The Blood Confession, page 22
I described to him the secret passageway and told him where to go. The soldier's dark eyes flashed at me warily.
"One moment," I said, and stepped into my bedchamber. When I returned I held a scarf of saffron silk in my hand.
"I intend to keep this conversation secret. Take this as a token of my honor."
His eyes grew wide at the sight of the scarf, which he stuffed hastily into his black doublet.
"It will remain a secret with me," he assured me. "Thank you for this guidance, my lady." He bowed solemnly.
"Make haste," I told him, pressing my hand upon his shoulder, "and be careful. It is best if you are not seen or heard."
He bowed again, and followed my instructions.
***
Darkness pressed against the windows in the hallway. Though wary of what ghosts might seize upon me in sleep, I was weary and could think of nothing else to do. I struggled from my gown and corset and slipped into bed in my underclothes.
After waking late from a fitful sleep, I remained stony-faced as Rowena offered me breakfast and a warm bath. I noticed that she had not cared for me so diligently since I was a child—years ago, before Marianna and I had ever met. Perhaps nothing had changed, after all.
I almost fooled myself into believing this until I glanced down at my own body beneath the film of soapy water. Though small, my breasts were decidedly womanly, and my hips and thighs had become more rounded with age. I tried to listen again, as I had before, to the sounds of my body, as though listening to a machine to detect where a defect might lie.
"Erzebet! Sit up, child—are you all right?" The steam had made me light-headed and faint. Rowena urged me to sit up from the warm water and began to dry my head and shoulders briskly with a scratchy cloth. In spite of Rowena's comforts, I refused the breakfast and returned to bed.
I spent all of my time in a dim haze of restless sleep. I rarely rose from bed and the smell of food sickened me. After a time, the aid of astrologers was requested. Some prescribed bleedings, baths in scented oils, or vile purgatives. I submitted to all of this listlessly, often closing my eyes and separating mind from body, hovering over my thin white form in bed. The sight of a dish of blood made me soar with excitement until I realized the blood was my own.
There were brief moments in which I considered death, in the way someone considers a ride through the countryside—perhaps I should simply submit to it, and give up this fight, after all? I could not bear the thought of waking and dealing with the grim, lonely reality that lay before me. But then I would remember Anastasia, and fear the retribution that awaited me on the other side. Where I was going, I would certainly not be reunited with Marianna. These thoughts shocked me back into my own body, wrapped in blankets and sweating out an illness that bled my spirit dry.
It was an accident, I thought. Death was never my intention.
Life is your intention, a voice told me. It was Sinestra's voice. It was nighttime, and he was in the room, kneeling upon the floor beside my bed. Choose your fate; the choice is still yours. I fell into a deep, restful sleep at the sound of his voice.
***
Through a rippling haze I saw Pugrue seated beside my bed, his head lowered solemnly. I wondered if he had come to offer me my last rites, and the thought revived me a bit. I rustled beneath my heavy covers and he started at the sound.
"Erzebet, can you hear me?" he asked, his face close to mine, his eyes blinking rapidly. "I'm afraid I have some terrible news to share with you." He pulled his chair closer to the side of my bed. I could see Pugrue's scalp through his wiry nest of hair; it reminded me of the stone-smooth head of a skeleton.
"Erzebet, your father is dead."
"Dead?" I asked, my voice louder than I thought possible. "How?"
Pugrue's eyes shifted nervously about the room; he lifted his hand to the servants, requesting privacy. He turned back to me once the door had been shut behind them.
"It appears as though he was killed by the Turks, four days ago. He was found in his bedchamber, strangled with a silk scarf. We would have told you immediately, but your illness forbade us from doing so."
A saffron silk scarf, I thought. For a moment I worried I had said the words aloud. But Pugrue suspected nothing; strangulation was a popular method of murder among the Turks.
"Unfortunately, word of his murder has already spread through the village, and the people are afraid. It's important, in such dangerous times, that they feel protected."
"By me," I said.
"Yes, Erzebet. You are their protection now."
"I will visit them," I told Pugrue. "I will visit the village myself." "We will discuss the details when you are well," Pugrue said, resting his old, spotted hand upon mine.
Though still weak, I rose from bed that day for the first time since my illness had begun. I called for Rowena to bathe and dress me.
"Oh, you've grown so thin, Erzebet," she moaned, adjusting the stays of my smallest corset. "You must promise me to eat something today."
"I promise I will, don't worry," I told her. I did appear bonier than usual, but there was a vibrant energy that seemed to sparkle around my reflection in the mirror. My eyes shone brilliantly and my skin was pale as flour.
Now that the count was dead, I felt liberated. I moved into his chamber and rifled through the papers on his desk to learn about the administration of the castle, the local farms, and payment of the servants in his employ. What interested me most were the documents regarding the collection of tithes, which had grown steadily over the past few years. In order to gain the trust of the villagers, I would need to formulate a way to help them with their financial burden. Ideally there would be a solution that would benefit me as well.
Though I did not return to my blood treatments at this time, I was very aware of my appearance. I had a simple gown of pink silk fitted to my fragile frame—the silk was pretty but void of ornate embellishment. It was imperative that I appear not only lovely, but also warmhearted and caring to the people of Novoe Mesto. Within the week of rising from my bed, I was already discussing with Pugrue our visit to the village. We would travel on a Sunday and speak to the crowd just before the Mass. Then we would join them in their devotions.
"Do you know what you are going to say to them, Erzebet?" Pugrue asked, his voice strained with nerves.
"Yes, Father," I assured him. "Do not worry about me. I am in control now."
The glassiness of his eyes showed me that he was realizing this was true. Perhaps he feared that I would follow through on my earlier threats of banishment, but now that the count was gone, Pugrue posed no threat to me. I laid my fingers upon his hand in consolation.
"Your guidance has been invaluable, Father. I will not forget it."
***
The servants watched with cautious eyes as they readied me for the carriage ride to Novoe Mesto.
"Are you sure that you are well enough to go?" they asked.
Looking at my reflection and stiff walk, I could see their cause for concern. But they could not see the energy—like a bolt of lightning—that surged through me.
Stepping beyond the castle walls, I was shocked by the cold: winter was on its way again, and the chill seeped into my bones. Pugrue, though frail himself, did his best to assist me into the carriage. We rumbled uncomfortably over rough roads for a while, and I cautiously peered through the black curtains to survey the hillsides as we passed them. Finally we arrived in the center of the town, where we entered the church—a simple white steeple—where the whole of the village stood at attention.
A hush fell over the murmuring crowd as I walked, regal though weak, to the altar, accompanied by Pugrue and the village priest.
"It's good of you to meet with us," the priest offered, his bloated fingers trembling nervously. "I'm afraid that our village has been seized by fear."
"If Count Bizecka is not safe, how is anyone safe?" a voice shouted out from the crowd. A murmuring followed, and the priest tried to shush the uprising.
"What about our crops, our livestock? How will we have money and food for our families if we are all at the mercy of the Turks?"
"How can we afford your taxes if the Turks threaten to tax us as well?"
"The Turks have no right to tax you," I answered. The murmurs ceased. "That is why the soldiers will remain, to protect you."
"The battles hurt us, too, and we've barely recovered."
"But many of you have recovered, and I sense that you are all stronger for it," I told them, and smiled proudly. "You were not conquered and you will not be conquered. More soldiers will be stationed at the borders and within the town, and the Turks will dare not penetrate our borders again—if they do, we will be prepared for them. You have my word on that. I'm here to help you."
The truth was that the Turks had already begun to move north. They took little interest in the crops grown in the village, and were more interested in siphoning wealth from other, richer towns than spending more time with meager Novoe Mesto. Still, I did not intend to remove the soldiers in my employ from their stations, if only to remind the people of potential danger.
"What will you do?" numerous voices asked me. My eyes scanned the crowd, and like an expert, I was able to pick out a series of faces: young women, young girls, with smooth skin and shining hair. My legs shivered, still weak. But I would not remain weak for long.
"I offer you an opportunity," I told them. "Give to me your daughters—they may work in my castle for five years. For those five years I will see to their daily needs. When their service is done, I will grant them each a handsome dowry, allowing them to marry and begin households of their own. Each of you will be paid, in advance, a small portion of the dowry, to replenish your own crops and livestock. And you will be relieved of the burden of daughters to feed. When they return, they will have husbands to feed them."
There was some laughter in the audience; their whispers sounded like the shushing of waves.
"This is how I will help you, and you will help me," I repeated, my voice growing stronger. "Give me your daughters," I told them.
And they did.
XXXV
Day sixteen, night
I've been sitting here alone in the dark, but I don't think I've been sleeping. A soft thud startles me and suddenly I'm alert, eyes scanning the darkness. A thin slice of moonlight outlines the frame of the oval mirror on the wall.
"Who's there?" I ask quietly, hoping the guards will not hear me. "Are you there?"
"Don't worry." The low rumble of his voice instantly soothes me. "The guards are asleep. I put a special something in their wine."
"Sinestra!" I leap up into his arms, his cape folding over my shoulders. I stand in his embrace for a long time, without speaking.
"You must be careful. It would be very dangerous for them to find you here. They could put you on trial," I warn him, my face buried in his shoulder.
"Don't worry about me; you know that I'm perfectly safe." I can see his teeth gleaming in the darkness.
"Have you heard any of the trial?"
"Bits and pieces." He sits upon the couch and I sit close beside him, our legs touching. "Rowena and Pugrue offered their testimony, as well as a few serving girls."
"My girls—they did testify? Have they told them everything?"
"Everything they could dare to imagine," Sinestra moans. "There were no direct witnesses to Helena's murder, but they've all told vivid tales."
"And what about the rest of it—the box of dead girls? The girls showed them, I'm sure of it."
"Calm yourself, Erzebet." He squeezes my arm. "What your girls have confessed is their own problem now. They were your accomplices—none of them have been able to escape that fact."
I sit quietly for a moment, considering the import of his words.
"They will be put to death," I murmur. "They will be put to death for assisting me."
I squeeze Sinestra's hand; I can't deny the loneliness that casts a shadow over my heart. My girls were with me, here in this very chamber, not so long ago.
"They betrayed you," Sinestra reminds me. "They do not deserve your pity." The moonlight slants against his sharp cheekbones, as if they were cut from stone. I press my palm to his face; he moves it to his mouth and gently kisses the base of my thumb.
"They've all lied about Helena?" I whisper, though I already know the answer.
"Of course they have. There's only one other who knows the truth, and she has simply vanished." He sighs, the sound like blowing out the flame of a candle.
"Where do you think she is?" I murmur.
"With her father, I suppose. Unless she's taken to the woods again." He wraps his warm fingers over my shoulder. "Do I detect a touch of concern in your voice?"
"I'm not sure," I tell him, "but I feel better now that you're here. Please stay with me. It might help me to sleep." I lean forward and nestle into the crook of his arm.
"Of course," he says, pressing his lips to my forehead. "Don't worry. I'll always be with you."
***
When the women began to arrive that winter, I watched them from a safe distance—safe for them, and for me. Their presence both inspired and disturbed me: at night I was forced to watch Anastasia crawl up from her dirt grave in the dungeon floor to haunt my dreams. My sleeplessness often led me to the portrait chamber, where I compared my most recent portrait to my reflection in a warped and puckered mirror. I tried to move to get my reflection to come out right, past the defects in the glass. I could not tell what was real and what distortion.
The count's death rejuvenated the countess. We began to take dinner together in the dining hall, and even enjoyed an occasional walk in the rose garden if the weather permitted, when she was feeling well enough. The only place I did not take her was the tower room.
When Mother was asleep I would walk around the castle until late at night, wandering aimlessly through sitting rooms and chambers I rarely visited to watch the new host of servants diligently at work. I even wandered into the kitchen, surprising the cook and her assistant over a bubbling pot of stew. I was always looking for something—perhaps Sinestra, or Rowena. Deep inside I knew what I was looking for; I wasn't yet willing to admit to myself what it was.
Every night, I sat before the mirror in the tower room, at the dressing table alight with candles, and inspected the lines of my face and the tones of my skin. I undressed in the cold of the tower chamber to better inspect my slender neck, my young breasts, belly, hips, and thighs, wary of any sign of change. I spent long hours appraising my own beauty. The flesh of my inner thigh was my favorite, for it seemed still fresh and soft and new, though the nest of hair between my legs filled me with shame. Though often I delighted in the golden image reflected in the mirror, there were other nights when the lines upon my face seemed deeper, the skin more sallow, my young breasts drooping. I left the tower and wandered the halls late into the night, watching the snow fall beyond the windows, blanketing the world in white.
Winter had already begun its slow, groaning thaw the night I stumbled upon a scullery maid, polishing a silver platter in the dining hall. She admired the platter as she polished its smooth surface, or admired her own reflection. I stood behind her for a moment in silence, transfixed by the strange, graceful movements of her narrow limbs, her shoulder blades moving like the wings of a bird. I stared at the smooth skin of her neck, her tawny hair falling across it in feathery wisps. The sight of her made me shrink inside; my heart clenched like a fist. Then she lifted the platter and saw me reflected there, standing behind her.
She dropped the platter; it fell to the floor with a loud crack.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," I told her, bending to lift the platter from the ground. Her eyes were wide, her lips plump and bow-shaped. I looked away from her face, feeling suddenly angular and ugly. My fingers gripped the platter in my hand.
"I'm sorry, my lady," she said, and bowed briefly. I wondered if perhaps every woman feels this way at some time, cowering before the beauty of another woman, a younger woman. I had just turned eighteen years old, but I had long been wary of the signs of age, of change. This girl was no more than fourteen, her beauty maddeningly new and fresh, as if still discovering itself. But this wasn't only jealousy, I reminded myself: the words of the prophecy were seared upon my brain.
I asked the girl to follow me to the tower room. When we arrived, I asked her to light the fire. As the flames grew in the hearth, the room came vividly to life, just as I remembered it. My hand trembled as I poured a goblet of wine and offered it to the girl.
She smiled and took the wine gratefully. I sipped eagerly from my own goblet, still nervous.
"You have pretty hair," I told her, tugging at a lock that fell loose upon her shoulder. "Sit here and let me fix it for you."
"You needn't trouble yourself, my lady," she said, and bowed hastily.
"It's no trouble. I would like to do it. Please sit. What's your name?"
"Therese," she told me.
She sat at the dressing table and I untied her kerchief, letting long wisps of golden-brown hair fall loose upon her shoulders. I moved my hands quickly over the locks so that she could not see them trembling.
It could be so simple, I realized, though it was not at all simple. I let the servant's hair slip through my fingers like silk. Then I stepped back and placed the small wooden bowl and the silver blade on the table in the center of the room; my hand remembered the feel and weight of the blade in my palm. The servant looked at them for a moment, then stood suddenly from her chair. She looked up at me, confused.
"Don't leave," I told her. "I have only one request, and it's not as difficult as you think. All I need is a bit of your blood. Are you willing to give me that?"
