The morning light was still watery and grey in the room when Edda woke. The powder had granted her a short but dreamless rest. Still, she might have remained beneath the veil of sleep for hours more, had not its brief thinning allowed anxiety to gnaw through. Motionless beneath the bedcovers, her stomach clenched and churned. Her throat constricted. But through her boiling apprehension, her mind was clear.

Today, she would return to Cachtice Castle.

There had been no escaping it, as she had initially hoped. In fact, she was even more trapped than she had first realized. At least during her first life, if that was what it had been, she had not been resurrected by a bloody blood witch. She did not want to believe it—her mind desperately wanted to reject it—but there was no other explanation, really. People did not just wake up ten years in the past after being burned alive. Witchcraft had brought her back from the dead. And it was possible that it had put her there in the first place, too.

She would have to find out. Not only that, but she had promised Gretel that she would investigate the disappearances of the village girls. Two were missing, and nothing in Edda’s memories told her if they would ever be found. And—she shuddered to think it—she did not know if they would be the last to vanish, either. She would have to uncover their fate while avoiding her own.

She turned her head slightly, cracking open an eye to see if Marta had yet roused. The woman still slumbered peacefully where Edda had arranged her the night before, her breaths gentle and even. Gretel had reminded her that, at least, she would have Marta with her. Perhaps Marta, prolific gossip that she was, could help her gather information from the servants. Edda had ignored the woman’s yammering in those early days at the castle, thinking the talk of the house staff below her. If only she had listened, maybe she would have learned of some of the events she now desperately wished to understand. But silly, stupid Edda had not listened. She had ignored Marta’s yammering until there had been no more yammering for her to ignore.

Suddenly, the pit of Edda’s stomach dropped away, as she remembered what she already knew. What she had known the moment she recognized Marta in the carriage upon her awakening.

At the beginning of summer, no more than three months from now, when last of the snows melted and the leaf buds began to appear on the trees, Marta would die, and Edda would be alone.

Panic gripped her. She could not breathe. Edda could not look away from the kindly woman, blissfully asleep and unaware on the bed across from her. Marta had been her caretaker since childhood, and her loss had been a hard one. Edda had wept for days after being informed of her passing, refusing to leave her chambers. Of course, her hosts at the castle had seen to her every comfort. A new maid had been provided promptly. For a fortnight, the steward himself had brought her meals, cooing his condolences. And slowly, they had reminded her that there were still lessons, on dance and etiquette, and numerous gatherings to attend. They had distracted her out of her grief, filling the gap left behind by Marta with exactly the sort of frivolities she had desired. But, even so, she had emerged from her mourning alone in a way that she had never been before.

She did not want to be left alone at Cachtice Castle again, and she had been desperately alone without Marta. She hadn’t given it much thought, back then, but she realized it now with certainty. Her loneliness had played a pivotal role in her undoing, had made her the ideal candidate for what transpired. By the time she had been asked to pose as the Countess for the first time, there had been no one in the castle who truly knew her. Without Marta, it had been all too easy to make Edda disappear. Had she been alive, Marta would never have allowed it.

Marta chose that moment to rouse, blinking sleep from her eyes. She raised her hands to rub at her face, shifting to turn onto her side toward Edda. Briefly, their eyes met and Edda, still stupefied by her realization, held the woman’s gaze wordlessly. Gradually, Marta’s eyes gained the full focus of wakefulness and, abruptly, they widened in shock as she tumbled out of bed with a curse.

“Oh mother! Oh, sweet mother!” Marta rushed to her side, grasping Edda’s shoulder urgently. “Miss Edda! What in the name of the mother has happened to you?” Marta’s grip was tight, her face slack with horror as she inspected her young ward. With more strength than Edda realized she possessed; Marta hauled her up into a seated position. “Oh, my mother in heaven, what has happened here?”

Rescued from her stupor by Marta’s agitated questioning, Edda squeezed her itchy eyes shut, grimacing at her own oversight. Of course, Marta would be perturbed by her altered appearance. But she hadn’t even given a second of thought as to how she would explain it to the woman. She had barely even explained herself to Gretel, and she knew Marta would be nowhere near as accommodating. She quickly glanced at the two new pots upon the bedstand, cursing herself for not hiding them the night before.

Marta, too distraught to notice the direction of Edda’s gaze, continued her string of questions and curses, barely giving Edda a moment to answer. She now ran her hands, careful but frantic, over Edda’s reddened face, gasping when she released Edda’s hair from the linens it had been bound in the night before. Stepping back as though she had been struck, Marta stumbled, landing firmly on the bed behind her.

“Your hair…” the older woman whispered, finally stunned into silence. Her shaking hands covered her mouth, and her eyes welled with tears.

Edda glanced down to where a length of hair had fallen over her shoulder, and even she was surprised to see the muddy brown-grey color of it. More than that, her usually smooth, straight hair fell in a lazy, frizzy wave, decidedly unlike what she was used to. The dye had worked even better than expected. This was what she wanted. Surely, no one would look to her to impersonate the Countess, now that she looked entirely unlike herself. It had needed to be done. Edda gulped, swallowing a pang of regret. It had needed to be done, and now, she needed to convince Marta of that, too.

“It is alright,” Edda said, “I am alright. I did it myself.” She found her voice more tender than usual, the memory of Marta’s death still lingering in her mind.

“But why?” Marta squawked, tears now flowing freely, “Why would you do such a thing? Is it because of the black pigment, Miss Edda? Because I could not find it?”

“No!” Edda said, “No, it is not that.”

“Then why?” Marta cried, “You’ve not been yourself, Miss Edda. Acting all strange since you woke from your black dream. You’ve not been yourself.” Marta hid her face with her hands, stifling a sob.

An idea alighted in Edda’s mind, a half-formed, half-truth. But perhaps it would work.

“You are right, Marta. I haven’t been myself,” Edda extended a hand to touch Marta’s shoulder, hoping to mimic the way Gretel had comforted her. She genuinely wanted to soothe the woman but had little idea of how. “It is the black dream. I’ve done all this because of the black dream.”

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Marta looked up from between her fingers, her eyes questioning.

“I—I dreamed of the village. And of the castle. I dreamed that things were not right here.”

Marta sucked in a breath, straightening herself. Her face was still flushed with unhappiness, but she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Not right?”

Edda nodded, holding Marta’s eyes with her own. “I dreamed of—of witches. The kind you used to tell me stories of. And I dreamed I would be in danger if I remained as I was.”

Marta’s brows furrowed. She looked down and away, before finally raising her eyes to meet Edda’s again, as though she had steeled herself to say her next words. “Truthfully, Miss Edda, I’ve had a bad feeling about this place from the start. First with that blasted crow on our way in. Then with you acting strange. And some of the tales the villagers been telling. I was of a mind to tell Master Ivar to take us right back to Hesse.” The plump woman sighed, regretfully.

“He wouldn’t hear it,” Edda said, her lips pressed together as she remembered her conversation with her brother, “But I think something worried him about the village, too.”

Marta rubbed a hand across her face in frustration. “Blast it,” she cursed, then softening she said, “I just wish that you would have talked to me first before…” She gestured to Edda, her eyes lingering on the girl’s face and hair. “Is it…will it even…?”

“I had to do it, Marta. I really had to,” Edda said, “Even if I remain this way forever, it is better than the danger I dreamed of.” And Edda found that she really meant it. Certainly, it was not easy for her—she had lived most of her life not simply proud of, but also dependent on her appearance—but it was a small price to pay, if it set her on a path to avoid what she knew was coming.

Marta took a deep breath. She leaned forward, grabbing Edda by both shoulders and giving her a slight shake. There was a small, tight smile on her face. “I’ll not tell you otherwise, Miss Edda. I’m not sure myself what to think.” Marta slid a thumb along Edda’s cheek, smoothing the girl’s hair away from her face. “It must have been terrible, for you to go this far.”

Edda simply nodded, suddenly choked with tears. It had been terrible. She had lived and died in a way more horrific than anything she could previously have imagined. And now, she was here, and it didn’t matter if it was ten years away—for her, it was still fresh and bleeding. And she was doing all she could to simultaneously tend the wound and prevent it from happening again—and it did not feel like enough, but it was all she could do.

Overcome by Edda’s distress, Marta pulled the girl into her arms, holding her in a tight embrace. It had been so long since anyone had embraced her, so very long, that Edda found herself momentarily shocked at the intimacy of the act. She had found solace in Marta’s arms countless times as a child. But there had been no one to offer her this kindness after the woman’s death. And with that thought, Edda buried her face into the woman’s shoulder and cried.

She did not know how long they remained like that, with Marta rubbing her back in soothing circles and murmuring words of comfort to her, “Hush. Hush now child. We’ll be alright.” But finally, her weeping abated, and Marta pulled away, her own eyes reddened with unshed tears. She used the sleeve of her nightdress to wipe at Edda’s face like a mother would a sniffling child, before glancing out the window at the brightening morning. Taking a deep breath, Marta seemed to resign herself to the situation. “Our carriage will be here soon. If the Master wouldn’t have my skin, I’d drive us back to Hesse myself.” She rose from the bed; her composure restored and straightened her dress. “Come, let us ready ourselves.”

Marta worked with her usual, practiced efficiency. And for once, Edda paid attention to her movements. She could not shake the melancholy that had come with remembering Marta’s death, but something about the woman’s quiet acceptance of their situation bolstered her. It was obvious that she was still upset; her voice was reedy, and her hands shook ever so slightly. But she went about her tasks, nonetheless.

First, she called for fresh water to be brought in, apologizing profusely to the innkeeper’s wife for the mess that had been made of the washbasin and pressing an extra coin into the woman’s hands for the trouble. Then, she used the fresh, warmed water to wipe down first Edda, then herself. Their discarded nightdresses were promptly stored away, and fresh smocks and travelling dresses for them both were fetched from the trunks. After dressing, she went to work on Edda’s hair.

It was hopelessly tangled from the night’s activities, and Edda winced every time the brush journeyed through a section of it. But Marta labored over it gently, smoothing the now dull, frizzy locks as best she could manage, and finally arranging them into a braid.

The last preparations for their departure were also competently made. The pots and parcels provided by the healer were carefully packed, despite Marta’s quiet disapproval, and help was procured to carry the trunks down to the carriage. While this labor was performed, Marta and Edda had a small meal in the inn’s common room, empty at this time of day but for a bored serving girl. Marta ate in a tense, concerned silence, watching as Edda once again rapidly devoured the fare.

“You’ve never liked tuber stew,” Marta commented, quietly, as Edda all but scraped the bottom of her bowl.

Edda looked up with a shake of her head. Not for the first time during their stay at the inn, she held herself back from asking for more food. She did not like tuber stew, but that did not matter. Even though her body’s hunger was satiated with just the small bowl, she had been so hungry for so long in that dungeon that it simply did not feel like enough. The stew was warm and thick, and the tubers within were soft—she would eat a hundred bowls of this stew before she ate another piece of straw.

Word had been sent to Ivar that they would soon be on their way, but it was the innkeeper’s boy that met them as they left the inn, proffering a hastily scribbled note in Ivar’s hand and name.

On business about the village. Be well. Write to me.

With little more fanfare than that, the two women found themselves seated once more in a carriage, bound for Cachtice Castle. It was a smaller carriage than the one they had arrived in, slightly older in its make, with darker wood panels, thinner cushions, and no drapes to cover the windows. Edda was grateful for the light that spilled in as they trundled through the village. It made the journey seem somehow less grim.

But grim it was, and Edda’s thoughts soon followed suit. Neither she nor Marta were inclined to speak, both absorbed in their own anxieties. Marta wrung her hands restlessly in her lap, and Edda could not help but study the worried movement. Marta’s hands were pale and neat, but they were hands that were used to work. She had looked after Edda for more than a decade, but how old did that make her? Edda had never thought to ask.

She was certainly not as aged as Gretel; she had a few lines on her face, around her eyes and mouth. But her mousy brown hair did not show streaks of grey yet. And though Marta was small, she was strong and sturdily built. Edda did not think the woman had been sick for as long as she had known her—but then again, Edda had never paid mind to such things. Had she ever asked after Marta’s health?

Edda’s hands clenched upon her own lap. Her breathing quickened slightly. Marta would die in a few months; this woman who loved her, despite how self-absorbed she had been her entire life, would die. The steward would tell her of Marta’s death, that her heart had simply stopped in her sleep. And Edda had believed him, because she had not known any better; she had not known Marta’s age, or if she had any ailments, or if she had been feeling unwell of late.

Marta was the only person Edda would have in the castle, the only person she could be sure of. Marta was the only person who knew her and cared for her. But Edda knew so little of her and had known even less after their arrival at the castle. Edda had been given her own chamber, and Marta a room in the servants’ quarters, and they had barely had time to speak between the lessons and the meals and the parties Edda was expected to attend. But still, Marta had been there for her—an irreplaceable presence.

And, perhaps to someone, an insurmountable obstacle.

Marta would never have allowed Edda to impersonate a Countess. Even if such a thing had still come to pass, Marta would not have been fooled by it. Because, except for her sister Franka, Marta was the one person who knew Edda best.

Edda ground her teeth. Her wrist ached from being clamped so hard, and her nails dug into her palms. She had not even considered the possibility before. But she could not ignore it now.

The tenor of the carriage’s wheels changed as they left the cobblestone of the village, onto the dirt road that would take them to Cachtice Castle. And even as the day brightened further toward noon, Edda could not help the dark thought that it was not only her life that was in danger.