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Edward and the lady reentered the room, where he placed a chair for her by the window. He waited for her to speak, his gaze fixed on her shrouded figure.
The lady wore a mask typical of Italian fashion, resembling a plague-stricken face with green and yellow patches. These masks, nicknamed “melons,” concealed every feature except for the eyes and mouth, favored by ladies for their anonymity. Her hood and mantle further obscured her identity, leaving no skin exposed.
“You’re well hidden,” Edward remarked eventually, as the lady remained silent. “What brings you to me?”
He began to doubt if she was Jacobea, noting her height and reticence.
“Are we alone?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled by the mask.
“No one here,” Edward replied, growing impatient. “Who are you?”
“That can wait,” she replied, her eyes sparkling through the mask. “But I know who you are, sir.”
“You do?” Edward’s tone turned cold.
She seemed to smile. “Edward Bensouda, expelled from Basle University for practicing black magic.”
Edward was shocked; his past as Doctor Constantine had been carefully hidden. He blushed and paled, unable to defend or deny.
“It was recent,” the lady continued. “Many in Basle still remember.”
Edward’s anger flared. “How did you find this out? Basle is far from Frankfort. What do you want for your silence?”
“I’ve kept my inquiries discreet,” she explained calmly. “I hold your secret alone. I can help you keep it. It would be easy to spread rumors of Edward Bensouda’s demise.”
Edward’s mind raced. “You’re Jacobea of Martzburg—”
“No,” she interrupted, startled. “But I know her—”
“She told you about me—”
“No,” she repeated. “She knows nothing of you. I alone hold your secret in Frankfort, and I can assist you in concealing it.”
Edward clenched his finger, his lip, his gaze fixated on the abundance of roses, the darkening sky, and the quiet figure in the grotesque speckled mask. If she spoke, he might need to flee Frankfort, disrupting his plans.
“The town holds another young man,” the lady remarked. “He too fled Basle.”
Edward’s face twisted with cunning; he realized she didn’t know about Thomas’s involvement.
“He was here—now he’s at Court. He was innocent in Basle, came with me out of friendship. He’s simple and devoted,” Edward replied.
“I’m concerned with you,” the lady retorted. “You possess great and terrible skill, in league with evil spirits...your spells ended a life—” She paused.
“Poor soul,” Edward muttered darkly.
The stranger stood, her calm demeanor replaced by fierce, barely restrained passion. She clasped her hands, trembling.
“Well,” she exclaimed hoarsely. “You could do it again, in a softer, subtler manner?”
“For you?” Edward whispered.
“For me,” she confirmed, sinking into the window-seat and mechanically adjusting her gloves.
Silence hung as the dying sunlight bathed the room, casting a red hue over everything. Outside, the roses whispered in the witch’s garden.
“If you won’t tell me, I can’t help you,” Edward stated grimly.
“I’ll tell you this much,” she declared passionately. “There’s a man I hate, a man blocking my path. I need him gone, and if you can help—”
“You’ll be in my power, just as I am in yours,” Edward thought, finishing her sentence.
She gazed at the roses. “I can’t explain the nights of horror and days of bitterness, the resolutions and hatred that led me here. It’s my resolve, and if your magic can assist—”
“I’ll pay you handsomely,” she added quickly.
“You’ve told me nothing,” Edward repeated. “It’s better if you speak plainly.”
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She appeared agitated. “Not today. I’ll return. Your secret is safe for now—think about what I’ve said.”
She moved to leave, but Edward blocked her path.
“No,” he insisted. “Show your face—how will I recognize you? You must trust me as I trust you.”
She hesitated, then removed her disguise, revealing her face to the shoulders in the twilight.
Edward’s first thought was that her beauty surpassed any he’d seen. His second was that it was the same face he and Thomas had glimpsed in the mirror.
“Oh!” Edward exclaimed.
“Well?” the lady asked, holding the hideous mask in her hand.
As the lady revealed her true beauty, it was as if a new entity had stepped into the dimly lit chamber, her radiance stark against the earlier shadowy figure.
Her beauty was breathtaking, unimaginable until seen; Edward couldn’t fathom a woman could be so stunning.
“If Jacobea’s hair was golden, this woman’s locks were pure, glimmering gold, and her eyes a deep, soft violet,” Edward mused, admiring her slender throat and rich bodice.
Her smile faded, her beauty taking on a grave, almost tragic air. “You don’t recognize me?” she inquired.
“No,” replied Edward, concealing the fact that he had seen her in his mirror of dark magic. “But will I recognize you again?”
Edward chuckled softly. “You’re unforgettable. Strange that such a face would seek out witchcraft!”
The lady replaced her hideous mask, which now seemed more ghastly after glimpsing her beauty, and wrapped herself in her mantle.
“I’ll either come to you or send word,” she stated. “Reflect on what I’ve said and what I know.”
She disappeared once more under her green cloak. Edward didn’t inquire further but escorted her down the dark passage and opened the door for her. She left swiftly, her footsteps light on the path. Edward watched her vanish into the night, then closed and bolted the door. After a moment of tense excitement, he hurried to the back of the house and into the garden.
The dim light revealed the sprawling roses as Edward ran among them until he reached a stone statue partly hidden by laurels. In front of it lay a flagstone with an iron ring. Pulling at it, he revealed a trapdoor leading down into the witch’s underground chamber.
Descending into the dimly lit room, Edward found Nathalie amidst alchemical equipment and eerie decorations. Human bodies hung from ropes, their forms withered and crowned with leaves.
“One visited me,” Edward exclaimed to Nathalie. “A remarkable lady.”
“I know,” murmured the witch. “Was it part of your plan?”
The air was heavy with foul odors as Edward explained the encounter and his newfound allegiance to the lady’s cause.
“Who is she?” Nathalie blinked.
“I aim to find out,” Edward frowned. “She mentioned Jacobea of Martzburg as well.”
He coughed, affected by the noxious atmosphere, then asked for the crystal globe. Placing it on the floor and drawing a pentagon around it, Nathalie cast her incantations, causing the globe to glow with a pale blue light.
Edward gazed into it, frustration mounting. “I see nothing,” he grumbled.
Undeterred, Nathalie repeated her incantations, leaning closer with her forehead adorned with yellow coins.
Rays of light began to shimmer from the globe. “Show me something of the lady who came here today,” commanded Edward.
They waited.
“Do you see anything?” whispered the witch.
“Yes—very faintly.”
He stared for a while in silence.
“I see a man,” he said finally. “The spells are off...I see nothing of the lady—”
“Keep watching,” urged the witch. “What’s he like?”
“I can’t make him out clearly...he’s on horseback...in armor...now I can see his face—he’s young, dark-haired—”
“Do you know him?”
“No—I’ve never laid eyes on him.” Edward kept his gaze fixed on the globe. “He’s clearly a knight...impressive but cold...ah!”
His exclamation came as the ball changed; it slowly faded into a faint blue, then returned to its dark, muddy hue.
He tossed it angrily out of the pentagon.
“What does that tell me?” he exclaimed. “Who is this man?”
“Ask Zerdusht,” said the witch, indicating the brass head. “Maybe he’ll speak tonight.”
She threw spices onto the fire, and a thin smoke rose, filling the chamber.
Edward approached the brass head, his eyes filled with anticipation.
“The dead stir,” grinned the witch. “He might speak tonight.”
Edward fixed his wild gaze on the hanging corpses. Their withered forms twitched and writhed, their wreaths of poison-colored leaves gleamed through the smoke, swaying with their headless movements.
“Zerdusht, Zerdusht,” murmured Edward. “By Satan’s name, speak to your servant, reveal something of the woman who visited today on dark business.”
A heavy silence followed his words; the smoke thickened, then suddenly dissipated.
The lamps went out, and the fire faded to ash.
“Something is coming,” whispered the witch.
In the darkness, the sound of the dancing dead and their bones grinding against the ropes echoed.
Edward stood motionless, his eyes fixed ahead.
Soon, a pale light bathed the chamber’s end, revealing the figure of a young knight. His black hair spilled from under his helmet, his face composed yet proud, his dark eyes cold and fearless.
“It’s the one from the crystal!” exclaimed Edward, but as he spoke, the light and the figure vanished. He pounded his chest.
“Zerdusht! You mock me! I asked about the woman! I know nothing of this man.”
The brass head suddenly glowed, its eyes opening to reveal red orbs staring at Edward, who shouted in triumph, then dropped to his knees.
“A year ago, I saw a woman in the mirror; today she came to me...who is she?...Zerdusht—her name?”
The brass lips moved and uttered, “Ysabeau.”
What did this reveal?
“Who was the knight you showed me?” he demanded.
“Her husband,” replied the head.
The flaming eyeballs rolled as Edward demanded, “Who is the man she seeks my aid for...who is it she spoke to me about?” The response came swiftly, “Her husband.”
Edward jerked in surprise. “Quick,” the witch’s voice cut through the darkness. “The light is fading.” Edward’s next question pierced the air, “Who is she?”
“The Empress of the West,” replied the brass head. A cry erupted from both Edward and the witch. Edward’s voice trembled as he asked another question, “She intends to replace the Emperor?”
“Yes,” the light dimmed further, the red eyes fluttered shut.
“With whom?” Edward’s urgency was palpable. In a faint yet clear voice, the answer came, “The Lord of Ursula of Rosewood, Balthasar of Nola.”
The lids closed, the jaws clicked, and the light vanished. The lamps flared back to life, revealing the motionless bodies of the dead men, their wreaths resting on their chests, the witch huddled by the hearth.
In the middle of the chamber stood Edward, his smile twisted into a grotesque expression of horror.