Her heart pounded, and the hairs on her arms rose, both with the chill of her nudity and her fright. Would she be able to sleep when Gretel left, and the candle blinked out? Would she not lose herself in the blackness that descended, perhaps find herself again in the dungeon or on the pyre?

Gretel’s warm hand was on her arm again. Edda sniffled, wiping her eyes, and focused. “Come now, let us wash the dye out,” Gretel ordered, not unkindly.

It was an exceedingly difficult task for Edda—she had already found the application of the dye to be arduous, but the process of gathering her sticky mass of hair and dunking it into the washbasin was nearly intolerable. Gretel did not interfere much, except to give instructions—she reasoned correctly that Edda would be doing this alone the next time—and Edda, for her part, tried not to complain of the ache in her wrist or the tightness in her neck and shoulders as she vigorously scrubbed and rinsed her mane. She thought of Marta, who often washed and arranged her hair for her, and felt a spark of appreciation for the woman.

By the time they were finished, the water in the basin was red as blood, and Edda’s hair was a sopping, wet mess. At least most of the smell had come off. She did not know where her brush was—Marta usually stored those things—so she wrung her hair out as best she could and wrapped it, as Gretel had shown her, in the clean linens the old woman proffered. She slipped her nightdress back on, and Gretel deftly fashioned her a new splint for her abused wrist. It had swollen again, and it pained her, but she did not mention it. At last, Edda stood before the stooped old healer, aware that their time together was coming to an end.

“It’ll take until your hair dries to know for sure. But the salve is working,” Gretel observed with a satisfied nod. “I’ve lent you my help, and I’ll lend you what else I can. I only ask you uphold your end of it.”

“I will,” Edda said, but her voice shook, “But I am scared.”

“There’s no helping that. You’ve been through much, and there’s more to come.” Gretel’s voice was firm, without being harsh. “You cannot run away, so you must walk toward it.”

Edda trembled, on the verge of tears. She wanted to reach for the woman, hold onto her shawl and plead with her not to leave. To save her, somehow. The absolute weight of her own helplessness was once again on her shoulders; she could feel herself bending beneath the burden of it. Combined with the unbelievability of this entire situation—her awakening in the past, witches and blood witches, missing girls and bloodless animals—it was enough to floor her. It was enough for her to believe she was out of her mind, entirely, and perhaps Gretel was as well.

But Gretel was right, at least, about one thing. She could not run away. At least, not right now.

Gretel’s eyes softened, and the corners of her mouth drew down. “I don’t know what awaits you, but I am sorry to send you to it. I wish it did not have to be so.” The old woman took a deep breath and gave Edda’s arm a strong squeeze. “But I know that the answers I need are at the castle. And the answers you need are there, too.”

Answers? Blood and bones, none of the questions she had were worth going to Cachtice Castle again! But Edda was sure she would begin weeping the moment she spoke, so instead, she just nodded, her eyes downcast.

“Use the powder, Edda. Until you can sleep without fear.” Gretel turned to leave, stopping with her hand on the door. “And you are fortunate in one way at least.” She gestured to the bed where Marta lay, sound asleep despite the events of the night. “You will have her with you.”

And with that, the old healer departed, stopping just a moment to glance back at the terrified young woman whose tears had finally gotten the best of her, before quietly shutting the door behind her.