For but a moment, Istvan loomed over Edda; the morning sun behind him draping his shadow upon her face. And she, standing within the darkness he cast, felt that spark of recognition flare once more. There was something to it, something to him, that she was forgetting. Still, it evaded her grasp; sputtering and fading just as soon as it had come.

  There must have been some indication of her unease upon her face, for she saw his cheeky smile turn apologetic as he stepped back—returning the sunlight to her as he put a pace between them. “That was rather forward of me,” he said, ducking his head slightly, “She looked cross, Mistress Marta did. I had thought to be helpful, not thinking of your discomfort.”

  Edda shook her head quickly, “It is not discomfort at all. I am grateful for your aide.” She offered a small smile, but it felt awkward upon her lips—premature, given the night she had endured, given the things she now knew. How strange it felt to stand in the light of this spring day, cool breeze upon her cheeks, sun rising now above the wall, when just hours past she had been in death’s very presence. She barely suppressed the memory, and the shudder that accompanied it. It was perhaps only her fatigue that kept her fear still at bay.

  “You are Miss Edda, then?” he queried, having returned now to his place between the kitchen door and the castle wall. Slowly, he curled himself back down into a crouch, folding his lanky limbs up quite compactly. He looked up at her now, as a child might at a playmate, his eyes warm and brown, and Edda found herself taken aback by his casual manner. “Mistress Marta has spoken of you.”

  “I am. And you are...?” She had heard his name, of course. But in asking again, she hoped he might introduce himself more formally, filling in some of information that she lacked about him and, in doing so, triggering her memories of how she had known him.

  Rather puzzlingly, his cheeks flushed, and he averted his eyes. “I am Istvan,” he said, clearing his throat. Edda waited for the rest; the telling of his father’s name and where he hailed from, but neither were forthcoming. Instead, after a pause, he added, “I serve as squire to Sir Szekely of Tice, in service to the House of Bathory.”

  “Ah,” Edda said, bending her knees just slightly in acknowledgment, “Master Istvan, it is, then.” Istvan simply smiled in response.

  At last, she had alighted upon a connection between Istvan and her previous life. Indeed, she had known Sir Gabor Szekely of Tice; she could remember his name, and the importance of his role, although his face might only now come to her once she saw it. He was the Castle Captain, the head of House Bathory’s guard. Undoubtedly, she had encountered Istvan during one of her numerous, though brief, meetings with the man during her years as Countess.

  Still, Istvan had hidden something of his identity from her. That could mean any number of things, but she would not dwell on it now. It was likely that he had been a passing face in the sea of many that she had met and forgotten in the decade she had lived at Cachtice Castle. Probably, it was no more than this, and it would be impolite to push the matter of his introduction if he did not wish to give it.

  Edda took a moment to move into the shade of the castle wall, some ways from where Istvan squatted, while still being within sight of the kitchens should Marta look out. From here, she had a clear view of the entire courtyard, as well as the gates; she and Istvan would be the first to see the wagons arrive. For now, though, the courtyard was still, the gates unmoved; only the muffled clatter of the kitchens spilled into it.

  Despite the din and even despite her tiredness, Edda felt conscious of the quiet between her and Istvan. It had been rare for her to spend time alone with men, rarer still to be in the company of one Istvan’s age. Perhaps it would be fine, now, to let their conversation die, to finally peruse the thoughts she knew she desperately needed to sort through. But she was not ready yet. Instead, she glanced down at him uncertainly, asking, “You often await the wagons, I take it?”

  “That I do,” Istvan replied, “Mistress Ani feeds me when I am hungry, so I help where I can.” But his smile seemed to stiffen as he spoke, and he did not look at her. Rather, his eyes drifted toward the gates. A moment passed while his eyes settled, and then he looked to her abruptly, as if just remembering she was there. “And you? What’s your business with the wagons?”

  Truthfully, Edda had not wished for her engagement with the wagons to be known by any in the castle. She had imagined herself sneaking about in Marta’s clothes yet again, making her way to the courtyard largely unseen and entirely unquestioned, passing the letter quietly to Old Soos’ boy as Gretel had instructed, and returning to her chambers with no one the wiser. But such a private exchange would no longer be possible, given that the entire kitchen of servants was aware of her presence.

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  A lie. She would have to tell a plausible lie to explain her being here; one that those who had seen her might repeat to Steward Lukacs without rousing his suspicion and one that Marta could easily corroborate. Edda wanted to rub a hand over her eyes in frustration, but she stifled the impulse. She was too weary for this, and too much had just happened. And yet, she needed to come up with something.

  “I was unwell last night,” she said carefully; the half-truth a promising premise, “Missing my sister quite dreadfully. Marta thought some fresh air would become me.” She paused, changing her tone in a way she had done so many times as Countess to give her next words an air of something close to secrecy, “Really, though, I am simply eager to receive my sister’s letter first thing.”

  Istvan grinned, the earlier distance in his eyes having dissolved into mirth. “Fair enough, Miss Edda. I am the same, really. I say that I help with the wagons, but the driver from Tice brings letters from my mother and sisters. I do what must be done to have them sooner.”

  Edda nodded; the small smile she offered Istvan meant to reassure him of her understanding. Even if he relayed her words to another, none would find it odd that she longed for her sister after having left home a fortnight ago. Between that and how sickly she had been since arriving, her story would sound believable to someone like Steward Lukacs—she hoped. But it was her next words that were the important ones, “We passed through a village on our way in. I think the letter may come by way of it.”

  Istvan perked up suddenly, his gangly limbs seeming to stabilize all at once. “That’s them,” he said, pointing a finger beyond the gates. He stood, springing to his full height once again. Edda could not help but notice his expression change, too—the boyish cheer replaced now with a kind of intensity.

  A distant rumble drew her attention from the young man, however. It took her a moment to realize that it was the sound of wooden wheels, crunching against the cobblestone road. This was followed presently by the sound of men’s shouting—greetings exchanged between guards and wagon drivers—then the creaking and groaning of the gates being opened.

  Istvan took several steps in the direction of where the wagons were now entering, before halting. He turned back to Edda, somewhat embarrassed. “I’ll take my leave now, Miss Edda,” he said with a slight bow—it seemed out of place for him, given how carefree he had been thus far. Still, she inclined her head in acknowledgment, watching as he spun on his heel to join the few guards that had now descended the wall at the wagons’ entrance.

  Edda watched the scene unfold; wooden cart after cart, their cargo concealed beneath canvas tarps, trundled forward, hauled by tired looking mules and headed by equally tired looking men. Amicable words passed between guards and drivers, and the wagons were directed into the courtyard in some predetermined order. Each wagon had its place, and as they came to standstill—some half-dozen of them—servants emerged, running from entrances all about the courtyard to assist with the animals and goods.

  It was only as they begun to unload, the previously still courtyard now in a flurry of activity, that Edda—silly, stupid Edda—realized that she did not know which wagon had come from Ecsed.

  A touch of panic gripped her. Her eyes sought Istvan first—perhaps he would know—but he was now completely oblivious to her presence, absorbed in an animated conversation with the driver of the largest wagon. That must be the one from Tice, she discerned. She almost called out to him anyway, but stayed her voice, sinking further back into the shadows in which she stood. Did she really wish to bring more attention to herself? It felt like every man in the yard would turn to look if she raised her voice. Steward Lukacs might even be among them, somewhere, overseeing the castle’s resupplying.

  She balled her hands into fists, the sharp then dull throb of her hurt wrist a constant aggravation atop the sense of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm her. No blackthorn. No sleeping powder. Mother and maiden, she would have neither, and either the blood witch or the thing that stood in the corner of her room would have her.

  Edda shut her eyes against tears, letting her back touch the stone wall behind her, but the cool solidity of it did not offer her any solace. Silly, stupid Edda had not even asked Gretel to clarify how they might be in touch or to describe to her how to identify the wagon she should expect. Silly, stupid Edda had walked back into this cursed place and would die here yet again, this time far sooner than the last.

  A soft brush against her ankle, like the passing of soft fabric against her skin, caused her breath to hitch, jarring her from the spiral of her thoughts. She opened her eyes to see Korom at her feet, those orange eyes once more trained upon her. They glowed, it seemed, almost too bright. Perhaps it was the sense of dread that had now overcome her, perhaps also the bone-deep exhaustion after hours and hours of terror, but those eyes seemed aware. Knowing, somehow.

  Edda recoiled.

  “There’s no need for that, now.”

  Edda gasped, stumbling sideways along the wall. A child had come upon her without her knowledge—close enough to touch her—a sandy-haired young boy with a round face and flat nose. His eyes appeared too far apart on his face, and they looked at her vacantly. She knew him to be simple at first glance, and yet…

  The words had come from him, she was sure of it. But they had been in Gretel’s voice.