Closing the door carefully behind them, Edda’s skirts seemed to swish about her knees for a moment, caught in a sudden draft from the hallway. She paused, more startled than chilled, but the lone servant who awaited them seemed unperturbed. The patient, grey-haired woman greeted them politely as they waited for the other girls to join them.

  As it had been in Edda’s memories, the midday meal was held in a smaller dining hall, rather less formal than the ones suppers were hosted in. Wooden beams lined the ceiling, and the walls were plastered with a light floral design, complementing floors that had been tiled after more modern sensibilities. With the shutters closed against the gloom outside and the hearth crackling warmly, it might have been a cozy affair. It might have been, but it was not.

  It was not simply that Steward Lukacs was there, though that was a part of it. He did not seat himself at the table where Edda and the other girls had arranged themselves, nor did he partake of the food with them. But, with Lady Novak attending the Countess for the day’s first meal, as she usually did, he took it upon himself not only to oversee their table service, but also to engage them in polite conversation.

  But whereas Edda had found him charming and refined before, she felt nothing but unnerved in his presence now—far more so than she had with Lady Novak the night before. Each time his eyes grazed her she was reminded of her arrival a few days past, with her face and hair marred. He had recognized it; she was certain of that, now. And seated as she was today, amongst three young women who should have been nearly identical to her in appearance, she fancied that she could feel the weight of his displeasure upon her once more.

  The smiles he addressed her with did not reach his eyes, and Edda could barely taste the food she shoveled into her mouth.

  As the discussion at the table drifted toward the first ball of the season—a topic that Edda knew would reoccur in the months leading up to it—her discomfort only grew. She could remember this conversation, in some form or another. Could remember the excitement and exuberance she had felt, hearing of the grand preparations and the extensive invitations. But, as she listened to Steward Lukacs recite a few of the more notable guests they were expecting, the crow’s words seemed to echo in her mind.

  You understood, and yet you did nothing.

  She had picked up on a pattern of sorts, during her years at Cachtice Castle. And she was reminded of it now, as the Steward listed this Baron, that gentryman, and this or that vassal knight. Many of the names were familiar to her; they had attended numerous of the Countess’s feasts and balls in the last decade. But there were other names, too, that she did not hear—the names of other Counts, of Earls, and of Marquises; prominent figures who were sometimes in attendance, and other times conspicuously absent. It was a pattern she had never questioned.

  After all, it was the Countess's decision whom she chose to invite.

  She looked to Agneta for what must have been the first time that day. The sullen girl swirled her food about her plate, her spectacles balanced precariously upon her nose. She looked as she usually did—as though she would rather become one with her chair than be spoken to. It was not her plans to engage with Agneta that she thought of now, though. No, it was the fact that Agneta would find a husband among the attendees of the first ball, very suddenly and quite unexpectedly. She would be the first of them to leave Cachtice Castle.

  There was no way Edda could have known of that last time, of course. But she knew of it now, and something about it bothered her.

  Her fork clattered loudly against the plate in front of her as it slipped out of her frozen hands. Quickly, she picked it up again, offering a contrite smile to the startled faces that had turned toward her. “My apologies,” she murmured, “Please continue, Steward Lukacs.”

  “Rather infirm despite her hearty appetite,” Suzsanna commented drily, just loud enough for her words to be heard at the table. Cintia covered her mouth, stifling a gasp at the jibe, but Edda did not offer a reply. The Steward resumed, and Edda noticed that Cintia’s eyes had joined his in lingering upon her.

  Following the meal, the young women were escorted to the same parlor where Edda had met with Lady Novak on the night of the welcome feast. Lady Novak herself had yet to arrive, but the servants had already arranged the materials they would need for their afternoon embroidery practice. Finely polished, hardwood hand hoops, swaths of linen, and spools of colorful cotton thread had been neatly laid out upon the center table. A carved wooden box, its lid secured with brass fasteners, also sat amongst them; Edda knew that within, smaller accessories like fine bone needles, scissors, and metal beads would be stored.

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  Edda had always rather enjoyed embroidery, and she had become quite skilled at it over the years. It had been a point of pride for her that her designs rivalled that of real noblewomen. Today, of course, it would be an unprecedented challenge, what with her left hand swollen and splinted to the best of Marta’s ability. Nevertheless, it was a familiar activity; one which might soothe her temporarily, even if it could not stop her fear-filled thoughts entirely.

  Rather without thinking, she seated herself upon the couch she had usually occupied during these lessons. But, to her surprise, it was not Agneta who took up position beside her, as it had been in her memories, but Cintia. On the couch across from them, Suzsanna scowled as she and Agneta settled in beside each other.

  Leaning toward her, Cintia offered her a nervous smile. “Miss Belten, I—I hope you will forgive my forwardness. I have been wanting a word with you ever since—well, ever since you were ill.” Reaching behind her for a moment, she fished about in her skirts and quickly produced a small, stoppered glass bottle, just smaller than the palm of her hand. She held it out to Edda. “You see, I—well, my younger sister, as well, Karolina—also am terribly afflicted by travel. Even strong foods cause me upset sometimes. Karoly swears by a tincture of lemon balm—and I do too, of course.”

  Cintia bit her lip, pushing the small bottle toward Edda. Realizing that Cintia meant to give it to her, Edda took it, her eyes flitting from the clear oil within the bottle to the Cintia’s beaming face. She was certain that her mouth was agape with surprise. This had not happened before. “You mean me to have this?”

  “Yes!” Cintia said excitedly, “It really does wonders for nausea. Why, it drives off an aching head, as well. All you must do is put a drop upon a handkerchief and take in the vapors.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “To be honest, sometimes I’ll breath it directly from the bottle.” She giggled slightly. “When Panna isn’t looking, of course. My maid.”

  So taken aback was Edda that she almost forgot to get to her feet at Lady Novak’s arrival. Curtsying alongside the other girls, she clutched the small bottle of tincture in her hand. It was cool and solid, and somehow bolstering. As Lady Novak said her greetings and bid them sit again to begin that afternoon’s activities, Edda’s eyes were drawn to Cintia once more. The girl, with her delicately pretty face, wore a pleased smile.

  Edda did her best to offer one back, nodding quietly in acknowledgment. And Cintia’s smile grew even brighter at the exchange.

  Even though she was already hindered by her injured wrist, Edda did not release the bottle of tincture until hours later; she kept it against her palm even as she struggled to hold the embroidery hoop steady. She did not know why she did so. Perhaps Cintia’s kindness had moved her, or perhaps it was the reminder that things could be different this time. Likely, it was both. But even together with the rhythmic movement of her good hand as she poked and pulled thread through cloth, she could not evade her thoughts entirely.

  Cintia would be the second one to leave Cachtice Castle.

  Oh, she tried to think of other things. Tried to turn a blind eye, as she had always done. But it was too late now to pretend that she did not notice. Not when both she and the crow knew just how much she had seen and pretended not to see.

  Dozens of promising young women had debuted beneath the Countess's patronage. And Edda had, effectively, been the Countess. But, of the ones who had found husbands, the majority of them had done so at the kind of balls that would be hosted this summer. Opulent balls where the guest list was remarkably long, but—to the knowledgeable eye—socially limited. One and all of the invitees were of lesser nobility, often direct vassals of the late Count; the sort of folk who swarmed about a powerful woman like the Countess, eager for her favor. It would benefit them little to oppose her, even if they could find the leverage to do so. And what rumors they spread amongst themselves would likely not reach the ears of anyone influential enough to do anything about them.

  Flinching as the needle she held pressed into the pad of a finger, Edda halted her clumsy movements. Her ailing wrist had begun to ache horribly with the strain of stitching, and so she abandoned the hoop and her unfinished design upon her lap. Rolling the tincture of lemon balm against her palm, her eyes traveled from Agneta, half-heartedly at work across from her, to Cintia, eagerly absorbed beside her. She even chanced a glance at Suzsanna, who seemed rather more interested in Lady Novak’s piece than her own.

  She could not concern herself with them. She had already decided that. Maybe one of them would be groomed to take her place as Countess this time, or maybe not. Things might still unfold for them exactly as they had last time, with first Agneta, then Cintia, and finally Suzsanna departing the castle. Subverting what was in store for her did not guarantee anything would be different for them, right? Guilt threatened to well up in her throat and choke her, but she swallowed it down hard. It was not her concern, not when she had died the last time. All three of them had lived.

  Edda squeezed her eyes shut, wishing for all the world that she was actually blind.

  All three of them had lived, right?

  ...perhaps it was the reminder that things could be different this time.