Liber Bestiarium

by la_revacholiere

Summary:

The search for a missing loved one leads you to a remote Romanian village teeming with secrets. Armed only with your bestiary and a mysterious collection of notes, your search plunges you into darker mysteries than you could have imagined, and encounters with beings far worse than you bargained for.

Chapter 1: How to Disappear Completely

She is here. You feel it in the way the biting air nips at your hands, ears, the small parts of your skin exposed to the cold dusk. It’s almost playful, a cajoling taunt that skitters ahead on the dirt lane in front of you, beckoning forth. Day is fading fast, the sky to your west a dirty and sulphurous yellow, clouds encumbered by the storm that will surely hit before the night is done. You’ll have to get moving soon, else your only guide will be the distant light from houses and streetlamps, and something tells you it wouldn’t do to be caught walking alone in this place after dark.

Your briefcase weighs heavy in your left hand, your right tucked deep into the pocket of your coat, insufficient to stop your fingers from numbing. It is far, far colder here than in Oxford, even in the harshest depths of winter. Afforded this moment to be still, your mind becomes alive to all the twinges, all the aches; eyes stinging from the days without sleep, legs heavy and cumbersome after the lengthy hike that spelled the last stretch of your journey.

“No further,” the man in the wheezing old car had grunted, trundling to a halt on a long road lined with trees fast becoming bare. “Walk straight, you will find it.”

You had expected no less. It had taken hours to find someone in the next village willing to take you anywhere near your destination, even with a fistful of money presented to them and in your desperation, your late father’s gold watch. One man, in a beaten-up yellow car, had snatched up the watch and all but bundled you into the vehicle, and driven in uncomfortable silence for several miles before deciding he had taken you far enough.

There is something not quite real about this place. Perhaps it’s the fact you never dreamt you would make it here, after weeks of preparation for this strange and taxing journey. Perhaps it is just the lack of sleep, lending everything a hazy appearance, edges blurring and stretching in front of your bleary eyes. But the most likely source of your unease is that looming over the hollow of buildings, a black castle juts up from the ground, a sentinel rising above all. Where all else seems deadened and lifeless, it appears watchful and alert, towers rising violent and knife-like from the enormous structure. You avert your gaze, for a moment fearful that if you look too long, your feet may well carry you against your will towards it, menacing and hypnotic.

Oddly enough, the fear hasn’t quite reached the heart of you, at least for now. Exhaustion has eclipsed all feeling, and the smattering of lights before you takes on an inviting aura, prompting your legs to begin the descent in hope of finding a place to sleep and eat. With difficulty you keep your footing on the uneven and gritty path, watching your breath turn to mist in front of you. It’s about the only sound you can hear, save for the clatter of stones underneath your boots, the soft thunk of weighty books bumping in your briefcase. You’re beginning to wish you hadn’t brought quite so many, with a vague sense now that they will be of little use to you here.

The streets are narrow, and deathly quiet. Windows here and there are lit weakly from within by lamplight, and you skirt around a bleak town square, barren but for a lone statue in the centre that you can’t quite make out in the dim evening. If not for the curling smoke rising from chimneys dotted around, you would think this whole place deserted. You haven’t yet encountered a single other soul, and you begin to feel like the last person on Earth, drifting ghostlike through these claustrophobic, alley-like streets.

With considerable relief you round a corner past the square, sticking to the shadowed edges, and spot a building further along that emits more light than the rest, and the faint murmur of voices from within. It’s unmistakably an inn or guesthouse of some sort, and the thought of a hot meal and a bed propels you to the entrance, beneath a creaking and illegible sign. The place looks ill-maintained but warm, the needs of your body muscling aside your apprehension enough to push on the battered, hefty door.

A yellow glow floods out onto the street, blurring your vision momentarily until your eyes adjust. You blink a few times, and promptly realise how silly you must look, standing on the threshold and squinting into this ramshackle tavern. Several sets of eyes are trained on you, unblinking, brows low and surly. Is it because you’re letting the cold air in? With a muttered apology, you step inside fully and snap the door shut, but the glares don't cease. If anything, the annoyance in the room grows thicker now that it's clear you didn't burst through the door by mistake.

Keeping your head down, you wend your way through tables, past groups of bearded and tired-looking men, frowning into tankards of ale. The woman behind the bar is no friendlier than the rest, eyeing you with her mouth turned downwards as you approach.

“Good evening, ah, miss,” you say with forced cheeriness, after several moments of uncomfortable silence.

“Hm,” grunts the woman, looking as though she has tasted or smelled something especially nasty.

“I, erm… I need a room, and some meals, if-if that’s at all possible, please?”

“How much have you got?” she asks, in a surprisingly gruff voice for someone so small of stature. You fish inside your overcoat, and with shaking fingers produce a small but weighty bag of coins. Another grunt from the woman, evidently dissatisfied with this offering. On various parts of your person, you do have more money tucked away; in a leather pouch under your shirt, a few coins stitched into the lining of your briefcase. But you’ve no intention of pulling out more than what seems reasonable for a few nights’ stay, so you stand your ground and force yourself to stare at the woman challengingly. The room is silent but for the tiny rattling noise of coins, set off by the trembling of your hands. She glares back for a few moments, then huffs.

“Three nights. Oats for breakfast, and you get what you’re given for evening meals. You’ve come too late for dinner. Go upstairs, first on your right. The key is in the door.”

“Thank you. Much obliged.”

The room upstairs is startlingly bare, with a musty smell that you soon attribute to the cracks in the grubby window, glistening with condensation. Still, there is a bed, and a blanket which seems clean enough, after a hesitant sniff of the discoloured old fabric. Groaning, you set down your suitcase, rubbing gingerly at your sore shoulder. Hunger twinges in your stomach, but it will have to wait until morning. You don’t think it wise to badger the hostile woman downstairs for something to eat after such an icy welcome, if it could even be called a welcome at all.

Once you’re certain the door is securely locked and bolted, you dig through to the bottom of your suitcase, feeling for the small leather folio tucked beneath a hastily folded pile of clothes. Your fingers skim over the largest of the books you brought, tracing reverentially over its embossed golden letters, but you leave it be for now. More important are the contents of the folio, which you methodically spread over the bedcovers, spilling onto the nightstand covered in burn marks.

First are the notes, those you’ve pored over already until your eyes hurt, no closer to deciphering a shred of what’s written. Science never was your strong suit, but you doubt if even the professors of biology back in Oxford could make head nor tail of these scrawled write-ups. Regeneration crops up several times, references to subjects, mutations, many words you don't recognise. These don’t seem to refer to any kind of natural phenomena, at least not that you’ve heard of. Some of the handwriting is startlingly familiar, a sight that at once makes your heart leap and your stomach drop.

If you had to guess, you might say that these are records of experiments, though none that make a jot of sense, seeming almost deliberately obtuse in their descriptions. Still they manage to stir up in you a powerful unease, as though the contents are fundamentally wrong in some way, something unnatural and aberrant. You skim past the notes, more out of habit than anything, and shuffle reluctantly through to the thicker sheafs of paper beneath.

The sketches are nothing short of grotesque. Amorphous organisms, hair and claws sticking out at odd angles from what appear to be bodies, if they are indeed bodies at all. Worse still are the creatures that are at least somewhat recognisable. Somewhere between animal and man, all contorted features and teeth too large to fit in mouths. They haven't been painted or coloured, but you imagine the eyes to be a mean, wolfish yellow.

These drawings, all of them, unmistakably hers. You would recognise them by just the light strokes at the edges, her careless sweeps of pencil across the page. Never once did she erase her mistakes, and these are no different. All the imperfections, all the roughness, bared unabashedly to create disquiet and unease; in a way, perfection all of its own.

”It's much too friendly. Beasts are supposed to be scary, not cuddly,” she teased, prodding a finger at the latest entry in your bestiary, an unfinished drawing of the Black Shuck. Its puppy-like eyes beamed up from the page, sweet and soft.

“I quite like them cuddly. I like to think I could give one a cuddle, if I ever met one.”

She had laughed and laughed, shrill and uninhibited, like always. The memory of the sound makes you wince in the present, a jolt of pain that rises up through your abdomen to sit heavy in your chest. It’s an ache you've borne almost constantly these past years; familiarity does little to dull it, only makes it easier to ignore. At times like these, when you feel most alone in the world, it sticks close and steadfast; there's an odd comfort to be had, a companionship of sorts.

Your itching eyes make focusing on the papers all but impossible, so you fold them away, slide them safely back into the folio. The bed, once clear, you discover to be painfully uncomfortable, but weighed down with exhaustion, you settle gratefully. Sleep comes slowly, and brings with it a restlessness that feels like an old friend; sleeping soundly would only perturb you more, after all these years. You mustn't think about what the morning might bring, else you risk driving yourself mad.

You know she is here. A moment spent thinking too long about how fanciful that sounds, and you will surely turn tail, flee back to safety. No-one could blame you for doing so. But as you reach down once again to your open suitcase, tracing along the spine of the large, cloth-bound book, you are certain. You will find what you seek here, for better or worse.

***

Downstairs, in the light of day, you feel lighter somehow, at last fed with a bowl of watery porridge and a bitter cup of tea. Morning brings day drinkers to the inn, those who seem not to be working, or simply here to get their fix before the day begins. In this different light, the place reminds you of the more ancient pubs back home, that soothing scent of ale, smoke and old wood. More comforting still is the fact that last night's surly woman behind the bar is nowhere to be seen, replaced by a broad man with a scrubby beard. Though still wary, he eyed you with more curiosity than contempt as he handed over your breakfast, and left you to eat in silence.

The locals are too hazy with sleep or drink to pay full attention to you, tucked away at a corner table, wired and alert. The little rest you managed last night, along with the hot tea, restores life and a tenuous sense of courage to you. Furtively you sweep the room with your eyes, and once satisfied that you are mostly invisible, you move the book from your lap to the table. For a moment you linger on the cover, the lettering on the fine black cloth. Liber Bestiarium. With the last bookbinder in Oxford retired, owing to cataracts, you'd had to learn for yourself. Embossing onto soft cloth was not so easy as he had made it look, and you recall that fragile moment of pride once your project came to fruition.

”You don't think it's too much? A bit pretentious, maybe, the Latin?” you asked, turning the cover to face away from you. It had taken hours and several rolls of cloth to get the finish you wanted.

“You're reading Classics, of course it's pretentious. But it's lovely, truly. You've done a grand job, my love. Now you've got a bestiary of your very own.”

A corner of your mouth twitches, but doesn't quite make it into a smile as you flip through the pages. Each of your drawings, painstakingly finished in delicate watercolour, sits at odds with the spidery, messy annotations, hasty crossings-out. You always did enjoy the art of making entries, making signature flourishes for your ‘friendly’ imaginings of various creatures. Even the sullen Redcap takes on quite an endearing demeanour in your style, bespectacled and cheery. It is, in fact, the last entry you made long ago, followed only by a thick wad of blank pages, likely never to be filled.

“Nice book.”

The grunt at your shoulder nearly jolts you to tip from your seat, and you snap the book shut with a thud. It's the barman, come to take your mostly empty bowl of oats, which are quickly welding themselves to the ceramic. In such close quarters, you note the smell of pipe tobacco coming off him, the heat of his broad body.

“May I help you?” you ask, a little more harshly than you intended, while you fumble to return the book to your lap.

He shrugs, then nods at the cover. “It is a pretty book. Nice drawings inside. You drew them yourself?”

“Yes, they're my drawings,” you say stiffly, hoping to head off this line of enquiry. “Thank you for the tea. I'll be heading out soon, so-”

“These… things,” the man interrupts, prodding a finger at the book, which you promptly move away from his reaching hand. “Monsters. You're learned in monsters?”

His brazen curiosity makes you bristle but, at the same time, this is the closest to a friendly interaction you've had here so far. It wouldn't do any harm to return some of that inquisitiveness, with a vague hope that it might lead to some sorely needed answers.

“A little bit, yes.” You lower your voice to a whisper, and feel the man lean closer at your side, his breath hot on your ear. “You know something, do you?”

He makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a hum, which you take to be an affirmative response. You cock your head, waiting, waiting. And finally-

“I might. Why don't you come to my home this evening? We might discuss things over a glass of something stronger.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, wondering if this is such a good idea after all. This barman could be anyone, anything, could well mean more harm than good. An invitation to a stranger's home; every synapse in your brain urges you not to accept, makes you wish you were safe in your office back home, absorbed in some ancient text.

But you won't find what you seek without some risk.

“Yes, all right,” you murmur, with a distinct sensation of plunging into icy waters, on the off chance they contain treasures. “Where might I find you?”

He straightens up, evidently satisfied, and breaks into a crooked-toothed smile. Gently he turns your shoulder to face out of the grimy window, and crooks a finger at the houses across the street.

“The red door, that's mine. Ask for Cristian, and don't come too long after dark.”

With a last grunt of goodbye, he returns to the bar, where an old man waits with an empty tankard, grumbling. You try to still your reeling mind, to no avail; the unreal sense of this place seems to be absorbing into your own body, a sense of otherness. As though you merely clicked your fingers and appeared here, your journey and all that came before it begins to muddle in your mind. Focus. You mustn't sit and dwell on how you came to be here, inert and petrified. With a last glance at Cristian, who gives you the slightest of nods and the shadow of a wink, you force yourself to rise and move. Forwards, with one thought held behind your eyes, one that ignites enough boldness for you to step out into the day.

***

Legwork, it seems, was never going to be so easy. Not only physically, though it is still a stretch for your unused muscles to propel you up and down the steep cobbles. Eliciting more than a grimace or a grunt from the locals proves to be a much more difficult task than you had expected. If the welcome at the inn was frosty, then this is an all-out blizzard, most people outright ignoring you and turning their faces away. The message is clear: your presence is not only unwanted, but felt with active hostility. You had surmised that this village was not exactly an attractive destination, judging by your difficulty in finding someone to bring you here. But this unabashed disdain saps away what little courage you managed to work up, faintly and briefly bolstered by Cristian's odd brand of friendliness.

By early afternoon, you've had quite enough. Not one person will let you carry a conversation far enough for you to even hint at what you want to know. You've trudged the length and breadth of the village paths, down alleyways barely large enough to accommodate you, turned around by several dead ends. No wonder everyone is miffed, you think bitterly, forcing your feet to drag you up one last hill. This place is a rabbit warren. Even with its coating of grime and air of distrust, the inn seems like a safe haven comparatively, and you think wistfully of a pint of ale to help put this wasted day behind you.

Shielding your eyes against the weak afternoon sun, you begin to wonder if you've come the wrong way back. On top of the hill, a large and blocky shape is silhouetted, one that definitely wasn't there when you passed earlier. You slow your pace on the approach, squinting until the shape takes full form. It's a carriage with its doors flung wide open, and between those doors sits a man of the most prodigious proportions you've ever seen. You can't help your eyes from roving this bizarre sight; his bare feet swinging cheerily beneath him, waistcoat bursting at the buttons and seams. Caught up in your staring, you realise a beat too late that he has spotted you, and is grinning wildly from his perch.

“Well, hello, hello! Do come up, traveller. I won’t bite,” the man calls out, waving at you merrily with one puffy hand. He is entirely too jovial in such desolate surroundings, such a contrast that you find yourself rooted, struggling to make sense of what you're looking at. You give yourself a small shake, and scold yourself inwardly for staring so blatantly. You've left yourself no choice but to respond, so you wave back meekly, earning an even broader smile from the man. Ignoring the warning prickle that fizzes up your spine, you draw closer. Unnerved as you are, this isn't an opportunity you can afford to pass up. Tramping around the village begging for scraps of information has left you frustrated and exhausted.

“Good afternoon, sir. I was wondering if I might ask-”

“Whatever is the rush, dear woman? Rest awhile, and peruse at your leisure,” the man interrupts, watching you huff and pant. He toys with a small trinket, something shiny dug from the recesses of his cluttered wares. Why did this merchant have to situate himself at the crest of a cobbled hill? How did his meek little horse even get him up here?

“Who are you?” you ask, massaging a stitch in your side. You remain a few steps away, eyeing the small array of guns affixed to the inner door of the carriage. They likely aren’t loaded, but then again, they could very well be. Who's to say you won't walk away from this encounter riddled with bullet holes?

“A friend,” he says, with a falsely modest bow of the head. “A confidant, I hope. But most call me the Duke.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr Duke,” you smile tightly back. This merchant, for all his jocularity, triggers a faint alarm after all the hostility you've encountered thus far. It doesn't feel right. But it wouldn't do to dispense with pleasantries so early on, not when you might still come away with something to show for this encounter.

“Likewise, dear woman. You seem terribly flustered,” he notes, peering down at you, still with that sardonic look plastered on his wide, florid face. “May I recommend a calming draught?”

“I think I'd rather have an ale at the inn, thank you,” you mutter. “Might I ask what you do here, exactly?”

“Ah.” The Duke waves a lazy hand at the doors, the weapons hung there, sleeves of ammunition and strangely coloured vials. “I sell my wares, simply put, wherever they might be needed. Though I might ask the same of you, hm? You've come from very far away to be here.”

“Yes, well. I have some…enquiries I need to make,” you say, unable to hide the defeat in your voice. “It hasn't exactly been fruitful, so far.”

“Well, why ever didn't you say?” the Duke beams, exposed belly quivering, seemingly in excitement. “I imagine it has something to do with that lovely book under your arm. Might I take a look?”

Something, though you're not quite sure what, prompts you to hand over the book. The Duke takes it into his eager hands gently, as though handling some sort of precious artefact. He thumbs through the pages, making small sounds of interest or amusement while you watch, quite suddenly embarrassed.

“My, this is simply… well, it's very charming,” he murmurs to himself, closing the book and tracing one thick finger over the spine. “I see you are a fellow admirer of the strange and fantastical. You're in the right place, my dear. After all, you wouldn't be the first cryptozoologist that has passed through these parts.”

At this, your heart judders. Could it be?

“Not too long ago, in fact, the most fascinating young thing passed through here,” he continues, with a faraway look in his beady eyes. “As I understand it, she was here for reasons much like yours. How curious.”

“It's not curious,” you gasp, at last finding your voice. “It's not coincidence. I'm here for… for her.”

The Duke puts a finger to his lips, almost indulgently, and taps them thoughtfully. You're shaking, legs growing weak as your mind reels, raking over every possibility you've conjured up, and more you hadn't thought of until now.

“To the best of my knowledge, she spent some time at the castle,” he muses, absently handing the book back to you, which you clutch close to your hammering heart. “Beyond that, I'm afraid I don't know what became of her. She rarely ventured out, you see. I suppose she had no need to, not with…”

Not with what? But the Duke has trailed off, and is gazing at the sky to the west, tinged pink by the setting sun. The light casts odd shadows across his face, creating stark lines that weren’t there before.

“I'm afraid I must insist you take your leave now, dear friend,” he says softly, nodding to the rapidly darkening sky, the lengthening shadows. You turn to follow his line of sight, and indeed, night seems ready to fall any moment. Cristian will be waiting, and you recall his stark warning to arrive before dark. But you’ve too many questions for the Duke to cut this short just yet, when you might finally be getting somewhere.

Wheeling back around, you open your mouth to try and stop him for a few moments more, but where the carriage once stood, the ground is bare. You blink furiously, turning your head this way and that, but there is no trace of the Duke, no tracks from the carriage’s wheels. How? How on Earth can someone disappear like that?

With trembling fingers you rub your eyes, beginning to wonder if you merely imagined the entire interaction. But you can’t have; he took the book from your hands, mentioned her, knew who she was. And the castle, ever present, stands black and solid in your peripheral vision, seeming to stare right into you. She was in this village, in those castle walls, for God only knows what reason. Knowing this does nothing to ease the dread burrowing into your gut, quite the opposite; you’re more frightened now that it’s all so real, too real. You think of Cristian’s promise of a strong drink, and his insinuation that he might know something useful for you. With your mind still befuddled from the Duke’s cryptic words, you hope against hope that whatever you hear next won’t tip you over into madness; after less than a day here, you’re close enough as it is.

***

“You’re late. Get in,” Cristian snaps, putting a rough hand to your shoulder and all but shoving you into the darkened hallway. As he turns to lead you through a doorway, you startle as you spot a large, powerful-looking rifle slung over his back. Sensing it better not to question this, you follow into a sitting-room, where two small children look up at you with wide eyes, sitting cross-legged on a frayed carpet. Given barely a moment to greet them, you only manage to smile tightly before Cristian prods you through to the kitchen, seeming ill at ease and twitchy. His agitation seeps into you, so at odds with his demeanour at the inn that you start to regret knocking on the door at all.

“You’re late,” he huffs again, slinging the gun from his shoulder and dumping it onto the wooden table. He continues to grumble to himself as he paws through a broken cupboard, until he emerges with two glasses and a half-full bottle of dark amber liquid. Once both are full almost to the point of overflowing, you take a glass with thanks, and watch him drain his own measure in one gulp. You sniff at the liquid tentatively at first, then take a tiny sip. It’s only whiskey, though much stronger than you’ve had before, presumably from the inn, or made by Cristian himself. The taste isn’t pleasant, exactly, but the warmth of the drink is welcome in your mostly empty stomach.

“Those are your daughters?” you ask, inclining your head to the next room as Cristian knocks back another generous measure. He nods, and doesn’t elaborate further, only bores into you with too-bright eyes as you sip nervously at your drink. His gaze drifts back to your bestiary, which you instinctively hold onto a bit tighter. This new, dark mood of his unsettles you, sets your teeth on edge. You wonder if he might even speak to you at all as the silence stretches, painfully long and tense.

“What do you know of monsters?” Cristian grunts, evidently not one for preamble or small talk.

“Not all that much,” you admit, shaking your head. “I am… I was what you might call a cryptozoologist. For quite a while, but it was only ever a hobby. Nothing more.”

“Ah,” he says, showing his teeth in an expression more like a grimace than a smile. “Fairytale creatures, you mean. Silly stories, elves and fairies and gingerbread houses.”

“Well, what do you know, then?” you shoot back, finding some strength from the whiskey, and the sting of his remark. “I came here under the impression you’d have something to tell me. If I was wrong, then I’ll leave. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Wait,” he growls, as you make to rise from your seat. “Just… look around, woman. Look at the table you sit at. Tell me what you see.”

Your eyes dart around, and you begin to make sense of the words, with a deep unrest rising steadily in you. The broken cupboard door sits propped beneath a window, and there are gouges in the solid wood; it’s been all but ripped in two. Beneath your hands, the table bears similar jagged marks, marks unmistakably not of human origin. You think briefly of bears, or wolves, but Cristian preempts this somehow, and speaks up in a strained voice.

“No, no animal did this,” he says grimly, casting a large hand around the room, to the various signs of a violent, inhuman ransacking. “They came by night, two of them. I shot at the bastards, and my wife, she…”

A choked noise erupts from his throat and he passes a hand over his eyes, too late; you already saw the tears forming. He doesn't let himself fall apart, and presses on, though a vein in his thick neck pulses rapidly.

“She was shielding the girls. I ran out of bullets, one of them knocked me down. And that's when… when…” Cristian's voice wavers, then breaks altogether. His grip on his glass tightens, so much that it looks ready to shatter. “The other one got her, he fucking got her. Don't make me say any more.”

Every rational part of your mind urges you not to believe this, to dismiss it all as a fanciful tale, just a scary story. But Cristian's grief, powerful and breathtaking, fills the room; so real and profound that you can only sit dumbly, staring. He has stifled his tears, but still his eyes are rimmed with red, his mouth set into a hard line. There is no choice but to believe, because no-one in their right mind would make this up, and the physical evidence is overwhelming. The images in your mind are horrifying, blood and claws and screaming, those two girls in the next room, terrified.

“I'm so sorry,” you whisper, fighting the pressure of tears behind your own eyes.

Cristian rubs his face roughly, and takes in a shuddering breath.

“What are you here for, woman? You want monsters? I can tell you now, you damn well don't want to see them,” he barks, giving you a harsh glare.

“No, I…” you stammer, then falter. “I'm not here for them, at least not completely, but…”

“But what? Get out of this place. Whatever it is you came for isn't worth it-”

“I'm here for my wife,” you interrupt, and Cristian's face blanches. “I know she came through here. The merchant told me as much.”

He lowers himself into a chair opposite you, and numbly refills both glasses with whiskey. Your statement seems to have sapped all of the aggression from him, replaced by a shell-shocked expression tinged with horror.

“She is… missing? For how long now?”

“Three years,” you say quietly, lowering your head. “I don't know when exactly she came here, or if she's still here, but…”

“Forget it,” Cristian cuts across you, and snatches up your untouched glass for himself, which he drains dry. “If she is here, she is in pieces. You will end up the same way. Our own people are in enough danger, worse for outsiders. Forget this wife of yours.”

You push out your chair and get to your feet, dusting off your overcoat. Cristian watches warily, his mouth twisted as his eyes search your face, but you remain impassive. You tuck your bestiary back beneath your coat, and start towards the door. He says nothing more. What else is there to say? You’ve both suffered loss too profound for words, and the remnants of his are all around, still raw behind his kind brown eyes.

You pause at the kitchen door with your hand on the wood, fighting to stop your voice from breaking. “Thank you for the drink. Goodnight, Cristian.”

“Please,” he implores, but you don’t turn back to face him. You can’t. “Leave in the morning. Do not suffer like I did. You can still forget this, forget her.”

With his voice so laden with hurt, you can’t bring yourself to be angry at him. He wants to spare you from enduring loss like his, but you still have a chance, a chance to find her in this strange and hostile place. You screw your eyes shut, and hold the image of her behind them. A mess of red hair, a smattering of freckles, smile so wide that it overwhelmed her entire face. How could you possibly forget? Every detail of her is still sharp, in full focus, her lilting voice soft in your ears. You would die a thousand deaths to hear it one more time.

Cristian shifts uncomfortably behind you, squirming in the intensity of the silence. You push on the door to the sitting room, and see the girls curled up together, fast asleep on the threadbare rug. Your heart aches at the sight, for them, for Cristian. Whether he might come to be an ally or an impediment to your search, it’s clear that he means well. And you feel you owe him something to take away from this, somehow, for sharing his own pain with you so openly. So you tilt your head a little, catch his deeply lined face in your peripheral vision, and speak softly into the chilly air.

“Aideen. Her name is Aideen. And I’m going to find her.”

Notes:

thank you all so much for reading! (redoing this AN as the damn glitch deleted it lmao) super excited to share this new fic while my other multichapter is on hold - finally got out of the creative slump and this is the result! also, super thankful for the continued love & support on my other works while I've been on a lil break!

thanks again, hope you enjoyed and a belated happy 2024! <3

Chapter 2: A Thousand Little Aches

The first day - 6:48pm.

Your key wouldn't turn in the lock, hitting resistance over and over. Frowning, you fiddled with it more slowly, feeling around the inside of the lock with the old brass key. Already unlocked. Odd, considering Aideen always locked herself in, worrying that this person or that would try the door and ransack the house. A concern you shared; an old converted church would be a tempting target for thieves, after all.

“Love?” you called out, nudging the door open a crack and peering in anxiously. What if there really were burglars inside? And what of Aideen? The thought hurried off your apprehension and you shouldered into the hallway, holding your briefcase up to your chest for some makeshift protection. There was no sign of intruders, no indication that anyone had come through and caused havoc. You allowed yourself to exhale and lowered your briefcase, kicking off your shoes in the dark hallway.

“Aideen? Love, I'm home. Sorry I'm late, I had a drink with Geoff, you know what he's like…”

You trailed off as your feet carried you through the house, past doors left open, glimpses into the bathroom and kitchen. There was no answering call, no chirp of greeting as she did every evening. No smell of some experimental dish cooking, either. Into the sitting room, and still no sign of her. More often than not you would find her on the sofa when you came home, buried in some research with a cup of tea, steam curling up and fogging her glasses. You wheeled around to try the bedroom; perhaps she had gone to sleep, owing to your lateness, or that she spent the night with her nose in a book again.

When you pushed on the bedroom door and your eyes landed on what was there, or rather what wasn’t there, you froze in the doorway. The floor seemed to plummet beneath you, leaving you standing on nothing and waiting to drop through into oblivion. Drawers and cupboards flung open, contents emptied, a few garments strewn across the floor. The space where her suitcase used to be, now gaping like a wound in the wardrobe next to yours. Your wedding photograph, knocked over in its gilt frame on the bedside, turning both your broad smiles sideways.

All you could do was stand and survey the mess, the emptiness, breathless and confused. Past it all, into the spaces she occupied, mapping out the steps she must have trodden. Numbly you began to trace those steps, to pick up the detritus. Perhaps, you thought, if you put everything back together, back in order, she might yet appear in the doorway behind you. If you could only restore the space to its previous state, reality could be tipped on its head, be as it was before you entered. You could yet force normality to resume.

All the while, that echoing refrain in your mind: she can't be gone. She can't be.

***

“Hey! Open up.”

Twisting in the musty bedcovers, you groan at the pounding on the door, the harsh voice that takes you a moment to recognise.

“Coming… ugh, one moment…”

The knocking doesn't cease until you unbolt the door and wrench it open, squinting at the figure in the doorway. It's the woman who runs the inn, the one who can't seem to stand the sight of you. Why would she be knocking on the door to your room? You can only hope she hasn't come to turf you out, having decided that she does indeed hate you enough to do so.

“May I help you?” you ask, when she makes no move to declare her intentions, or speak at all. She just glares at you, fidgeting with something in her hands that makes a small jingling noise.

“Cristian sent me. You overpaid for your room, according to him. Here,” she grunts, shoving into your chest a pouch with some coins at the bottom. “Hurry down. You're about to be late for breakfast.”

“Erm… thank you,” you stammer, still hazy and barely awake. She starts to turn away, but your brain catches up at last. “Hang on. Who are you to Cristian?”

Pausing with her foot about to land on the first stair, the woman looks as though she might ignore you entirely, considering whether or not to answer. But she shifts her stance, just enough for you to see her sharp profile, the twist of her mouth.

“I'm Mira. Cristian is my brother-in-law. Any more questions?” she demands, practically spitting out the words. “No? Good. Stay out of my way, and stay away from the girls.”

She stalks away, stamping down the stairs with a surprisingly heavy gait. As you stare at the spot where she stood, still trying to wake up fully, Mira's attitude begins to make more sense. If she is Cristian's sister-in-law, then she suffered the same loss that he did, her own sister ripped to pieces by inhuman creatures. Though it seems the two of them reacted to that loss rather differently, you can hardly blame Mira for her rancour towards you. You are, after all, an interloper, a threat to the equilibrium of things. Someone who might bring yet more trouble to their doorstep. If it weren't for your own reasons for being here, you might be tempted to feel bad for the upset you've managed to cause already. But you can't afford to think that way, not if you're to have any chance of finding Aideen.

Downstairs, Mira all but slams your breakfast down in front of you without a word, but you're too queasy to eat more than a couple of bites, or to take her antagonism to heart. Much as you'll most probably need your strength, your trepidation far outweighs your hunger. Back and forth you’ve oscillated through the night and morning, wondering if it's the right time to try the castle for any leads. The Duke had said nothing of substance about the place, but he didn't need to. The darkness that pervades this village, the fearful whispers; you're quite sure that the castle, or whatever denizens deign to call it home, are in part responsible.

Might you find Aideen there? The idea is as terrifying as it is exciting. In all your hard-headed fervour to find her, you've pushed aside one glaring, worrisome prospect. She may not be the same woman you last saw three years ago. After barely two days here, you already feel fundamentally changed at your very core, in your DNA. Who is to say Aideen will be anything close to how you remember her, if she will want to see you at all? You've clung onto the idea that this is some kind of chivalrous rescue mission, but that likelihood has frayed with each moment you've spent here. Much as there has to be a reason she came in the first place, equally there must be a reason she stayed. By force, perhaps? All this time, it's been the only theory you allowed yourself to entertain, because the alternative scares you to death. Did she want to leave? Was this life with you not enough?

She had seemed happy enough, but then again, when could you ever tell with Aideen? So often absorbed in her own world, sometimes unreachable, taken by moods that could bring the rafters down. But at the end of each day, whether good or bad, she would curl up beside you in bed and give a small, knowing smile that communicated so much more. I'm sorry. I love you. I'm glad you're here. A thousand little aches lived inside her, in a realm you couldn't quite see into. But the love, always the love, always there.

And so for her to be here, gone for three years, seemingly spirited away from you by something or someone; there must be something more beneath it all. Her flighty nature and inquisitiveness often took her on spur-of-the-moment adventures, but never once had she left without word or indication of how long she would be gone. This, you know, is different. If she is here, alive, you'll bring her home, no matter the state you find her in. Only then will your own aches subside, the wound patched up so you might finally know peace again.

***

Out in the village you wander, dithering and putting off the inevitable. Faced with the castle in daylight, knowing that's where you must go, you begin to lose your nerve. You've traipsed around with the vague notion that you might happen upon the Duke and continue your earlier conversation, but you've seen neither hide nor hair of him or his carriage. A familiar face might have served to settle you, a face that doesn’t contort with disdain when it sees you. It's a peculiar type of loneliness in this place, not the usual gnawing emptiness you've grown accustomed to. Here, you're simultaneously ghostlike and too real to ignore entirely, resulting in a bizarre sensation of being known and unknown all at once. For now, this suits you. If you could, by some miracle, snatch Aideen up and make a quick exit, slip away unnoticed, you've half a chance of making it out of here with mind and body intact.

This fanciful wish emboldens you to begin the ascent through the village, even with all the instinctual parts of your brain screaming at you to do anything but. The route, it seems, is fairly simple, worryingly so. You merely follow your eyes, fixed firmly on the castle, and the path leads you there. It's too easy. You had dimly expected a more winding trek, dead ends and obstructions, but no. The way ahead is clear, mercifully devoid of other people, the cawing of crows circling overhead your only company. It almost sounds as though they're laughing at you, taunting; it's a trap, they might say, if they could, aren’t you a stupid little mouse for walking right into it?

Upwards you climb, with nothing more interesting to focus on than the path in front. Dead and dying trees flank the road, the wizened fingers of their branches reaching out to try and brush your sides. Low stone walls topped with sharp spikes hem you in on either side, making any deviation from the route impossible, as though your surroundings themselves are shepherding you to your destination. The complaints of your limbs are easier ignored this time round, and though they burn and ache, the quiet solitude of the uphill walk is almost enough to make you forget what you're ascending towards. Almost, but not quite. You draw closer to the structure, its shape becoming indiscernible in this proximity. Daylight does nothing to diminish its menace, its gravity, no; it's all the more terrifying with the sun throwing into relief its dramatic and demanding presence. It drinks life from the atmosphere around it, and you imagine it swelling, bloated like a tick grown fat with blood.

Somewhere between relief and deflation, you see that the portcullis ahead, set into ornately carved and worn stone, is staunchly shut against your approach. You cast your eyes around, half-heartedly looking for a way in that doesn't involve breaking your neck, wondering if it might just be better, after all, to heed your instincts and steer clear. But, as it happens, you will neither need to turn tail nor risk your life breaking and entering. Just as you muse on the possibility of returning to the inn empty-handed, the portcullis begins to rise with an almighty creak and groan. You make no effort to conceal yourself from whomever opened the gate, because behind the terrible squeaking, there is the unmistakable sound of gentle hooves meeting the ground in a steady rhythm.

“Is that you, dear friend?”

The Duke’s voice echoes strangely as his carriage clears the archway with barely an inch of room for it to squeeze through. His tired little horse huffs dejectedly at you, pulling until the Duke tweaks the reins, when he is level with you. He beams and reaches a hand down to you, which you take after a moment’s consideration, and give a hesitant smile of your own. You are starting to feel like an old friend, in an odd way.

“Hello, Mr Duke. Your trading takes you up this way?”

He sighs, one of staged world-weariness. “My trading takes me wherever I am needed. Regrettably, however, the Lady of the house seems disinclined to take visitors today. Such a pity, it really is.”

In his eyes there is the shadow of a joke untold, something you'll have to coax out of him. Your curiosity is piqued, for this Lady and her castle, so you put on a front of your own.

“The Lady of the house? Disinclined to see you?” you say, with as much innocence and sincerity as you can muster. “I find that hard to believe, sir.”

The Duke squirms with delight at the flattery, the grin of a happy infant spreading across his face. He sees right through you, but he's enjoying this nonetheless.

“Yes, well. The lovely countess finds herself taken by certain moods, every so often, and won't nudge the door open even a smidge for this poor merchant,” he laments, casting falsely sad eyes around at his wares, his feeble horse.

“That is a shame, as it happens,” you say, sneaking glances at the portcullis, which yet remains open for now. “I was rather hoping to visit the castle, and the… Lady myself. But if, as you say, she's taken by a mood…”

“Bah! Worry not, dear girl.” He waves a theatrical hand, exuberant and cheery once more. “She will be most pleased to entertain you, I'm sure. Yes, quite. The Lady would be most… accommodating to a lovely young thing such as yourself.”

He says the words lightly, yet there is something beneath them that gives you pause, a quite sudden cold rush that seeps through to your bones, as though you were wearing sodden wet clothes. What manner of woman calls this castle home? Do you even want to find out?

“Although…” the Duke continues, paying no mind to your rapidly paling face. “You may wish to, ahem, prepare yourself to visit the countess, you understand. Charming woman, utterly charming. But, ah… how can I best put it…”

“But?” you ask, trying not to grit your teeth or glare at the Duke too stonily. For all that his flourishing would be quite amusing any other day, his dancing around the point only serves to spike your agitation.

“I recommend, dear girl, that you arm yourself, simply put. Now, now,” he adds quickly, as you open your mouth to speak, or shout; you're not sure which. “That is not to say you will befall any danger. Merely a precaution, you see. Perhaps a nice little handgun such as this?”

You flinch as he produces the firearm, recoiling away from it. He’s completely demented. A gun? You've never come into such close contact with a weapon like this before, let alone wielded one. Nor do you intend to, danger or not; you doubt you could even point the thing straight, if it came to it.

“No, thank you,” you say as calmly as you can, fighting a surge of revulsion as you watch him toy lovingly with the cold metal. But he has, perhaps deliberately, given you cause for concern; might you actually need a weapon, just in case? The Duke watches you grapple with your thoughts, a disturbingly innocent smile playing around his mouth.

“Alright, erm… I'll take a… God, I don't know. A knife?”

“Excellent!” he booms, startling you. “I have just the thing. A blade fit for an adventurer such as yourself. At a respectable discount, of course, between friends.”

He exchanges a rather ordinary hunting knife for a few of your coins, and you feel somewhat better for holding the plain but well-made blade in its leather sheath. You have no idea if you've been fleeced in this transaction. The Duke is, after all, a merchant vying for money.

“Now then,” he smiles, rattling the coins in one hand. “You'd best get through that gate before it shuts, don't you think?”

You whip around to look and, indeed, the portcullis has begun to inch downwards, albeit slowly. With a garbled yelp that serves as a farewell to the Duke, you dart forwards and duck under the gate before it can drop too low. And when it does close, you're struck with an awful feeling of having gone too far, enclosed in this dark little archway. Forwards is the only direction available to you. Before you do move on, you glance over your shoulder; as you expected, the Duke and his carriage have once again disappeared in that otherworldly fashion. You feel for the hunting knife, now tucked into an inner pocket of your overcoat, and after a steadying inhale, step out of the archway.

The whole thing is startlingly, almost amusingly antiquated. This castle must have been an impressive fortress in its day, battlements and towers set challengingly against the sky. It is dizzyingly huge, a series of interconnected wings and smaller structures; you wonder how long you could wander its halls without stumbling across another soul. Up close, your trepidation has ebbed, only slightly, to be tinged by intrigue for this place, its presumably rich history and, of course, its occupants. It is, by all accounts, a remarkable piece of architecture, both functional and beautiful. Directly ahead lies a set of doors, intricately carved and extravagant, seeming to serve as a main entrance.

There’s nothing for it but to try the obvious, and knock. You approach the door and rap it firmly with your knuckles, as though for all the world that this is an ordinary thing to do, to be calling in on an apparently ill-tempered countess in her castle. You hold the thought close as you wait, and wait, straining your ears. No footsteps on the other side, no answering call. You try again, pounding on the wood with more force. To be sure, you knock and wait twice more, before concluding that you're in much the same situation as the Duke was, standing forlorn on the threshold with no response.

Determined to not let this deter you, you begin to walk along the outer castle wall. It may take an age to walk the entire perimeter, but you reason that somewhere along the way, there will have to be another entrance, as all castles have. If nothing else, perhaps this examination will give you some indication of who, or what, lives within these walls. As you pass each window, you squint and try to make out anything inside, but greeted only by dim rooms and silhouetted furniture, you soon give up looking for signs of life.

An hour of this, of trying doors and testing windows to see if any were left ajar, and you've had quite enough. Short of breaking a window or trying to kick down a door, there is no way for you to get inside. Every possible way in is locked tight against you, seeming even more reluctant to grant you entrance the more you try. You imagine yourself to be a fly, hurling your body at a closed window over and over, eventually growing weak from the effort. The burning in your legs is near unbearable, so you pause at a sheltered side entrance, intending to catch your breath.

You lean up against the worn wooden door, closing your eyes. Blood rushes back and forth in your ears, your breathing coming out in shallow pants. Beneath the exhaustion your frustration mounts, having walked right into a dead end with no other options, nowhere else to look. As you wrack your brains for some other route, another tactic, there is a tiny click from somewhere behind you, and barely a heartbeat later, you topple backwards. The door, a moment ago solid and immovable at your back, has somehow been unlocked, and you tumble through it as it swings inward.

“Ah!”

You connect with a cold stone floor, right onto your backside. The fall wasn't particularly long or hard, but you're winded from the shock, shaking as you scramble to your feet. A suffocating cloud of dust, brought up by your collision with the ground, catches in your throat and clings to your clothes. You wave a hand in front of your face, trying to clear the air and get a better view of your surroundings. As the dust settles and floats back down, you make out shapes of long-abandoned furnishings, vases and broken statues. This room, you conclude, must have been untouched for months or even years to end up in this state.

It can only be a storeroom of sorts; though surely interesting, its contents aren't what you came to see, so you press on. With the light from the open doorway illuminating the space, you spot an inner door at the far end and mercifully, it is unlocked. Into another chamber, this one totally bare of any furnishings, though still blanketed by dust. As you move from room to room, you think it odd that there isn't so much as a footprint on the stone floor, no indication that anyone or anything lives here. Was the Duke lying, or joking, or both? Does any such countess reside here at all? You begin to feel stupid for buying the knife, buying into his flamboyant words; he has directed you right into an abandoned castle, and taken your money to boot.

Disgruntled, you turn on your heel and march back the way you came, intending to find the Duke, his poxy little carriage, and give him an earful. Finding the way back out is simple enough, following your own footprints to retrace the route. As you near the storeroom that you first toppled into, something prickles up the back of your neck. A perverse sensation that you are not alone, even worse; that you are being watched.

You force your breathing to slow, knowing that it must be your mind playing tricks in the gloom and the silence. Calmly you reach the door to the storeroom and turn the handle. It doesn't budge, perhaps caught at the hinges or something on the ground. You give it a harder, experimental shove; nothing. It's stuck fast, and by the moment it becomes more difficult to quash your brimming panic. And still, that sickening feeling of eyes on your back, of another life existing in this space with you where none ought to be.

Just as you struggled to find a way in, now your thoughts turn to finding a way out of here; there must be another exit. Back through the warren of rooms you tread, much more quickly than you did earlier, thinking weakly that you might be able to shake off the presence if only you move fast enough. Beneath your own footfalls and the ragged sounds of your breathing, another sound begins to emerge. Much like a vibration, but higher in pitch and, by the moment - getting closer.

Only a second too late do you realise that the noise is organic in origin. As you break into a half-jog doused in panic, the buzzing whizzes right up to your ear, the delicate skin just below, and a sharp sting follows. Gasping, you raise your hand to your neck; hot, slippery blood oozes from the puncture. You begin to run blindly and as you do, the buzzing amplifies, seeming to come from several sources at once, each one intent on savaging the exposed parts of your skin.

As the assault continues, you reach into your coat and pull out the Duke's knife, and begin to swing madly, uselessly at the swarm of insects, hardly visible through the tears welling up in your eyes. They are disturbingly sentient, attacking with clear intent and - surely not - shepherding you in a specific direction, one of their choosing. The swarm is concentrated at your back and sides, making any backwards movement impossible. You have no choice but to move the way they want you to, enduring each sting and running through doorways with no idea where you are being taken. Your knife hangs limp at your side; it's no good for fending off a horde of hundreds of insects.

All you can do is keep staggering through corridor after corridor, until you burst through a set of doors and, just as rapidly as it came on, the attack stops. The swarm disperses away from you, then begins to close in on itself a short distance away as you stand frozen, caught in equal measures of horror and pain. You're transfixed, hypnotised as the insects dance around one another in a prescribed pattern, forming a shape that solidifies as you watch. You blink, keeping your eyes shut a moment longer than you normally would. And when you open them, something truly impossible is staring back at you.

A woman has materialised from the mess of insects, and you know this to be true, because a few stragglers from the cloud are yet to join her body. Fear coils up in your chest, but it is strangely muted, as though felt by someone else entirely. You take in the sight mechanically, piece by piece. She is tall, easily more than six feet, cloaked in a black robe that flutters around her in the absence of a breeze, hypnotic. Dark brown hair falls from beneath her hood, framing a face that is undoubtedly beautiful, but your eyes are drawn solely to the crimson stains that paint her lower face. Blood, lots of it, streaking outwards from a mouth coated thickly with black lipstick.

“Are you not going to run?” she asks, almost conversational. You shake your head, numb, and she sighs. Something in the sound of her exhale, her sick little smile, snaps your mind back into place, and your terror rushes back in tenfold. You start to inch sideways, towards the door you just came through, and a throaty cackle splits the air.

She is on you before you can blink or breathe. Inhumanly fast, she barricades your body against the wall with her own, forcing all the air from your lungs. Unable to even scream, you emit pathetic little whimpers, thrashing with all your might against the woman's hold, but she is as strong as she is quick. And still she laughs, her breath hot and sickly sweet on your skin.

“Please-” you start to choke out, but she has no intention of hearing your pleas. With one arm across your chest she immobilises your flailing arms, and her other hand flies up to your throat, holding something that glints in the low light. You feel the cold bite of metal against your neck, your heart fluttering like that of a bird beneath the press of the blade.

“So,” she whispers, her face mere millimetres from yours. “What will it be? What shall we do with you?”

You kick at her legs, hoping to knock her off balance somehow, but the strike of your steel-capped boots on her shins seems to have no effect at all, except to enrage her. Lips curling, she snarls; an evil, low sound in her throat, more animal than human.

“That wasn't very nice,” she spits, and tightens her grip on the curved blade, enough that your skin gives way beneath it. She's drawn blood. “I was going to make it quick, but you've been so awfully rude. Cutting your throat would be too nice. Maybe I'll string your guts out of you, make you watch-”

“Cassandra!”

In that split second in which the woman - Cassandra - reacts to the shout, you're granted scarcely a centimetre of room to breathe without fear of cutting your neck deeper still. She turns her head and adopts a cold, measured tone. Her iron-grip on you does not relent and, obscured by her hair and hood, you're unable to see the owner of the voice that called out. Even without a glimpse of its source, you feel oddly and acutely moved; the timbre of it, a gravity that seems to come up from the Earth itself, stuns you into stillness.

“Mother, I caught a mouse scuttling around the abandoned wing. I was just dealing with it.”

“Show it to me.”

Cassandra lowers her blade, hissing out through her teeth as she does. You see that the implement is a sickle, wet with your blood along its edge, and the sight makes you feel distantly ill. She grabs you by the back of the neck roughly and draws your face in close, until her lips are just brushing your ear.

“Be good, now,” she murmurs. “Mother doesn't like vermin.”

She tosses you with a mere flick of her wrist, so that you land on your knees, smarting as they hit the marble floor with an audible smack. Now free from her grasp, you take in your surroundings for the briefest of moments, a foyer of breathtaking grandeur. Dark wood fittings catch the light of the largest chandelier you've ever seen, golden and crystalline. The fireplace, too, glows with the heat of burning logs, a pair of polished suits of armour standing erect and stolid beside it. Your eyes slide past it all, drawn to the curving staircase as though on a string, and halfway down those stairs, something remarkable and horrifying stands. The blood still beading at your neck, like a string of stained pearls, seems to freeze as it oozes out of you.

The countess, you think, come to kill the poor mouse.

Except she looks like no woman you have ever seen, not one of this world. Nor does she look like any beast you know of, in your bestiary or otherwise. No, she is somewhere between the two; existing in a space that no creature ought to, on the periphery of what is right and true. In form and features, undeniably beautiful and feminine. She has the haughty look of aristocracy; a proud jaw, high, arched eyebrows. But she is perhaps twice the height that she should be, unnaturally and unfathomably tall. One of her gloved hands could enclose your skull in its entirety and crush it as easily as she might crush a beetle. You sense in her a dizzying strength, one that could sever flesh and bone with a twitch of a finger.

She smirks down at you, seeming to revel in the way your eyes deconstruct her magnitude piece by piece. Absurdly your mind drifts back to your bestiary, locked in your room at the inn, how you might sketch this woman, this creature if only you had the tools. Now would be the perfect time. She is eerily still but for the flicker of her eyes, by God, those eyes; golden and erudite, equal parts amusement and curiosity dancing behind them. She is deconstructing you, too, with a little smile pulling at her painted red lips. One giant hand moves to tuck a wisp of curling black hair back into its careful arrangement. Your eyes follow its path, mesmerised, like a puppet on the strings of this potent, vast being.

And as you watch, and are watched, three awful truths hit you at the same time.

These are not the monsters of fantasy; they are very real, and they are poised to tear you apart.

They will not grant you the mercy of killing you quickly.

You will die before you get to Aideen.

Notes:

thanks as always for reading! this chapter took a hot minute to get right, with some trial and error, but finally came together to a point I was happy to share! really hope you enjoyed and as always feel free to share any thoughts! <3

Chapter 3: Threads

The countess smiles down at you from her great height, and you wait to die. But she draws in a breath to speak, and you now know a fourth truth: that she intends to play with her food.

Her voice rumbles up from her chest, a note of indulgence thorned between threat and amusement. “My, what a curious little thing. Well done, daughter.”

Cassandra gives a theatrical curtsy, a nasty grin spread over her bloodstained face. In the silence that follows, you hear everything. The pounding of your heart, your rapid breathing, the faint rustle of the countess’ heavy white gown. Let these be the final sounds, you think. Let death come and go without further taunting; let it be dignified.

“Mother,” Cassandra whines, distant and warped, as though heard from underwater. “Let me kill it, please.”

You find yourself nodding solemnly along with her, praying that these creatures have mercy enough to grant you a swift end.

“Now, now,” the countess chides, and descends the final few stairs with an exaggerated sway of her hips. “It might yet fight back. Why don't we give it a chance, hm?”

Play along. Yes; that's it. Keep them occupied so that you might, by some miracle, find a way out of this. You lift your eyes to meet the countess’ gaze, and as you do, raise the Duke's knife defensively. It's a wonder you kept hold of it through all of this. Cassandra laughs, high and pealing, and the countess’ chest quivers with barely contained mirth.

“Oh, how darling. Such a big fang for a little mouse,” she mocks, eyeing the knife in your trembling hand.

She flicks her wrist outwards, and from her fingertips emerge five blade-like claws, bursting out through the leather of her gloves. Your head swims, and the knife clatters to the floor. What use is it now? What use is anything, at this point? You sink back onto your heels and watch those fine claws catch the light, picturing how easily they could tear through the soft flesh of your throat. You imagine yourself awash with blood. There is nothing left but to beg, to appeal to the faint glimmer of humanity you recognise in the countess’ eyes.

“Just do it, please,” you whisper, supplicating before this cruel and beautiful being. “Don't make a game of this. That’s all I ask.”

“Oh? Did you hear that, Cassandra? It speaks,” the countess remarks, and her claws retract, through the torn leather and back into her fingers. You think dimly that it must hurt in some way, unsheathing such long, curved blades from one's hands.

“It wants to be killed. I say we kill it now,” Cassandra sniffs, evidently grown weary of the diversion. “Before Bela and Daniela catch a whiff and stick their noses-”

“Enough! Either calm yourself, or have no part in this,” the countess snaps, and for the first time you catch a glimpse of anger, enough to chill the air in your lungs. With only two strides she closes the distance, remarkably graceful for one so great of stature.

“On your feet now, little mouse.”

Again, that feeling of being puppeteered as you scramble to your feet, shaking on legs scarcely strong enough to keep you upright. This appears to please the countess; one eyebrow lifts, and her smirk returns. Pliant under the intensity of her gaze, you do not move, do not speak.

“Good. Very good,” she hums, seeming to revel in the trance she has you in. “Now, what might you be doing in my castle, hm? Lost, were we?”

Your mouth and throat have grown too dry to form words, and more than that, you find yourself unwilling to entertain this sick little game any longer. Perhaps if you stay quiet, she will grow bored, or angry, and kill you in a fit of rage.

“This won't do. I'm not accustomed to being made to ask twice,” the countess says, an edge of danger creeping into her voice. “But I will give you one more chance before I let dear Cassandra have her way. And know this: she will not dispense of you quickly. So, I ask again: were you lost?”

You clear your throat, forcing your tongue to unstick from the roof of your mouth. “No, not lost. I came in hopes of speaking with you, my Lady. I happened across a door that was unlocked. I can only apologise for my intrusion.”

“At last, some manners,” she mutters, half to herself. “Perhaps I could be swayed to overlook such impertinence, if you tell me why you wish to speak with me.”

At this, your mind goes blank. Mentally you try to wade through the fog of the last few hours, made difficult by Cassandra's hungry eyes boring into the side of your head, and the sting of her bites littering your skin. Slowly you find the words, feeling them out carefully so as not to snap the fraying threads of this situation.

“I…I'm looking for someone, my Lady,” you say in a small voice, only too aware of how stupid you must sound. But the countess bids you continue with a nod, so you do. “It's my wife, you see. She disappeared three years ago now, and all signs point to her being here, in this village.”

“And you presume that I know something about this wife of yours?” she asks sharply; you wince, remembering the length of those claws, the size of the hands that contain them.

“It-it was the merchant,” you stammer. “He suggested that she might have spent some time here, and…and that I should speak with you about it.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Cassandra begin to twitch, her body poised to lunge at any moment. The threads are snapping. You carry on babbling, each word more frantic than the last.

“She was a cryptozoologist. I think she came to see the, erm…” you falter as you gesture vaguely around, realising the implication of your words. You've likely earned yourself an even more painful end by insinuating that these two are, in fact, monsters. As true as it might be, you know the insult will not be taken lightly. You breathe deeply and keep your head up, refusing to look away from the countess. If this is how you die, you will do so proudly, presenting your throat to Cassandra's sickle, or the countess’ claws.

But neither comes. You watch the countess, and she watches you. At first her expression seems devoid of emotion, but something flits across her face in the wake of your words, something you can't quite make sense of. You're still braced for death, and Cassandra has begun to tread towards you, slow and catlike.

The countess holds up a giant hand, and speaks in a low murmur.

“You are lucky, little mouse. You may leave this place alive, on this occasion.”

Cassandra halts her stalking, and you almost fall back to your knees again.

“What?!” the both of you yelp simultaneously. You whip around to look at her and she stares back incredulously, shock widening her eyes in an expression that mirrors your own. It's an odd moment, one in which you both want the same thing. No; not that you want it, exactly, but you saw something in the countess’ face, before it turned set and cold. What was it? Fear? Is such a creature capable of fear?

“My Lady, please, if you know something-”

“Are you a fool? Because you certainly don't look it,” the countess snaps, and you shrink backwards. “If you would prefer to stay, I have two more daughters who would love nothing more than to wet their mouths with your blood. If that is your wish, then by all means, stay put.”

You stand there, paralysed halfway between your self-preservation, and your desperation to know more. Between life and death. This countess, this castle; there's a link here, one that leads right to Aideen. And beneath it all, you fight with a burgeoning fascination for the countess, straining against some strange gravitational pull. She begins to bear down on you, bending at the waist inch by inch - you're losing your chance to flee.

Just when it seems you might stay rooted and accept death, Cassandra's laugh pierces the air again, and the spell is broken. You turn on your heel, bend quickly to snatch up the knife, and run without looking back.

Unseeing, you tear through corridors and down staircases, a different route than the one by which you entered. Adrenaline propels you at a speed that would surely be impossible without the threat of being murdered. You startle when you pass a knot of young women, clothed in the black and white of maid's uniforms. For there to be human life in this place of death seems almost unbelievable; they scarcely seem real, even as they gasp at the sight of you.

There is a set of doors you recognise, even from the inside. It's the main door you knocked on to no avail, before this nightmare began. You skid to a halt and shoulder through it, almost weeping with relief at having found it unlocked.

Out in the blinding light of day, you gulp down the air of the outside world; a reminder that, against all odds, you are alive. But you do not pause to take it in. You run, and don’t stop running.

***

“Gods above, woman!”

Cristian's voice barely penetrates the thudding of your pulse around your ears. Darkness seeps into the edges of your vision, and you can taste blood. You’ve staggered into the inn, though you've no idea how you ran all this way without pause, and little memory of doing so. A bulky shape swims up in front of your eyes, and strong hands grasp you by the shoulders before you go under.

“...mad. Completely mad, Mira. Scared the men half to death.”

You stir, the murmur of conversation bringing you out sluggishly from sleep. Overcome with an unpleasant heaviness in your limbs, you lie still and listen.

“I don't want her here. She's bad news, Cristian. You deal with her,” Mira whispers in a low hiss, and her footsteps begin to recede. “I'm washing my hands of this.”

Cristian sighs from somewhere at your side as the door clicks shut. It's a great effort to force your eyes open, but you're grateful that your surroundings are dim; it seems to be nighttime. A moment later, you register that this is your room at the inn, and that Cristian must have carried you upstairs and deposited you on the bed. More than that, he has applied some kind of cool salve to the cuts on your neck and hands, where the insect bites are most concentrated. In your groggy state, you're not quite sure how to feel about this show of caring.

“Awake, are we?” Cristian huffs, and you shift your eyes reluctantly. He has pulled up a stool at your bedside and sits hunched, glaring down at you. “Mira wants you out. I have to say, I'm starting to agree with her.”

“That's all well and good,” you groan, and push yourself into a semi-upright position. “I don't blame either of you. But I'd appreciate some time to recover before you turf me out.”

Cristian heaves himself up from the stool, and moves over to the cracked window. He gazes out of it for several moments before speaking again.

“I didn't say I was going to kick you out. I just hope…you will leave by your own decision. Now that you know what we deal with here,” he says, throwing a look over his shoulder to where you lie, weak and prone. You know you must look a sorry state, but you daren't seek out a mirror to confirm this.

“Don't worry, Cristian. I won't be going back to that castle. I barely got out alive.”

Even in the scarce light, you see the colour drain from his face. He makes several choked noises in his throat, seemingly trying to speak. After gulping a few times, he turns back to you, his face white and crumpled.

“Please tell me you did not go there,” he wheezes, one hand grasping at the front of his shirt. “Castle Dimitrescu? Are you insane, woman?”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, some of your daze lifting as you watch Cristian fight against his panic. “So that's her name, is it? Lady Dimitrescu?”

He groans and starts to pace around the tiny room, the space barely large enough for him to take two steps before he has to turn and start again. You find yourself largely unaffected by this display of emotion, not least because of your narrow brush with death mere hours ago.

“Cristian, it's alright. I'm here, aren't I?” you say, trying for a gentle and coaxing tone. It rankles slightly that you're having to calm him down, considering what you just went through. “I didn't die back there. Mind you, I still have no clue where my wife is, so…”

Muttering to himself, he continues his halting steps across the creaking floorboards. You wish he'd stop; it's making you dizzy trying to follow his movements.

“You heard me last night. Looking for this wife of yours, you're chasing a ghost. Leave before you get yourself killed.” He rounds on you, panic giving way to anger. “By the looks of it, it won't be long before you do.”

“Chasing a ghost, am I?” you ask hollowly, your own irritation rising up amidst the pain and exhaustion. “Look at me and tell me you wouldn't do the same for your wife, if she was still here.”

Cristian emits an odd sort of snarling noise, and balls his calloused hands into fists; caught up in your own agitation, you've gone too far. You swing your weak legs off the bed and cast your eyes around the room. The knife. It's just there, on the bedside. You don’t reach for it - you're more concerned that Cristian will, if you push him any further.

“Don't you dare speak of my wife. You know nothing,” he spits. “Maybe she just left you, did you ever think of that? And here you are, pining after her like a lost little dog.”

At this, you can’t help but laugh, short and humourless. Cristian watches, breathing hard as you shuffle sidelong over to the bedside, and begin to rummage feverishly in the drawer. You flick through sheafs of paper, grabbing certain pages here and there, and push yourself to your feet. You shake and almost stumble as you take a step towards Cristian, and thrust the papers into his chest.

“Go on, look at them. Try and tell me that I'm chasing ghosts,” you pant, winded from the exertion. Cristian's fury seems to ebb away as he looks down at you, your flushed and twitching face. Slowly he lowers his gaze to the sheets, turning them over in his trembling hands. It's a small bundle of Aideen's drawings, some of indescribable creatures, others of rushed landscapes and buildings. His face continues to pale as he takes it all in, looking as though he might be sick.

“Here,” you whisper, denting your finger into one page as Cristian moves to flick past it. “This is how I knew. It took me weeks to figure it out. It's like she set a trail for me to get here.”

His fingers skim over the drawing, the landscape that's all too familiar to you now. The village below, and the castle dominating the page above, stark and silhouetted in charcoal. You recall the endless hours spent flitting between computer screen and books, fervent in your desperation to find this place, determined that it was real. And at last, when you were a heartbeat from giving up, something stirred in the back of your mind. Like a last little wink from Aideen. Drawn to one of her workbooks, you had peered into the margins, annotations detailing some Romanian cryptids and legends. The underlined scrawl beneath, excitable as Aideen's own voice: must go here!

Cristian shakes his head and exhales heavily through his nose.

“This…this is too much. Your wife is as mad as you,” he breathes, shoving the papers roughly back at you, as though tainted in some way. “I'll have no part in this.”

He leaves you in the middle of the room, swaying where you stand. You clutch the drawings close and your lips move silently, forming words that aren't there. Long after Cristian's footsteps fade away, you stay rooted and numb, until your fatigue wins out and you sink back onto the bed. Your wounds pulse in the darkness, demanding that you rest so that they might knit themselves back together. Quietly you slip back into sleep, though not a restful one.

***

The library’s silence, broken only by the scratching of your pen, buffered you in a quiet and comfortable cocoon. Alone in the old and cavernous chamber, you worked through the exhaustion that came and went in waves, alleviated only briefly by cup after cup of black coffee. Moonlight crept in through the high, arched window, illuminating your workspace and melding with soft yellow lamplight.

“Psst, hey!”

You squeezed your eyes shut against the interruption, not pausing in your writing to look up or acknowledge the lurker. You had sensed them entering, but wrapped up in your work, paid little mind to their muffled footfalls approaching as they wound around bookshelves.

“Busy bee, eh?” Geoff chirped, dropping himself into a chair opposite yours at the desk. Carelessly he brushed aside some of your papers to rest his elbows on the worn oak.

“Don’t move my things, Geoff,” you muttered, not taking your eyes off the page in front of you. “And yes, I'm busy. You should be watching the gate.”

As porter, Geoff's duties included receiving visitors, interviewees, but most importantly keeping an eye on the students of the College, their comings and goings.

“It’s reading week. Everyone's gone back home. You know, taking a break,” he said pointedly, casting his eyes around the deserted library. “Except for you, of course.”

“I've a dissertation to finish. More fool them when they come begging for extensions because they didn't use reading week to read.”

Geoff shuffled awkwardly in his seat. Not knowing how to respond to your unusual show of coldness, he changed tack hurriedly.

“You should come for a drink, you know. Got some good stuff to show you, more sightings. Remember I had that friend in the States looking into the Wendigo? He’s only gone and found-”

“No, thank you,” you cut across him, having to quash a surge of annoyance as you found yourself having to scratch out a sentence for the third time in a row. Geoff's distractions, more often than not unwelcome these days, had begun to grate on you more and more.

“Alright, fine. I get it, you're busy. But I think it would do you some good to get out,” Geoff frowned, trying to catch your eye over the glide of your pen across the page.

“Oh, for Heaven's…” you snapped, discarding your pen and leaning back in the chair. Geoff shrank away from you, taken aback. “I'll go for a drink sometime if you stop harping on about it.”

“Look, I didn't mean to…” Geoff mumbled, watching you run your hands through your hair frantically. “I know it's been a lot for you. Figured you could use a distraction from…you know…”

“From what, Geoff?” you demanded. “From my studies, or my missing wife?”

He fell into an uneasy silence. This was probably the fourth or fifth time in the last months that you had rebuffed his offer of a quiet pint at one of the University's pubs. He had kept a respectful distance for a while after Aideen's disappearance, but soon switched to frequently badgering you to come and discuss whatever cryptozoological ‘find’ of the week he had unearthed.

“It’s been six months. Do you not think it might be time to start thinking of, I don’t know, moving on in some way?” he asked, a note of exasperation in his voice. “You owe it to yourself to try and be happy.”

You let your eyes flutter closed. Shame and anger reared up in you, burning in the pit of your stomach.

“She didn't leave me, Geoff,” you whispered.

“I didn't say that,” he said quickly.

“But you were thinking it. Everyone does, I'm not stupid.”

The weight of your embarrassment sat heavy in the air. You kept your eyes trained on the table beneath your hands, unseeing. A fleeting glance upwards, and you caught sight of Geoff's pained expression, eyes full of pity. You cleared your throat and retrieved your pen from where it had rolled away, hoping to impart a tacit cue that you should be left alone.

“It's fine, Geoff. Just…I have to get on with this.”

He nodded, grateful for the dismissal. After a clumsy pat on your shoulder, he left the library, plunging you back into solitude. You let out a long exhale and tried to clear your mind, to focus. The silence enveloped you once more, unbroken as your pen sat idle in your hand.

***

It is nighttime again when you wake, bleeding into early morning. Cristian's salve, along with the fitful hours of sleep you managed, seems to have sped up the healing of your wounds. You touch a finger to them as you lie still, feeling the scabs forming at your neck where Cassandra's blade bit into your skin. Your heartbeat, strong as it was a day ago, thuds against your ribs; alive, by the skin of your teeth.

Still, it's difficult to feel any great amount of gratitude for this. Yes, you survived. You came a hair's breadth from being ripped to pieces, with only relatively minor wounds to show for it. But that countess - Lady Dimitrescu - knew something; you're sure of it. Her reaction, though subtle, came right after hearing that Aideen was a cryptozoologist. What did that mean to her? Why did she let you leave upon learning such a detail? There she was, ready to sink her claws into you, or allow her daughter - or all three of them - to consume you. It feels impossible, almost laughably so, that you lie here, still breathing.

You can't go back there; you know this. Nor do you want to. Whatever Lady Dimitrescu held back will remain unknown to you, and you're right back where you started. Shaken and battered from the encounter, you fail to see another path open to you, no stones left to turn. And yet, amongst the remnants of terror, you find again that intrigue, drawn in by the gravity of the countess and her clever golden eyes.

By some strange compulsion, you reach for your bestiary and open it up on a blank spread of pages. Even after years spent untouched, something about its weight in your hands feels natural, your pencil poised over the thick paper. But where should you start? You've captured the essence of countless creatures in this book, even without having seen a single one of them in the flesh. By all accounts, this should be easy; only yesterday were you knelt before Lady Dimitrescu, caught between the teeth of fear and awe. In your mind's eye you find her, and begin to move your pencil in uncertain strokes across the page.

As you draw, you’re struck by a sense that something is off. Each detail is wrong in some way. You're aware of a disconnect between yourself and the image you are trying to conjure; the journey from mind to page is a jarring one, halting and hesitant. You get as far as the noble edge of her jaw, but soon give up when it becomes apparent that this is a futile endeavour.

With an exasperated huff you set down the book and push it away, unable to feel your way through what you're trying to achieve. Feebly you had thought that sketching the countess might demystify her somehow, or at least purge your mind of her image. If only you had had your bestiary back at the castle, this might have proved a simpler task. You almost laugh at the idea; asking the countess to stand still for a quick sketch, if she didn’t mind delaying your death for a few more minutes.

A light tap on the door brings you out from your contemplation, and you pause before you answer. God, don't let it be Mira. You've had far too little time to recuperate, and the last thing you need is to be told to pack your bags with nowhere else to go. But you can't sit still and pretend not to be here, much as you'd like to.

“Who is it?” you call out tentatively, stuffing your bestiary and pencil under the bedcovers.

“It's me.”

Cristian's gravelly voice, though not exactly a relief to hear, is far more welcome than Mira demanding that you leave. Then again, he might have conferred with her and decided that he, too, finds you simply too troublesome to keep around. Bracing yourself for the worst, you cross the room and unbolt the door, opening it just enough to peer onto the landing.

On the other side is a sheepish-looking Cristian, in his hands a wooden tray with a steaming bowl of food, some sliced bread and a pint of ale.

“You must be hungry,” he says, standing with his shoulders bunched and looking determinedly over the top of your head.

“Erm…thank you. I suppose I am.” You open the door fully, and step to one side. “Come in.”

He lumbers into the room and sets the tray of food carefully onto the bed, then steps away with his arms folded.

“It's stew,” he mutters. “I brought it from home. Good to get your strength back.”

You offer a tight smile, and he seems to relax as you sit by the tray and start to eat. It's the best meal you've had since coming here; thick chunks of meat, potatoes and vegetables washed down with ale. Sure enough, you do feel stronger once you've cleared half the bowl. You pick idly at the bread, trying to think of a way to break the silence. Clearly this is some kind of conciliatory gesture, and you recognise the tacit apology that comes with it. You're reminded of Aideen, the way she could only bear to apologise with actions, never words.

“Thanks,” you say again. “I feel miles better. That ointment did wonders, too.”

Cristian grunts and shrugs, seeming to struggle against something as he opens his mouth to speak, then promptly closes it, shaking his head.

“I get it,” you say quickly, before he closes himself off entirely. “It was stupid to go to the castle, I know that. But you must understand where I'm coming from, don't you?”

“Yes, I do,” he sighs, and sinks down onto the empty stool. “I thought about it all night. You were right - were my wife still alive, I would go to the same lengths for her. But to know you went to that place willingly, it felt like an insult to us who live here. To be so reckless with your life…it made me angry.”

This, you cannot deny or defend. You know very well how it must look. A crazed suicide mission from a clueless outsider, bent on upsetting the already fragile sense of order. Here, these things aren't spoken of, even as they stare you right in the face. And you see in Cristian a frustration that goes beyond your reckless behaviour; you have an inkling that he cares about what happens to you, in some clumsy and disgruntled way.

“I understand. I know I must seem crazy,” you say. “But I have to try. If she's here, I have to find her, bring her home.”

“I know,” Cristian says, defeat all over his face. “You can stay here, so long as you keep paying. But I will not help you any further than that. If you die out there, that is on you.”

It's a stark and blunt way of putting it, but one you can't disagree with. You nod miserably and try to quell the guilt that has risen up for the position you’ve inadvertently put Cristian in. He has to watch, helpless, while you stake your life on the slim chance that you’re able to find Aideen. You don’t blame him for wanting to look away.

“Well, I appreciate you looking after me. I won't be any more trouble, you have my word.”

He hums in response, but his eyes aren’t on you. His gaze has fallen on the pile of notes and drawings you left stacked beside the bed, and he chews his lip thoughtfully. You return the plates and empty glass to the tray, expecting that he will want to leave you and this uncomfortable atmosphere behind.

“Let me see them again,” he demands out of nowhere, beckoning impatiently.

You frown, but gather up the papers nonetheless and hand them over. Cristian turns each one over, scrutinising them much more closely than last night, when he was overwhelmed with panic. This goes on for several minutes, and you wait in silence at first, but your patience begins to wear thin. You don’t know what he's looking for, or why.

“What are you-”

“Be quiet,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “Ah…this one.”

He holds a page up to his face, squinting and turning it this way and that. You cross to where he stands and slide around to the back of him, trying to catch a glimpse of what has caught his attention. It's another of Aideen's landscape sketches, though not quite as dramatic as the rest. In the foreground, you make out what looks to be a series of small buildings submerged in water but for their roofs, some boardwalks stretching between them. Further away, at the bottom of a jagged rock face sits a structure above the surface, a dilapidated house of sorts.

“What am I looking at, exactly?” you ask, tilting your head.

“The reservoir,” Cristian breathes, almost too low for you to hear.

Your heart jolts, and you stare at the drawing along with him, your mind twisting and turning down a new path - has another way opened up for you? Before now, you hadn't paid much mind to this particular drawing; it had seemed mundane, comparatively. But it means something to Cristian, and he has confirmed it to be a real place. So - Aideen must have been there.

“Where is this place, Cristian?” you demand, and immediately he shakes his head.

“Forget I said anything,” he grunts, shifting away from your side. After one last look at the sketch, he drops the papers on the bedside and starts to make for the door.

“Don't be like this,” you hiss, following behind him. “For God's sake, I'm not asking you to do anything. Just tell me where to find it.”

“No.”

You fight the urge to grab him, shake him, somehow impart how very important this is. But he knows already; he's seen it. Instead you let him get as far as the doorway, and lower your voice.

“Please, Cristian. I know I've been trouble enough to you already, and I'm sorry. And I swear, this is the last favour I'll ask of you. Chances are, I'll find the place myself eventually. But I'd much rather know now, and know it from you, because…well, because you're a friend.”

He freezes with his hand on the door, and for a moment you think he’ll ignore you and leave. With his back still to you, he swears under his breath, and you wonder if you might just have gotten through to him.

“I hear people say that…something lives there. Don't ask me what it is, I don't know that much. But if you are going to go there no matter what I say…”

Slowly he turns back around, his eyes cold and his mouth set into a hard line. His hand disappears into an inner pocket of his jacket, and emerges holding something shiny and deadly. Your stomach lurches as you realise what it is: a revolver. He holds it out to you, and you cringe away. You weren't expecting to be offered a gun yet again, and certainly not so soon after the first instance.

“I can't…” you stammer, taking a step back. “I don't think I should take that.”

“Take it. I'll tell you where the reservoir is if you take it with you”

More than anything, you want to refuse. Perhaps you should take your chances and try to find the reservoir yourself, to Hell with Cristian and his gun. But you knew, even as you said it, that you would have little hope of finding the reservoir unaided. If you are to face another monster, perhaps even more than one, you doubt that you could get by a second time with just your knife and your words. So it seems the choice is made for you, try as you might to see another way.

“Okay,” you say, extending a shaking hand towards the weapon.

He hands it over, and you inhale sharply at the feeling of cold metal in your palm, the weight of it. Even as you think half-heartedly that you've no intention of using it, you feel that conviction slipping away. A sense of inevitability rises up in you; a sickening feeling that, at some point, you will have to fire this gun.

You close your fingers around the handle, and tell yourself it's for the best.

Notes:

reader: everyone hates me everyone wants to boil me and make me into soup today 🙃

had a lot of fun writing this one so I hope you've had as much fun reading! <3

Chapter 4: Flimsy Spine, Unsuspicious Mind

“Don't take any chances. If you see something, don't think. Just shoot.”

Cristian had pulled you aside when morning broke, shoving two large helpings of oats in front of you, and stern orders that you were to finish the lot. He looked almost mad, dark crescents under his eyes and his hands twitching intermittently. You thought it best not to draw attention to this, considering his state of agitation.

Once satisfied that your wounds were healing adequately, he fastened around your shoulders a holster for the revolver, hastily made overnight from scraps of leather. With your overcoat on top, no-one would be any the wiser that you were carrying a firearm. He counted out bullets into your hand; only a few, but enough, he assured you, to fell most kinds of creatures.

You had to bite your tongue. Knowing he meant well, you suppressed the urge to snap at him. His anxiety seeped into you, exacerbating your own fear. He acted as though he didn't expect you to come back from the reservoir at all.

“If you don't return within three days, we will have to give up your room. Not something I want to do, but it's business. Nothing personal, you understand.”

Treated like a dead woman walking, you grew more and more unsettled listening to Cristian's endless warnings. He had scowled when you lifted your briefcase, thinking it useless to bring your bestiary and notes along with you.

“I might find something worth documenting,” you countered, defensive and sullen. Truthfully, you didn't want to be caught again without means to record whatever you might find at the reservoir, if indeed you found anything at all.

At last, he had grudgingly allowed you to set off, but not before handing over a small package of dried meat and nuts to take with you, ‘just in case’. Rather than roll your eyes at the coddling, you thanked him and left the inn. He had not written down directions to the reservoir, instead trusting your memory and common sense to get you there.

“You can't miss it. The smell will hit you first.”

Now, sure enough, you are nearly doubled over as the stench becomes apparent. As Cristian advised, you followed the river until you reached a boggy, swampy path. The ground underfoot squelches unpleasantly, and the smell of stagnation makes you pause for a good few minutes, trying not to be sick. You clamp your nostrils shut and take shallow breaths through your mouth. Slowly it becomes more bearable, but only just enough for you to be able to move forwards without retching. On either side, slime-covered boulders block you in, forcing you to hold your arms close and shuffle awkwardly along the path. The foul-smelling substance adheres to the sleeves of your coat; bitterly you accept that you'll need to dispose of it later.

Doubts begin to creep up as you wonder how anything could possibly live here. It's a decaying place, one fit only for the lowest of lifeforms, those who feed on the products of death. What about it caught Aideen's attention enough to visit? There must be something here, something worth stepping into rot and putrescence for. Or perhaps her inquisitive mind took her to every part of the village she could find, no matter how revolting they happened to be. First, the murderous castle and its bloodthirsty countess; now this. You can't help but wonder which one is worse, imagining Aideen's laugh as you ponder the question.

The path opens up, and the weak sunlight is welcome after the relative darkness of the claustrophobic trail. Your eyes adjust to the light, and the landscape from Aideen's sketch stretches before you, even more miserable and dilapidated than the drawing had suggested. Most everything is partially sunken beneath the depths of a murky body of water, which laps up onto the planks of the boardwalks that intersect and shoot off in various directions. You're hesitant to walk across them; you can't see beneath the water, whether they're soundly supported or not. With one foot you press down on the first plank, and it doesn't wobble too badly under your weight. Were there a rowboat here, it would be much more easily traversable, but you'll have to rely on your own two legs.

“If something feels wrong, heed the instinct. Turn around.”

You almost want to laugh aloud at Cristian's caution now, because nothing about this feels right. From the filth to the lifelessness, everything makes you want to retreat, namely to wash yourself thoroughly. Perhaps you'll smell like this place for the foreseeable future; the air has a suffocating quality to it, catching in your throat and clinging to you. Not only that, but there is an oppressive sense of loneliness, in the twisted remains of buildings, the water itself moving to and fro underneath. The swell of it is like a faltering heartbeat, the last heartbeats of a dying thing, slow and sorrowful.

Though there are no obvious signs of life, you learned from your visit to the castle that this could well be a facade. Whether by design or not, everything about this place is off-putting. In other words, it's the perfect place for something to hide and live in peace. You don't intend to disturb that peace; another of your lessons from the castle. You’ve had scarcely any time to process what happened there, but at the same time, you've never felt your own mortality so keenly. Things appear differently to you now, new and imagined threats lurking each time you spare a glance out of the corner of your eyes. But this time round, even if you struggle to admit it to yourself, you're emboldened by the weight of the gun resting at your side. The layer of protection keeps you pressing on through the murk, towards whatever this reservoir is concealing.

Along the way you find a broken-off piece of a fence, and use it to prod listlessly at the parts of the flooded structures that you can reach. Nothing, not even the splash of a fish startled by the disturbance, only ripples and silence. At an intersection of the boardwalk, you turn your head left and right, musing on the best direction to take. You shield your eyes and peer ahead, certain you've seen something you recognise. After a moment spent examining, it clicks. The run-down shack from Aideen's sketch, though it looks quite different from this perspective. She must have been standing elsewhere when she drew it.

You look around again, but find nothing more of interest, nothing that seems worth slipping over the wet boardwalks for. The shack is all that's left, and you're mildly glad of something concrete to head towards. Abandoning your broken plank, you edge closer to the building, and slide one hand beneath your coat to rest on the grip of the revolver. Cristian designed the holster in such a way that the gun sits snugly, but would slide out quickly if needed. The spare bullets rattle in one of your outer pockets, and you mentally take stock of the rounds available to you. You guess around a dozen or so, without stopping to count them. Enough, you hope.

The door is hanging partially off its hinges, beyond which you can't see inside; impenetrably dark, no matter how hard you squint. It is as dead and quiet as everything else you've seen so far, likely uninhabited, but still. No harm can come of having a look, you reason. Feeling that there is no threat to you here, you step through the doorway and pause a moment, waiting for your eyes to acclimate. The stench of the reservoir is particularly potent here, as though this is the point of origin, and it seems mixed with something else. Something more animal, or organic; rotten food and another note you can't quite put your finger on. You stifle a gag as you try not to breathe it in too much, and press on.

With one hand you steady yourself against the wall, still unable to see very much at all. Your fingers keep brushing something sticky on the walls, but you don't stop to examine whatever it is, thinking it wiser to ignore your disgust entirely. The hallway is strangely humid, a cloying warmth that sits around your face like a mask. The deeper you move into the shack, the sicker you feel, and you can see only faint shadows ahead. All that guides you is the increased heat of the air in the narrow corridor.

You slow your steps, realising with a lurch of horror what it must mean. The part of the shack's smell you couldn't parse; it's not human, no, but it is something alive. Something that has sat in stasis far too long, grown stale and sodden by its own inertia. You don't want to move towards it. You want to turn back and breathe the air outside, clean and fresh compared to this. More importantly, you want to get away from the source of this putrid warmth, whatever is emitting it.

But it's too late. Something large and heavy depresses the creaking floorboards somewhere ahead of you, close by. You silently curse both yourself and Cristian for not thinking that a torch or lighter might be worth bringing; now you're trapped in the dark with something that knows you are here. And it is moving towards you. Slow, lumbering steps from a direction you can't pinpoint. You slip a hand back under your coat and silently pull out the revolver.

Flickering lamplight filters in from around a corner, bobbing as it draws nearer. The thing holding it shuffles into view, and for a moment you're blinded, unable to react. Then the light falls on its face, its form, and you lunge forwards without thinking, shrieking at it.

"Jesus!"

You point the gun squarely at the amorphous mass of a being, grappling with a rush of atavistic fear, cold and sharp. The lamp clangs onto the floor at its feet, somehow staying alight, though you almost wish it had gone out. An unfathomably horrific face stares back at you; a mess of loose grey skin, broken teeth jutting from a large fishlike mouth, bulbous masses hanging from its chin. The creature’s head is barely discernible from the bulk of its hunched body, wrapped in a filthy cloak.

"Don't kill me!" the thing wails, wringing its webbed hands. You're startled to hear that it has a voice, but it sounds garbled, as though spoken through a throatful of phlegm. It scurries backwards until its back hits the wall, and cornered, can do precious more than whimper. Your finger hovers over the trigger and the gun shakes wildly in your hands. Another trap? All you have to do is squeeze, and the thing will be put down, or at least injured enough that you can get away.

But it is so pitiful, so utterly petrified. The power you feel at having trained the gun on this creature is unwelcome, and acutely sickening. There is no satisfaction to be had from dispatching it. And oddly, it doesn't feel like a trap, not this time. Swallowing hard, you lower the weapon a few inches as the creature cries quietly, muttering to itself. It doesn't look as though it could hurt you; short, squat and trembling all over, it seems barely able to move for fear.

"I'm so sorry, I..." you stammer. "You startled me, erm…sir?”

You're not quite sure how to address it, bizarre as this encounter is.

“Please don't hurt me,” it pleads, bulging eyes fixed on the gleaming barrel of the revolver. You consider for a moment, calculating the risk, and finally decide it is safe to let your guard down a little.

“I can't apologise enough, I was…I was scared, you see,” you say softly, tucking the gun back into its holster. The creature lets out a shuddering breath, and appears to relax a fraction, though it still wheezes faintly.

“That's…okay. I'm scared too. I thought you were…going to k-kill me.”

It strikes you that you are both equally frightened of one another, and the thought is unexpectedly sobering.

“I realise this isn't the best first impression, you know, pointing a gun at you, but…” You force a smile that you hope is friendly, and bend to retrieve the lamp. “Might I ask what - sorry - who you are?”

“S-Salvatore Moreau, ma'am. Thank you…”

You hand over the lamp, beginning to feel a twinge of guilt for mentally dehumanising the being before you. He has a name, a voice, and so far you've treated him with nothing but disgust and contempt, purely on account of appearances. You ought to make up for it somehow.

“It's good to meet you, Mr Moreau. Again, I'm sorry for giving you such a fright. I imagine I've disturbed you,” you say, and though you're hesitant to touch him, you extend a hand nonetheless. Moreau stares at it, then at your other hand, seeming to search for some kind of trick. You wait for him to either accept or reject the gesture, and finally he takes your hand in his own.

“I was just sleeping when I heard you…” he mumbles, withdrawing from the handshake hastily. His hand is slightly slimy to the touch, and you resist the urge to wipe your own. The more you look at him, the more you recognise a semblance of humanness in the way he moves and holds himself. You don’t want to miss the chance to find out more, and your curiosity is piqued, fear giving way to interest. You've never seen anything quite like this before, and it's a golden opportunity, the best you've had so far in this village. Any cryptozoologist would be astounded by the sight before you, and you feel absurdly lucky, almost enough to offset your lingering apprehension.

“I've come to find someone, Mr Moreau, and I'd like to ask some questions, if that's at all possible,” you venture gently, watching for any sign of hostility, but he merely looks sad and scared. “But I can come back another time, if I've caught you in the middle of something?”

Moreau's expression turns blank, and you worry that you might have confused him somehow. You're about to rephrase your question when it dawns on you that he is startled, it seems, at this renewed display of respect. When was the last time someone showed him any kindness? Come to think of it, you wonder when he last saw anyone at all in this remote, desolate place.

“Please, call me Salvatore,” he says, shuffling his feet shyly. “And you can c-come sit through here, ma'am, I can make some, um, tea…”

Were his skin capable of blushing, you're quite sure his face would be a deep shade of pink by now. And you can’t help but smile at this strange man, his hospitality in spite of your almost having killed him.

“Well then, Salvatore, I think I will have some tea. Much obliged,” you smile, and he offers a shaky grin of his own back, bashful and warm.

***

Despite having no intentions of lingering in the reservoir, you find yourself unwilling to part with Moreau after an evening spent in his company. He is quiet and considerate, and you drink the tea with thanks, though you reject his offer of a plate piled with stale bread and cheese. Instead you produce the package of dried meat and nuts that Cristian put together, intending to share the food, and Moreau almost cries with gratitude at this small show of generosity.

“So kind…” he says over and over again, through mouthfuls of salted beef.

Once past your initial disgust at his appearance, you find him quite fascinating. He seems to be some amalgamation of fish and man, misshapen and lumpy, though he hides his hunch beneath the shabby black cloak. Thinking it more polite not to address the nature of his disfigurement, you instead tell him of your work as a professor of Classics and your dabbling in cryptozoology. If he picks up on the hint that you would like to study him, he doesn't show it. He merely listens and stares at you, seemingly in disbelief at being afforded the chance of a light conversation with a stranger. You get the sense that he is unsure how to handle himself in such a situation, so you do your best to talk for the both of you and put him at ease.

When it grows late, you begin to pack up to leave, but find yourself in two minds. The thought of returning to the inn and a certain telling-off from Cristian isn’t exactly appealing, and you suspect that for all Moreau's shyness, he must have more to tell you. You get the feeling that it may just be a case of taking your time with him, probing topics gently and carefully in the hope of gleaning some information. So when he offers you a place to stay the night, and promises that he can make it comfortable, you accept.

“Very kind of you, Salvatore,” you say, and he beams at you crookedly. “May I ask a favour of you, though? I realise I'm not in much of a position to do so, but…”

“Anything,” Moreau gushes, nodding his head. “Anything I can do t-to help, ma’am.”

Emboldened, you unlatch your briefcase and pull out the bestiary, which you open on a random page and place on the floor between yourself and Moreau.

“I wondered if I might make a sketch of you for my bestiary. I would do it faithfully, of course, and only with your permission,” you explain, watching Moreau's eyes light up as he peers at the book with childlike interest. “Not that you're any kind of beast, of course, but, well…”

You trail off awkwardly, but a grin splits Moreau's face and the masses beneath his chin quiver excitedly.

“That would be fine with me, ma'am. Such pretty drawings…”

Relieved, you promise to begin the sketch at first light. Moreau is still smiling when he settles down to sleep, and you watch him bemusedly for a while, before you are overcome with exhaustion yourself. You succumb to sleep unexpectedly fast, even on the hard and dusty floor of the shack, with your overcoat as a makeshift blanket.

The following morning is a peaceful one, mostly silent but for the scratching of your pencil on a fresh page of the bestiary. You quickly come to learn that Moreau is a gentle thing, a fragile and clumsy thing. He jumps whenever the shack creaks and groans, and whimpers in his sleep at some unknown terrors behind his amphibian eyes. He flusters easily, babbles with joy when confronted with the slightest show of courtesy. There is not a hint of cunning or guile about him, and each gesture he makes has a touching and childlike quality about it.

Truly, he is grotesque to behold. The stench of both him and his dwelling made your eyes water and still do, though bit by bit, you’re learning to tolerate the assault on your senses. For all your intrigue, you find it near unbearable to look at him for too long. He knows this, knows his own ugliness intimately, and takes no offence. At the same time, you can't seem to tear your eyes away, either. His skin seems barely able to cling onto his frame, looks ready to slough away at the slightest touch. It is difficult to capture such a strange combination of features with only a pencil, but it comes together slowly, Moreau sitting stock-still as you work on the drawing.

“How long have you lived here, Salvatore?” you ask at around noon, setting down your pencil after several hours spent clutching it. Your hand has grown sore, and could do with a rest.

Moreau hums and shifts, cross-legged on the floorboards. “I don't really, um, remember. A long time, I think. Ever since M-Mother found me, I suppose…”

Mother? You quell your need to jump at this line of questioning, but you are awash with curiosity. It wouldn't do to fluster Moreau with demands for information, so you think for a moment before speaking again.

“Ah, you have a mother? Does she live here, too?”

Moreau shakes his head wordlessly, falling into silence again. At your question, he seems to have come over withdrawn all of a sudden, and there is a faraway look in his eyes, a gleam of melancholy.

“I don't live with my mother, either. She's quite old now, and my father's long since passed,” you say, hoping to elicit some kind of response. “I don't have any siblings, though. Do you?”

“Yes, um…” He counts on his webbed fingers slowly. “Two s-sisters, and one brother. There's um, Karl and… Lady Beneviento, and Lady Dimitrescu-”

“Lady Dimitrescu?” you interrupt, struck by the awfully familiar sensation of your blood freezing in your veins.

“Mm-hmm,” Moreau grunts, disinclined to say any more. Your mind whirls, trying to feel out the best way to navigate through this awkward juncture. You look down at the bestiary resting on your lap, and a thought comes to you.

“You know, I met her the other day. Your sister, that is - Lady Dimitrescu?”

Moreau looks on mutely as you flip through the pages, onto your unfinished drawing of the countess. When you turn the book around, his eyes flash with recognition, and you silently pray that this is the right move, the tactic needed to break down Moreau's barriers.

“That's her. Alcina…” he mutters, a wistful edge to his voice. “I-I don't get to see her much. She…doesn't come here.”

“Are you really siblings?” you blurt out, unable to fathom how Moreau and the countess could have possibly come from the same parentage. Lady Dimitrescu, giant and vampiresque; Moreau, squat and fishlike. They couldn't be any more different if they tried.

“Not siblings by blood,” he explains. “We were m-made by Mother. She made us this way, the four of us. The four Lords...”

Dumbstruck and reeling, you struggle to wrap your head around this revelation, and its implications. Made us this way? What manner of mother would do such a thing, and why? Who on Earth has the power to create such beings, these ‘Lords’? The questions are endless, and each one is more disturbing than the last. You breathe deeply, trying for any semblance of calm, and remind yourself to be gentle and cautious with Moreau. If you press him too hard, he may well retreat into himself again, and your chance will be lost. You need to know more, and you need the right approach to draw it out of him.

“Forgive me, but I'm a little bit confused,” you say slowly. “Were you not always…this way?”

“No. I was a man when Mother found me, but I was not, um…suitable.”

His words are too vague and cryptic to make full sense of, but you have a faint inkling of what he is trying to get at. A connection, however tenuous, begins to take form in your mind. Pushing aside your growing unease, you rifle through your briefcase again and pull out a wad of papers. Before you hand them over, you hesitate and examine Moreau's expression. Earnest and slightly worried, as he always looks. You've broken through, somehow, and he seems ready to open up. This calms you enough to shuffle over, and you spread the papers out across your lap.

“I wanted to ask if these notes mean anything to you,” you murmur, and Moreau leans closer into your side, squinting. “Could you read them for me, please?”

He takes the papers from you and slowly, painstakingly, casts his eyes over each page. You wait it out, watching intently for any warning signs. His face remains blank, and his lips move silently as he reads.

“These are…Mother's experiments,” he says, and your heart judders. “Yes, I-I'm quite sure of it. Do you see this word?” He points to a spot on the page, and you read the word, penned in Aideen's hurried scrawl. “Cadou. It means ‘gift’. That's what Mother gave us…a gift.”

You begin to feel ill, and your head swims. First the drawings, now the gut-wrenching possibility that Aideen not only sketched those nightmarish creatures, but perhaps even aided in some sort of sick experimentation centred around this ‘Cadou’. And in the middle of it all, the one that Moreau calls ‘Mother’. He watches your paling face, a glint of concern behind his eyes. He puts out a gentle hand and rests it on your arm, but you snatch it away, breathing raggedly.

“What's the matter?” he flounders, registering the panic rolling off you. “Did I, um, say something wrong?”

“No, no, this can't be right…” you mutter distractedly, and gather up the notes with shaking hands. “This is…this is my wife's handwriting, Salvatore. I'm looking for her, and that’s what brought me here.”

Moreau's mouth hangs open, displaying all of his jagged teeth as he struggles to piece together the meaning of your words. You sigh, frustration melting into your anxiety at having to spell it out for him.

“My wife must have been involved with this mother of yours. And I need to know how, and why. I want you to tell me everything you know, and leave nothing out. Can you do that for me?”

The presence of another player in this mystery shouldn't surprise you, but you're disquieted by the involvement of someone with seemingly unnatural powers, someone who made Moreau and Lady Dimitrescu into such creatures. And if Aideen has somehow gotten herself mixed up with such a person, you need to press on with your search, and quickly. Moreau may be slow-witted and clumsy, but he must know something to set you on the right track.

“I don't know, ma'am, I…I'm sorry,” he groans, pushing a hand into his forehead and whimpering pathetically.

“Did you meet a woman named Aideen?” you demand, no longer able to hold back your agitation. “She has red hair, and she's a cryptozoologist like me. Did you ever see her with your mother, or-”

“Stop it, please,” Moreau babbles and cringes away from you, tears gathering in his eyes. “I don't know, I don't remember, please…”

It takes tremendous restraint not to shout at him, urge him to straighten up and stop being so pitiful. Amidst your anger, you still find a glimpse of sympathy for him, though not enough to sit and watch him fall apart. You gather up your belongings and lurch out of the room, leaving Moreau to cry quietly to himself. You find yourself a filthy corner of the shack to curl up in and wait for morning sleeplessly, trying in vain to digest all that you have heard.

Aideen is just out of reach, entangled with someone who is at best some kind of mad scientist, and at worst, someone extremely dangerous. Moreau's snivelling will do nothing to further your search. The castle is off-limits, and you can't bank on running into the Duke and coaxing more information out of him. You can no longer afford to meander around the village aimlessly, hoping for something to lead you the right way. A new sense of urgency has taken hold, and beneath it, festering doubts that squirm and twist in your gut.

The threads that bind you to your wife are fraying perilously thin, and the image of her in your mind is losing clarity, fading fast. You have to find her before you forget her, the way her skin felt, the lilt of her voice. And over again, though you try to push it away, one question taunts you relentlessly: what if she doesn't want to be found?

***

When you find Moreau at dawn to bid him goodbye, he just nods morosely and wishes you well. Guilt tugs at you, watching him trying and failing to conceal his dismay at your leaving the reservoir. It's likely that you're the first person in a long time to show him any shred of kindness, and in return, he did his utmost to receive you with hospitality. You want to lift his spirits, somehow, but the discomfort of your outburst last night still hangs in the air. Moreau shuffles his feet and avoids your gaze, muttering inaudibly to himself. Knowing that you can't possibly undo years of loneliness and misery for him, you turn to leave. But as you do, something comes to you.

“Would you like to see the drawing?” you offer, gesturing to your briefcase. “It's not quite finished yet, but I worked on it last night. Couldn't sleep, you see.”

Moreau instantly perks up, nodding, and you take a step back towards him. When you thumb through to the page that contains the sketch, he makes an odd cooing noise in his throat. His hands fly to his mouth and he lets out a little disbelieving laugh. Impossibly relieved at having put a smile on his face, you hold the book closer so that he can get a better look.

“See this?” you say, pointing to the top of the page. Above the sketch, as an afterthought, you added the words ‘Lord Salvatore Moreau’ in the best handwriting you could by the low light of the shack.

“Ma'am, this is…so lovely,” he grins. “Thank you…”

You promise to finish the drawing in watercolour and return to show it to him, and you mean it. Newly cheerful, Moreau walks with you across the boardwalks, intending to see you off. Enveloped in a companionable silence, the two of you need say no more. The weather has worsened since you arrived, and the sky looks ready to be split with a violent storm; you hope Moreau will be sheltered enough in his run-down shack. Though you doubt you'll fare much better at the inn, with its cracked windows and a roof barely clinging on by a few rusted nails.

Buried in your thoughts, you realise you've been walking alone for a good few metres. Moreau has lagged behind, standing frozen behind you. He wears that same petrified look as when you pointed the gun at him, hands twisting over one another.

“Salvatore?” you frown. He mouths something soundlessly and you cock your head, waiting.

“I-I heard something…” he whispers in a choked voice. “Don't you hear it?”

You open your mouth to tell him no, that you don't hear anything out of the ordinary. Then it reaches you, a fraction of a second later. A huffing, growling noise from somewhere ahead, though you can't see the source - you only know that it comes from the obscured path to the reservoir. You keep still, hardly daring to breathe. Perhaps if you are quiet enough, whatever it is will pass by and leave you unnoticed.

The first drop of rain spatters onto the boardwalk, and a hellish beast bursts from between two boulders. Its eyes move from you to Moreau and back again, those wolfish eyes that you recognise immediately. The twisted beast from Aideen's sketches, though this one is differently built; taller, broader at the shoulders. Muted fear washes over you, and muffles your surroundings. You dimly register that Moreau is yelping, but you are paralysed where you stand.

The thing snarls, and the world comes crashing back in.

“What the hell is that?” you breathe, backing up with the smallest of steps until you stand at Moreau's side. The beast's yellow eyes follow you, and it twitches madly. It drags a rusted axe at its side, and you feel sick as you note the fresh blood on the blade.

“Lycan,” Moreau mumbles, and goes straight back to whimpering wretchedly. He shuffles to the edge of the boardwalk, as though he is about to dive into the water beneath. You watch him, wondering if he has at last succumbed to madness, preferring to drown than to die by the lycan's hands.

“What do I do, Salvatore?” you hiss, trying to tug on his sleeve to bring him back, but he doesn't budge. “Don't-”

“The gun,” he says, only just loud enough to hear. Then he drops like a stone into the water. For a moment you merely watch the ripples where he disappeared, dumbfounded. You hear the lycan edging closer, and you wheel around, pulling out the revolver as you do.

“Stay back! I'll shoot!” you shout, but it seems to neither understand nor care. Snarling again, it advances on you step by step, and you're forced to retreat over the boardwalk. Your finger trembles over the gun's trigger, and Cristian's voice drifts across your thoughts.

“Mind the recoil. She's got a kick to her.”

The force of the shot jolts up through your arms, but you keep steady, not taking your eyes off the lycan. It staggers slightly; the bullet hit home. A bloodstain spreads from its navel, and it huffs through its nose, breathing hard. You daren't hope that you've managed to injure it mortally; rather, it looks to be taking a moment to recover, and you know you should run or shoot again. But you are too terror-struck to make the first move, waiting foolishly for something to happen.

A roar splits the air, and the lycan regains itself, charging at you. Too late, you stumble backwards, slipping as you go. You fire the revolver over and over again, and the lycan bleeds freely onto the boardwalk. The smell of fresh blood fills the air. But your bullets are useless; the beast is in some kind of frenzy, and won't stop until you are dead. Tears mix with the cold rain on your face, and you fire until the revolver clicks, the cylinder emptied. You know you won't be able to reload it in time, and even if you could, what's the use? This is how you die.

You slip a final time, your legs no longer able to keep you upright. As the lycan bears down, panting in anticipation, you close your eyes. Its stench is vile; sweat and blood and putrid flesh. Briefly you think of what an awful place to die this is; at least the castle was beautiful, even with its murderous occupants. You would much rather perish in pleasant surroundings, not with this awful beast's hot breath on your face.

The warmth subsides, suddenly, and you chance opening one eye a crack. The lycan has drawn back, and is turning its head this way and that. Your eyes follow its gaze, but you see nothing different. Perhaps it can hear something you cannot, likely having senses sharper than yours. This, now, is your second chance to run; you know you won’t get a third, so you push yourself upright as quietly as you can.

Just as the lycan turns back to you, something swirls in the water below, a dark shape. Something large, circling the wooden supports beneath the boardwalk. You watch, perplexed, but the lycan is paying no mind to the water, fixated instead on you. It staggers forwards a few steps, seeming a little slower for its wounds, but still too quick for you to evade. You brace yourself to run, feeling deep down that there's no point; you can't dive into the water, either, knowing another creature is lurking beneath.

The sloshing of water grows louder, and a beat later, the surface of it bursts. The beast, the giant creature beneath has surfaced, and for a moment is airborne as it leaps. It barrels straight into the lycan, and you lay eyes on it properly for the first time.

Countless eyes on its back, a fishlike tail, an unholy mess of jaws and limbs and parts that don’t belong together. As it wrestles with the lycan, you see something protruding from those jaws. A body; a man’s form from the waist up, seeming to reach out of the beast with pale white limbs.

Moreau. Even as you think it, it barely seems true. But it is; somehow, you know. He grapples with the thrashing lycan, seemingly trying to drag it off the edge and into the water.

“Go…run…” he gurgles, his voice horribly distorted. His face and body are being clawed ruthlessly as the lycan yowls in his grasp. Shaking, you fumble to find the spare bullets, and Moreau sees this, shakes his head. You want more than anything to stop him being hurt. But if you fire into the tangle of limbs and claws, you may hit the wrong target. You can do no more for him.

Gathering all of your remaining strength, you run at the entwined beasts and somehow, miraculously, skirt around them. Your feet pound until wood turns to mud beneath them; you've reached the path that leads away from the reservoir. With your heart in your throat, gasping for air, you take one last look back. Moreau is still fighting the lycan, and it's impossible to tell which one is worse for wear. You only know that you cannot help him and, struck with the guilt of impotence, you turn your back.

As you jog away with the lycan's roars echoing in your ears, you remember your promise to Moreau. Your bestiary was left behind somewhere in the madness, along with your briefcase. He won’t ever see the sketch finished. You mourn your friend silently and thank him for your life, for being the bravest creature you've ever known.

Notes:

this chapter was brought to you by my newfound fondness for our lil fish man 🐟

also I am really not used to writing action scenes like that so I hope it came off alright! Moreau gets his brave guy moment 💪 as always, thanks for reading and really hope you enjoyed the chapter!!

double also: I'm a sucker for naming chapters (or entire fics) after songs or lyrics (in case you hadn't noticed already!) - this one is from Paramore - Figure 8, which is also where I got the title for The Last Good Vein. wicked song, worth a listen! thanks again! <3

Chapter 5: Wrath and Mercy

Hours slide by, hours that turn into days in which you don't see a soul. Hollow and numb, you retreat into yourself; a wretched creature holed up in its shell. By night, you sit by the window and stare blindly out of it until morning, at which point your body relents and you find brief snatches of sleep. You dream of Moreau, savaged by the lycan’s claws and teeth, and hope without conviction that he is still alive.

From your window, you can see Cristian's home across the way. He has neither entered nor left these past days or nights, and has been notably absent from the inn. Instead you spot Mira darting to and from the house several times a day, sometimes with Cristian's daughters in tow. Distantly you wonder where he could have gone, watching an increasingly harried Mira try to handle taking care of the inn and two small children. Cristian's revolver hangs on a nail beside the door in its holster, still smelling faintly of gunpowder. It keeps catching your eye in the viscous and dead hours of the night.

Only when you can't stand the hunger any longer do you leave the room, trudging downstairs for another presumably bland evening meal. Mira scowls as you sit down, looking like she would rather not have to serve you, but places a plate in front of you nonetheless. Too exhausted to take this continued hostility to heart, you address the back of her dully as she walks away.

“Where’s Cristian?”

She doesn't acknowledge your question, and a spike of irritation flares in you. It's an almost welcome feeling, preferable to the listlessness you've sat with for so many hours. You're close enough to the bar that only Mira can hear you as she clatters loudly with the silverware.

“You know, it's not polite to ignore customers,” you say coldly.

Turning on her heel, she looks ready to snap, red-faced and trembling.

“Polite? I have no need to be polite to the likes of you,” she snipes. “It's only Cristian keeping you here, remember that. And he isn't around.”

“So?” you demand, unruffled by her thinly veiled warning. “Where exactly is he, then?”

Mira flushes a deeper shade of pink, polishing a fork with such venom as if it had personally wronged her.

“He went to help a family in the next town with some jobs. Their only son was trampled by his own horse.”

Her voice wobbles as she answers, and you're aware of an uneasiness coming from her; a sense that the words are rehearsed, poorly so.

“I'm guessing that he wasn’t supposed to be gone this long,” you say, and Mira nods tightly in response. She is barely holding it together, but you can't find it in yourself to spare any sympathy for her. Rather, you grapple with a rush of concern for Cristian, hoping that he simply got held up somehow with these jobs, hampered by his altruism. He doesn't seem the type to willingly be apart from his children for very long, not without good reason.

“I'm sure he'll be back soon,” you offer, breaking the uncomfortable silence, though your heart isn't in it. Mira doesn't respond, and takes your half-empty plate without another word. Unsettled, you rise from your seat and cross to the staircase, intending to hole up in your room and try to while away a few more hours. Your foot is on the first stair when the door to the inn bangs open, and you turn reflexively, thinking that Cristian might have returned.

“Ah. You, there. I wish to speak with you.”

The newcomer bustles inside, all eyes trained their way. A woman, perhaps in her late thirties and rather nondescript, but austere and proper. She strides over to the bar and waits there, staring at you with a well-practised look of detached politeness. She wears travelling attire, speckled with rain on the shoulders of her dark coat, and beneath it, a glimpse of black and white clothing.

A maid's uniform. Your stomach drops as you realise exactly where this woman is from, and your mind scrambles for a way out of the situation, but you find none. The sight of one of Lady Dimtrescu's staff is almost as frightening as the woman herself. Your escape from the castle was as unexpected as it was fortunate; why, then, has one of its maids come to find you? She waits with not a hint of impatience, only examines you coolly as you consider your options.

“What is your business with me?” you ask, taking your foot slowly from the stair and turning to face the stranger. Mira gawps at the pair of you, almost comically dumbfounded. For once, she has no snide comment to offer.

“Come, sit.” The woman smiles a distinctly unfriendly smile and gestures at a table by the window. Out of earshot from the bar, you note. Feeling that Mira's sharp ears may be of some use to you here, you instead choose a nearer table and wait for the woman to join you. For a moment she eyes you, calculating, then gives a small shrug and sits on the other side. She clears her throat and begins to speak in a clipped, measured tone.

“My name is Beatrice. I am employed at Castle Dimitrescu, and I come with an invitation,” she says. “The Lady extends her greetings, and would like to invite you to dine tonight.”

You blink at her, and she stares back blandly. It's so incredibly innocuous that you almost want to laugh, but nothing about this is remotely funny. Extends her greetings? Invites you to dine tonight? Your bemusement is not lost on Beatrice, who looks vaguely pleased at the effect of her words.

“Is something wrong?” she asks innocently, and you at last find your voice.

“Last time I was there, I almost got killed,” you snap, balling your hands into fists on the table. “And you expect me to trot along nicely to the castle after that?”

“It is merely an invitation,” Beatrice says evenly. “I assure you that you will not be harmed.”

You scoff, loudly enough that Mira's eyes flit up from the glass she's been wiping for several minutes. She doesn't pause, but you can tell she is listening, so you raise your voice a touch. If the situation somehow got out of hand, she wouldn't exactly rush to your aid, but you suspect she would be more likely to side with you than with the maid.

“No, thank you. I'll have to decline, but please send my best to the Lady.”

“I'm afraid that won't do, you see,” Beatrice sniffs. She has noticed Mira, too, and matches your tone. “The Lady has requested your presence, and expects you presently. I strongly urge you to reconsider.”

There is a barely concealed threat woven into her words, and your pulse quickens at the implication.

“Do I have a choice in this?” you whisper, fear bleeding in rapidly, fear you can hardly restrain. You're breaking too easily, you know this, but there's a rising sense that this situation is entirely out of your control. The decision was already made for you, before you could utter a single word.

Beatrice leans back in her chair, apparently satisfied. “No, not really. We should leave shortly. The Lady wouldn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I'm…not ready to leave just yet,” you say, trying to hide your trembling as you push out your chair.

“You have five minutes.” Beatrice smiles again, and pointedly checks her watch. “I will wait here.”

Without looking back, you dart for the staircase and take them two at a time, not stopping until the door to your room is bolted firmly behind you. Sweat beads on your forehead despite the chill air, and you clamp a hand over your mouth. You choke back the urge to be sick. There is no chance of running. The window is too narrow to fit through, and you have no idea if the cellar holds another way out. Your thoughts move rapidly, fighting against the knowledge that you are trapped.

If you get into a vehicle or carriage with this maid, you may as well be a lamb presenting itself merrily to the slaughter. Could you escape in transit, somehow? Doubtful. Beatrice is clever, much too clever to not have anticipated such a move from you. There may be someone else waiting outside to escort you, someone more imposing than a small and prim woman like Beatrice.

With your back to the door, your eyes are drawn to the revolver, still hanging there on a bent nail. The spare bullets are lined up on the windowsill. Could you turn the weapon on the maid, if it came to it? You brush aside the idea, namely because it turns your stomach. After the reservoir, you vowed to never again pick up the gun, let alone fire it. No; you'll have to face the countess and her castle unarmed. Images flash behind your eyes as though on a reel; the countess’ claws, Cassandra's bloodied sickle. A shudder passes under your skin and ends at your neck, in memory of that awful blade. This time, you are certain, they will not leave the job unfinished.

You sag with resignation, knowing what you must do. There's no use resisting against what has already been decided. You may as well go quietly, with your dignity intact. Incredible, really, that it took so long for your dumb luck to run out. You're fortunate to be alive as it is.

Aware that your allocated minutes are slipping away, you look around the room for what can only be the last time. You've precious few possessions left, with your briefcase lost at the reservoir. Those you managed to keep are in the bedside drawer, and you cross the room to open it. All that's left are a few pencils, some coins, and a small black box. You shove the former items into your pockets, and pick up the little box. There is a plain gold ring inside, folded in red silk. It belonged to your grandmother; her wedding band, passed down to you when you had married Aideen.

Gently you take it from the box and slide it onto your finger, where there is still the ghost of a mark from years of wearing it, even after Aideen disappeared. Somehow it feels the right moment to put it back on. Looking down at the ring, you almost manage a smile, but it doesn’t quite surface. The weight on your finger gives you the tiny spark of strength you need to begin moving. With your spine erect, you leave the room behind and descend the stairs. An odd clarity sweeps through you; something like relief. There is a certain calm that comes with giving up, it seems.

Beatrice is where you left her, sitting at the same table and unaffected by Mira's baleful glare. The two of them are silent, and the atmosphere is borderline funereal. Your funeral, you suppose.

“Ready?” Beatrice gets to her feet and gestures to the door, seeming relieved that you've returned calmer and more acquiescent. You nod mutely and start towards her, winding around tables and past the bar.

“Hey.”

Mira catches your wrist as you pass. In her eyes there are shadows of fears unspoken, nestled behind disdain and confusion. She knows you will not return. It seems she cannot decide whether to be happy about this, or frightened for you.

“Mira, don't make this any worse,” you urge. “Just…thank Cristian for me, please. For everything he's done.”

She blinks back at you rapidly, and swallows hard. Her grip on you tightens.

“You won't be welcome back here if you go to…to that place,” she warns. “I mean it. Don’t be stupid.”

You manage a humourless laugh, and pull your wrist away from her grasp.

“I was never welcome here in the first place, Mira. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

By the open door, Beatrice clicks her tongue impatiently. Before Mira can grab you again or offer up another protest, you follow the maid outside. She is already climbing into a waiting carriage, a dark and imposing thing. Its driver sits motionless up front, their face hidden beneath a hood, gloved hands loosely holding the reins of a powerful black horse. You hang back a few paces and clear your throat. Beatrice turns, her face barely concealing her mounting exasperation.

“May I have a moment, please?” you ask. It's more of a plea, really, and Beatrice's eyes narrow with suspicion. Undeterred, you stare back, trying to silently impress upon her what she already knows - that you have no intentions of running. You merely do need a moment.

After a few moments of this, she sighs. “Yes, alright. Don’t dither. We're already late.”

You nod your thanks, and watch her disappear into the rich red interior of the carriage. The driver stiffens a fraction, as though on guard for any sudden movements.

The night is a clear one, the lightest of breezes lifting your hair and chilling the sweat on your forehead. Above, the moon is unobscured by clouds, swollen on the verge of being full. A fine night, truly. You look to the square, just visible from outside the inn. A lone figure hobbles across it laboriously, aided by a tall, oddly shaped staff. Before you can examine it properly, the figure slips out of view, and you are alone again with the faceless driver.

Two sharp taps from the inside of the carriage door, and you know your time is up. Once more you glance up to the night sky, unpolluted and richly dark. You wonder how Aideen might have felt staring up at these same stars, brighter than you ever saw in the city. How they might have reflected in her eyes as she tried to find patterns and shapes, new constellations born of her imagination. Tears threaten at the corners of your eyes, and you push away the thought before it breaks you. You breathe deeply, and drink in the stillness one last time before you climb in after Beatrice.

“Good. Ready?” she asks again, and signals to the driver. You do not answer.

***

The carriage is windowless, affording you no view of the outside world as it lurches and lumbers towards the castle. Beatrice looks straight ahead and has dropped any pretence of politeness, acting as though you aren't sitting less than a foot away. You suppose now that she has fulfilled her task, there's little need for her to present an amicable front. Not that you care much; you're too busy trying to wrap your thoughts around what lies ahead.

Lady Dimitrescu waits in that castle, drawing you closer by an invisible hand, on tracks that cannot divert or change. Oddly, you are less surprised than you perhaps ought to be. It's almost as if you knew that, at some point, you would find yourself in those castle walls again. You were always heading back there, one way or another.

And what of the one that Moreau calls ‘Mother’? Where does she fit into all of this? An invisible and unreachable presence, one who has your wife in her grasp. You recall Moreau's unease as he spoke of his ‘Mother’, the sheen of fear in his eyes. How far does this woman's web span? How many are caught in it? You can't help but feel that you, too, are being spun in this web, manipulated from the shadows. It looks as though you will never disentangle the strands to find the answers, much less find Aideen. Your thoughts emerge in her voice, soft and consoling.

Time to give up, my love. You've done your best.

When the carriage trundles to a halt, you don't immediately emerge out of your mind. It takes a nudge from Beatrice to bring you back, and you lift your head slowly, reluctantly.

“Come, now,” she says briskly, the same way you might command an unruly pet. Upon climbing out of the carriage, you are surprised to see that it has deposited you right at the castle doors. There must be another way onto the grounds other than the portcullis by which you first entered, for this carriage is much too large to fit through. The castle is lit from within, ominously beautiful beneath the stars, and you find yourself not wanting to look away. Beatrice tuts and wraps her hand around your upper arm, trying to lead you to the doors.

“Don't,” you say, yanking your arm out of her grip. She regards you with hard eyes, sizing you up.

“Have it your way,” she sniffs. “I'll send for one of the young mistresses to come and collect you. I'm sure Miss Cassandra will be most pleased to see you again.”

At the mention of her name, the hairs on your body stand up, and a chill passes over you. Cowed by the threat, you shuffle meekly after Beatrice as she steps up to the doors, and knocks three times. Soft light floods out and the doors swing inwards, revealing a small, timid-looking maid. She nods politely at Beatrice and steps aside to allow her entry.

“We'll go straight up,” Beatrice announces, striding over the threshold and motioning for you to follow. “They've been waiting long enough.”

You are given no opportunity to ask who they are as Beatrice sets a brisk pace through the corridors, keeping several steps ahead of you. Perhaps she means the countess and her three daughters, ready to give you the death you so narrowly managed to avoid mere days ago. Yes; that must be it. And they will have grown impatient, waiting for your arrival.

At complete odds with the last time you were here, the castle is alive, a busy and breathing thing. Young maids cross your path in twos and threes, throwing mildly curious looks your way as they pass. They cannot be blamed for their interest; after all, you don't imagine this place welcomes many visitors, certainly not outsiders like you. You are a fleeting diversion, nothing more. By the time the night is done, they will have forgotten.

“Right,” Beatrice huffs and slows to a stop outside a single door, bright white wood inlaid with gold. “In here, please. Apologise for your lateness, and don’t speak unless spoken to. Have a pleasant evening.”

There she leaves you with those strange words, staring at the door before you. Your mind is clear, almost blissfully blank. A defence mechanism, most likely. It is simply easier not to think, not to feel. Just as you raise your fist to knock, a gruff male voice drifts through, getting closer by the moment. And before you can dwell on this for more than half a second, the door flings open ahead of you.

“Oh, look who finally decided to show up.”

A figure towers in the doorway, and you're enveloped by a sickly waft of cigar smoke. When it clears, you find yourself face to face with a broad, scruffy-looking man. Wild hair tumbles from beneath his dusty hat, framing a weathered and scarred face. There is an unmistakable power emanating from this stranger, and you are caught in the full force of it. Over a pair of round, dark glasses he scowls down at you, your startled expression.

“Come on,” he grumbles, and puts a large hand on your shoulder to steer you inside. Even if you could find it in yourself to protest, he's much too strong to resist. You're propelled into a large room, one occupied by possibly the strangest collection of people you've ever seen. Briefly you wonder if you might have bumped your head somewhere between the inn and the castle, causing your mind to conjure such a baffling scene.

By the fireplace, in a chair suitable for her size, sits Lady Dimitrescu. Your breath halts in your chest as her eyes land on you, darkening as she takes you in. She looks exactly how you remember her, but for her dress; this one is of rich, black velvet, a stunningly regal gown. There is little wonder you were unable to draw her in the bestiary. Your memory was insufficient to capture the unique intersection of beauty and power that she occupies, nor the fear that comes with it.

You can hardly tear your eyes away, but you're drawn to the other occupants of the room, seated across from the countess. A delicate, veiled figure perches on a low sofa, cloaked in black from head to toe. By stature, you would guess that it is a woman beneath the veil. Only her hands are visible, long fingers grasping an unusual little doll on her lap. And - your eyes must be playing tricks - the doll is moving its head to look at you, in a jarringly lifelike way.

“Who's that?” the doll screeches.

Surely you must be going insane. You are seeing things. This is too bizarre to be real. But the doll did move, it did speak.

“The mouse,” Lady Dimitrescu answers, her voice heavy with derision. “Back in my castle. How lovely.”

The man prods at your back, still standing behind you.

“Pick up your jaw and sit down,” he growls. “They won’t get any less weird if you keep staring.”

Keeping your head down, you scurry to the nearest available seat, which happens to be beside the veiled woman and talking doll. As you sit there, sweating, you remember Beatrice's warning, and hurriedly clear your throat.

“I apologise for my delay in getting here, I, ah… I had some business to attend to at the inn.”

Your voice comes out with more strength than expected, and although still shaken, you are beginning to suspect that you were not brought here to be murdered. Equally, you have an inkling who these strangers might be. They appear to be familiar with one another, though not entirely at ease. The tension sitting thickly about the room tells you otherwise. These, you conclude, must be the other two Lords to which Moreau was referring. And they, along with the countess, have summoned you here for a reason.

“Good evening, Lady Dimitrescu. Thank you for inviting me here,” you add, with a deferential nod. She scoffs and looks down her nose at you, but she appears just a touch amused. Although Beatrice did also tell you not to speak unless spoken to, you are compelled to act as though this really is just an evening between acquaintances. Perhaps, then, the Lords will be inspired to do the same. It's fanciful at best, but it's all you have to work with.

“I thought you said this one was fiery,” the man grunts and lumbers over to a spot beside the fireplace, where he stands with an elbow on the mantle.

Lady Dimitrescu disregards his remark with a wave of her hand, and turns to address the woman sitting beside you. The doll is still staring at you with its wooden mouth agape. It's difficult to avoid its glassy, unblinking eyes.

“Donna, do you truly think this was wise? I still say we should try contacting Mother Miranda-”

“You're starting to sound like a broken record,” the man interrupts, as the countess’ face contorts with anger. “Sitting by that phone day and night…”

They begin to squabble, absorbed in their opposing views and obvious mutual dislike. They may as well be the only two in the room. Sensing an opportunity, you seize the last bit of boldness you have, and shift closer to the veiled woman. She visibly stiffens, and the doll forms its hands into little fists as you draw nearer. This will have to be a cautious approach; you know next to nothing about this woman, nor what lies beneath the veil. Only her name, mentioned in passing back at the reservoir.

“I'm sorry to bother, but…are you Lady Beneviento?” you ask in a low voice. In return she nods, hardly more than a twitch, but remains silent. Not much, but it's something - an opening.

“Pleased to meet you, my Lady. I met your brother, Salvatore, not so long ago. Do you know…is he…?”

Seconds trickle by as you wait for an answer, hoping, hoping-

She whispers one word, the only one you need to hear. “Alive.”

Her voice is deep and hushed, the voice of someone who does not use it very often. Your head drops in relief, free of the thousand ways you'd imagined Moreau mauled to death by the lycan. Somehow, incredibly, he survived the encounter. Lady Beneviento sits quietly, by all appearances unmoved. But through the veil, you feel that she is looking at you with some mixture of interest and sympathy. Her doll squirms on her lap, its attention now fixed on the heated exchange between the other two. It successfully wriggles free, and scurries eagerly towards the conflict.

“Your companion is quite different,” you note, grateful to be able to change the topic. “Is that a…wedding dress?”

When next she speaks, you could swear that there is a hint of a smile in Lady Beneviento's voice.

“Her name is Angie. I made her dress,” she murmurs. “I make lots of-”

“Donna! What are you doing?”

Lady Dimitrescu has detached herself from the argument, and now stands tall over the two of you, casting a dark shadow. You see that Lady Beneviento has withdrawn into herself again, subdued by her sister's temper.

“We were just-”

“Quiet, mouse,” the countess snaps. “I addressed my sister. You would do well not to speak out of turn.”

Shrinking back onto the sofa, you mentally reprimand yourself for the misstep. She could so easily decide that you are a waste of time, and ultimately dispense with you. You are painfully aware of your relative smallness and inability to defend yourself.

“Now, kid. You've got some explaining to do.”

The man by the fireplace speaks up, either unaware or unbothered that Angie is by his feet, trying to tie the shoelaces on his boots together.

“I appreciate that,” you say quickly. “I really do. But - forgive me - who are you?”

Over his sunglasses, his eyebrows shoot up. “Karl Heisenberg. The freak didn't tell you about me, then?”

It takes you a moment to register that he is referring to Moreau. With this comes a renewed sadness for him, knowing that your friend is held in such low regard. At the same time, you think better of arguing; you suspect the man before you is as dangerous as any beast you could encounter.

“Ah…yes, he did mention you, actually,” you say, though you can't quite remember if he did make mention of this man. “How is he? After…” You trail off, averting your eyes as a wave of guilt needles at you. Though you could do nothing to help Moreau against the lycan, knowing this does nothing to alleviate your shame.

Heisenberg scoffs. “He's fine, the big baby. I didn't send the lycan to kill-”

“Excuse me? You sent that thing?”

You're on your feet now, shaking with rage directed entirely at Heisenberg, the orchestrator of that awful attack. Unruffled, he clears the distance and pushes you firmly back down onto your seat. Angie huffs with frustration, her endeavour to get him to trip now foiled.

“Yeah, I sent it. Get over it, and shut up. I'm asking the questions here.”

From within his coat he produces a wad of papers, and - your heart jolts - your bestiary. Water damaged and filthy, but intact. Before you can feel too grateful for its survival, Heisenberg drops the book and papers onto your lap, and prods a finger at them.

“Care to tell us about your nice little collection here?” he demands. “Imagine my surprise when I go to the freak's den, out of the kindness of my heart, and I find all this shit. You're goddamn lucky.”

You do not answer immediately. How can you possibly begin to explain any of this? These Lords are not to be trusted. At the same time, lying isn't an option; they will see right through any attempt at deception. It would be unwise to underestimate their intelligence, or try to second-guess them. Stalling for time, you open the bestiary to inspect the damage, and are surprised to find a smudged note attached to the inside cover. Only a few words, but enough to set a lump forming in your throat.

I found your book. Now you can finish the drawing.

Your friend, Lord Salvatore Moreau.

“Hey, give me something here.” Heisenberg clicks his fingers under your nose. “What are you doing with these goddamn notes? Never mind your stupid picture book.”

Angie cackles and runs back to Lady Beneviento, scrambling onto her lap.

“Those drawings are hysterical,” she giggles. “Poor Sal, he almost looks normal. Wonder how messed up he is after-”

“Shut up!” Heisenberg barks, and shifts his attention back to you. “Answers, now. Or I'll sic the doll on you.” Angie makes an obscene gesture at him, which he returns.

Closing the book, you steady yourself. There's nothing for it but to tell the truth, or at least parts of it. A deep breath does nothing to calm you, but it does give you a moment to find the words.

“These notes were delivered to my home some weeks ago, back in Oxford. There were no details of a sender,” you begin, feeling all eyes in the room trained on you. “Both the drawings and the handwriting are those of my wife. She's been missing for three years, and I have reason to believe she's somewhere in this village. I showed these notes to Salvatore, and he told me that they detailed experiments by a woman he calls ‘Mother’. I can only assume that this is the same Mother Miranda you speak of-”

“Enough.”

Lady Dimitrescu’s voice cuts across you sharply. She has swept over to stand beside Heisenberg, and a dark fury has settled over her face. The room grows colder.

“That's quite enough,” she continues, her voice low and deadly. “You have no idea what you are meddling in. I said you didn't look like a fool, but it appears I was mistaken.”

So, she believes you to be a meddling fool. The insult rankles, but there is something that bothers you more. You haven't forgotten the fear that briefly took hold of her the last time you met, and you see a glimpse of it now, beneath her wrathful surface. She is disarmed, ill at ease, even as she lowers herself to insulting you. From somewhere deep within, you dredge up the nerve to look her in the eye, to challenge her.

“Meddling?” you echo, and her face shifts slightly; she wasn’t expecting you to retort. “This is my wife we're talking about. And you - you all - know something, plain as day. Tell me what you know, or kick me out, hell - kill me, if you want. I don't care anymore.”

Lady Dimitrescu inhales, then releases her breath in a prolonged hiss.

“Very well.” She smiles sadistically, and unsheaths her claws. “As you wish-”

“No! Let's not…” Heisenberg spreads his hands and places himself in the centre of the room, blocking Lady Dimitrescu's path. “Let's just wind this back a little, hm? We all want answers. No use being stingy about it, is there? Give and take, that's all this is. Right?”

Neither you nor the countess speak. She glares down at you, and you up at her. Refusing to be the first to relent, you stand your ground, difficult as it is with those golden eyes boring into yours. Her chest rises and falls rapidly; you, conversely, hold your breath as you wait for the coil to snap. For a second time, you are ready to die with dignity by her hand.

“Fine,” she snarls, and her claws shoot back into her hands. She stalks back to her seat. “You deal with the mouse, Heisenberg. I cannot stand to look at it any longer.”

Heisenberg removes his sunglasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, somewhere between anger and exasperation. Or perhaps simply relieved that it didn’t end in a torrent of blood. Thoughtfully he scratches his beard as he looks you over, then his eyes flick down to the notes.

“Well, the freak got one thing right. Those are some of Miranda’s experiment records, true enough,” he sighs. “But…as for the involvement of that wife of yours…”

“If I may, Karl…” Lady Beneviento clears her throat, and Heisenberg nods curtly at her. “I think we should show some grace. It is a brave and noble thing to come to this village for the sake of a loved one. I believe this merits honesty from us.”

Heisenberg considers this for a few long moments, then shrugs. “Floor's all yours, Donna. If no-one has any objections…” He looks to Lady Dimitrescu, who has lit a cigarette, and appears to be trying to block out the conversation. “No? Go ahead.”

You daren't breathe. Is this how you come to know what has become of Aideen? All at once it feels deceptively easy, and so very hard-fought. You have faced fears much larger than yourself on your way to this point. And still, you did not falter, you did not break. Brave and noble. Perhaps Lady Beneviento is right.

She sets Angie to one side, whispering something inaudible in the doll's ear, and turns to you with her hands clasped. You hear her swallow once, and then she starts to speak.

“Let us be clear first, so that there can be no mistake,” she says. “Your wife is Aideen Byrne, the cryptozoologist, correct?”

“Yes,” you whisper hoarsely. “We married young, whilst I was an undergraduate at Oxford. We…we were happy. Or at least, I thought we were.”

Lady Beneviento nods. “I understand. In a word, you were right - Aideen arrived here three years ago. To my understanding, she was invited to do so by Mother Miranda.”

“I'm sorry to interrupt, my Lady, but who exactly is Mother Miranda? What did she want with Aideen? How did she-”

“Too many questions, pipsqueak. One at a time. And don't expect them all answered,” Heisenberg warns. “One: some things are best left alone. Two: well, we actually don't know all the answers. Namely, why Miranda wanted so much to do with your wife…” He opens his mouth to say more, then shakes his head grimly.

“Mother Miranda,” Lady Beneviento continues, “is a gifted and brilliant scientist. She also…watches over this village, in a sense. Some see fit to worship her. As for us, the Lords, she gave us the Cadou-”

“Salvatore did mention this Cadou,” you say, casting your mind back to that baffling discussion. “But I didn't fully understand.”

Shaking her head, Lady Beneviento sighs. “Now is not the right time for us to enter into that discussion. It would take hours, if not longer, to give you even the most basic understanding. I'm afraid it will have to wait.”

“As if she could hope to understand in the first place,” Lady Dimitrescu says scathingly, and you jolt in your seat. You had almost forgotten she was in the room.

“Alcina, please. This is already difficult enough,” Lady Beneviento urges, and the countess appears to bite back a rebuke. “Thank you. As I was saying - your wife spent some time in and around the village. We all met her, several times in fact. Mother Miranda seemed rather…keen for Aideen to stay by her side…”

“Keen? Oh, don’t make me laugh,” Lady Dimitrescu scoffs. No longer able to hold back, her words tumble out in a furious deluge. “She was positively smitten, parading her around like some sort of trophy. It was sickening, frankly. Eager little slip of a thing, trotting after Miranda with that ridiculous book of hers.”

Your head is swimming. You can't make head nor tail of this. The countess’ vitriol for Aideen is one thing, but your anger is deadened by a burgeoning dread. Something else in her words gives you pause, a sickly feeling inside. For all that you have heard of Aideen’s involvement with Miranda, one thing is becoming painfully clear - she was not forced, not unwilling. She was happy.

“Hold on…” you say slowly, in a voice that is not your own; hollow, lifeless. “You're all talking about this as though it's already happened…as though it's not happening right now. Do you mean to tell me she's not in the village anymore? Is she not with Mother Miranda?”

The air in the room is horribly dense. Each set of eyes averts from your own; even the countess looks mildly uncomfortable. The sickness in your gut intensifies, and along with it, a small voice inside that warns you: Don't ask. You don't want to know.

With some difficulty you push this thought aside, and get to your feet again. This time, no-one stops you. It is Heisenberg who looks at you first, his mouth set into a hard line.

You fix your eyes on him. “Tell me, please. I need to know. What happened to my wife?” He doesn't respond, and your voice rises to a shout. “Is she dead? Is that it? Tell me, right now, or I swear-”

“We don't know! None of us know!” he yells back, and slams an open palm into the wall behind him. You feel the floor vibrate slightly beneath your feet.

“That's just it, you see…” Lady Beneviento whispers, her interlocked hands trembling. “We haven't seen or heard from Mother Miranda for the best part of a year.”

You turn to her with a fragile hope blossoming in your chest; she mentioned only Miranda, not Aideen. It's all you have left to cling onto, the last thing keeping you tethered. Lady Beneviento draws in a breath to speak, but it is Heisenberg who breaks the silence.

“No, kid. Wipe that look off your face,” he says, something close to pity behind his eyes. “The same goes for your wife. No sign of her, either.”

The world around you dissipates, and you sink back down with your head in your hands. It's over. You can hear nothing but that voice in your mind again; Aideen's. This time, it mocks you.

Time to give up.

Notes:

Back again with a kinda hefty new chapter! I loved writing it all kicking off with the Lords to be honest, they're an absolute mess and a hoot and I'm so here for it

Hope you had fun with this one as the mystery comes just that bit more unravelled! More to come I hope soon, thanks as always for reading! I've appreciated so much the interest for this story so far, it's a really exciting project for me and delights me to know that it's being enjoyed 🩷

also, chapter title this time came from Simmer by Hayley Williams (absolute tune tbh)

Chapter 6: Bravery Born of Pain

A warm hand reaches out to rest on your arm; Lady Beneviento's. You remain in your wilful darkness, palms pressed against your eyes. There is no comfort to be had; not now, not anymore.

“This doesn't mean she's gone, you know.”

“Please,” you croak. “Don't. I can't… I’ve had enough. I never should have come here.”

There is a collective shift in the room in the wake of your admission. Half of you waits for a snide remark from Lady Dimitrescu, or a cruel joke from Angie, but neither comes. Your insides are wrenching, twisting in the throes of grief for a woman who may be still alive, but lost to you. Dead in all the ways that matter. Only a fool would upend their life the way you did. Any sane person would have turned back by now, faced with all that you have seen. You've almost died several times over, slept so little that your eyes are sunken and dark. Not until now have you realised, truly, how very stupid you've been. Above all, you are frightened. Exhausted and frightened.

Your hands are wet. Briefly you're confused, then it registers that you've been crying silently into your palms. Drawing them away from your face, you raise your head. It’s as though you are seeing the room and its occupants clearly for the first time. Lady Dimitrescu is wearing an expression you can't parse, and looks away quickly when her eyes meet yours. Lady Beneviento’s hand, surprisingly large and firm, still rests on your upper arm.

In the centre of the room stands Heisenberg, and you don't need to look hard to read his expression. He is openly sneering at you.

“Well, I guess that's that,” he says, his voice laden with sarcasm. “You've had enough, you're tired, you’re done. Time to go home to Oxford. Safe journey, kid.”

Your brain works sluggishly. Unsure of what to make of this display, you stare at Heisenberg, at the disdain painted all over his face. Beneath it there seems to be an undercurrent of frustration, like he is waiting for you to catch on. But you're still wrestling with more emotion than you can contain, so you form a question that you hope will break this peculiar standoff.

“Do you mean to say… I shouldn't go back?”

It doesn't feel like the right thing to ask, somehow, but it's all that comes to mind. Heisenberg scoffs and looks at each of the two women in turn, then throws up a hand.

“Fine, fine. If no-one else will say it…” he scowls. “I'll cut to the chase. These two seem to think that by finding this damn wife of yours, it'll lead to Miranda. That's it, that’s why we called you up here.”

You decide to keep him talking. “And what do you think?”

“Me?” Heisenberg scratches his beard and shrugs. “I think you’re nuts, and I reckon your wife is ten times worse by now. I think my life is a damn sight more peaceful without Miranda.”

“Heisenberg…” Lady Dimitrescu warns tersely.

“Whatever,” he grunts, waving a hand at her. “Long and short of it is, you didn't get those notes by accident. I doubt your wife sent them, at least not without Miranda breathing down her neck. My money's on Miranda doing it. And don't ask me why, ‘cause I don't know and frankly, I don't care.”

As he speaks, you try to cast your mind back to that day, the night the carefully packaged box of notes was dropped on your doorstep. It was only a few weeks ago, but the details are hazy. Did you see the face of whoever brought them? You can't be certain. The memory emerges in photographic flashes; you recall the awful, swooping sensation of horror when you first laid eyes on the notes and drawings. The way your heart ached when you recognised, immediately, that they belonged to your wife.

At the time, it had felt like a sick joke. A new sensation arises now, far worse than a cruel prank; the feeling of having been lured here. By Mother Miranda, no less. A shiver creeps up through your body, then the reality of the situation hurtles into you. Heisenberg's face flashes with satisfaction upon seeing your expression, knowing the penny has finally dropped.

“What do you mean to say? Are you asking me to help you find Mother Miranda?” you ask, incredulous.

Lady Beneviento answers before Heisenberg can.

“It would be mutually beneficial, would it not? You know your wife well. We know Mother Miranda,” she murmurs. “One may lead to the other. When Karl found those notes at Salvatore's, we knew we had to speak with you. But if you choose to leave, we will have to respect that decision. No-one will force your hand; the choice is entirely yours.”

She seems to direct the last part to Lady Dimitrescu, who is still refusing to look your way. She's difficult to read, but underneath her efforts to appear disinterested, something is off. There is a certain stiffness to her posture, some hairline crack in her poise. Is she waiting for your decision? Would she rather you leave? It's impossible to tell. You are caught in the gravity of her unease, and it feeds your own.

You cannot allow yourself to hope, not again. Nor can you trust these Lords. And yet, you haven't felt the telltale prickle of dishonesty; they’re speaking the truth, or at least part of it. In some way, they have found themselves in a state of confusion and loss not unlike your own. Mother Miranda and Aideen. One may lead to the other. Perhaps this is a chance; perhaps you ought to take it, in spite of all your dread and misgivings. What else will you do; where else will you go, if you refuse? The decision feels inevitable. Knowing this provides you no comfort.

You close your eyes as you speak, and the words emerge into the stillness, hushed and hesitant. “I… I'll help. I'll stay and help, if you'll do the same for me.”

“Thank God. That was downright painful to watch.” Heisenberg groans, and rubs his face roughly. “For a scholar, you're not very quick on the uptake, are you? God…” he mutters again, shaking his head. “Can I go now?”

“Just a moment, please, Karl,” Lady Beneviento says, before he can move a muscle. “We need to discuss some arrangements, do we not?”

“Nope,” Heisenberg grunts. “Don't even think about it. Figure it out between the two of you.”

Flustered by Heisenberg's insult, you've hardly been listening, but now they have your full attention. Having burned your bridges with Mira at the inn before coming here, it dawns on you that you've nowhere else to go. You had assumed that you were heading to the castle to meet your death, so it didn't much matter anymore. And by the sounds of things, not one of the Lords wants you as their charge.

“Excuse me…” you mumble, even though no-one is speaking. “I could go and stay with Salvatore, could I not?”

“I don't trust that lump to boil an egg, let alone keep an eye on you. Plus, you'd be too far out at the reservoir. No-one can stand the stench,” Heisenberg says flatly.

He looks to Lady Beneviento, and out of nowhere, a cackle bursts out of Angie.

“Don't ask Donna! She's got-”

“Angie!” Lady Beneviento hushes the doll, in a tone more forceful than you've yet heard her use. Then she turns to the countess, and her voice softens into a quiet plea. “Alcina, please. I know it's a lot to ask.”

For what feels like the first time, Lady Dimitrescu's eyes find you. You shrink under the intensity of it. All of the weight in the room is held between the two of you as she considers, once again reverted to that maddening look of impassivity. Her striking eyes are narrowed, and they betray nothing. There is a part of you that wants to open your mouth and oppose the idea of staying here at the castle, but the words stay lodged in your throat, unspoken. You fight with some insistent whisper in the back of your mind, one that trammels all rational thought.

Don't speak. Wait for her.

“Only because it is you asking, Donna,” the countess murmurs at last, still proud and unruffled. Gracefully she rises from her seat, and takes one stride towards you. “You will stay out of my way, and the same goes for my daughters. Do not think for one moment that you are a guest here; merely a necessary inconvenience. Are we quite clear?”

“Yes, my Lady. Thank you-”

She is gone before you can finish speaking, ducking through the doorway in a fluid and practised motion.

Lady Beneviento releases a prolonged breath, and her bunched shoulders drop. The space feels lighter following the countess’ exit, but you find yourself staring at the door, grappling with a sort of puzzled frustration. She shouldn't have conceded so easily. She despises you openly, and yet she did concede. You can't begin to work her out; but then again, how are you to read the mind of such a woman? Is it better that you remain ignorant of whatever thoughts lie behind that imperious face?

You are brought back by a small cough. Lady Beneviento is standing, ready to leave with Angie held close to her body.

“I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble, my Lady,” you say, inclining your head respectfully. “I… Well, if I'm honest, I hadn't expected to come through this evening unscathed.”

You can hear the warmth in her voice as she responds, a ripple of amusement.

“Please, don't apologise. I think it went rather well, all things considered. Don't mind Alcina; she'll soon settle. She can be, well, rather difficult…” She trails off.

“It's been a pleasure, my Lady. Until next time, unless there isn't one” you smile wanly, and you hear a soft exhale from under the veil. A laugh, if you're not mistaken. She extends a hand, and you bend to kiss it.

“Stop swooning, weirdo,” Angie scowls, trying and failing to swat you away with her tiny arms. In turn, you bow your head to the doll. She rolls her eyes and tugs at Lady Beneviento's dress.

You are left alone with Heisenberg. He fixes you with a stare that you can't read behind his dark glasses, and the silence grows unbearable. You aren't quite sure what to do with yourself. He looks set to say something, but appears to think better of it. With one last shake of his head, he starts towards the door.

“Excuse me, Mr Heisenberg?”

“Hm?” he grunts with his back to you, engulfed again in a cloud of smoke that billows from his freshly lit cigar. The question on your lips is the one you have least wanted to ask, but now it forces its way out of you, no longer able to stave off your desperate need to know.

“Did Aideen ever speak about me?” you ask, not bothering to hide the tremor in your voice.

“Not to me, she didn't. But I didn't have much time for her,” he says, without emotion. “Too close to Miranda. I chose not to get involved.”

He leaves you with those words, and doesn't look back. You look around the newly empty room, only now able to take it all in. The lavish furnishings are quite clearly ancient, likely priceless. You wonder how many treasures this castle holds within its walls, what number of dark secrets lie here. You are too tired to dwell on such matters.

In the hearth, the fire is smouldering down to embers. As you watch it die, you're soothed by the faint crackle of the husks of logs falling apart. In body and mind you are drained, heavy from the top of your head to your fingertips. You can think only of sleep, though you daren't hope for much rest at all. You’re not safe here.

Still, you will have to find somewhere to curl up and at least try to give your body some respite. You tuck your bestiary and the notes under one arm, drag your leaden legs across the room, and turn the doorknob slowly.

“Ah-”

Flies, hundreds of them. They flood through the doorway and swarm around you, but they do not bite. Some crawl over your arms and legs, others buzz around your ears and neck. You stand stock-still, close your eyes and wait for it to stop.

“Oh, you're no fun. Cassandra said you'd run around screaming.”

Looking up, you swallow your fear and take in the sight in front of you. A woman with a startlingly familiar, bloodstained face, but subtly different. Another of the countess’ daughters. Bright red hair falls from beneath her hood, and her expression is sour as she glares down at you. There is something quite juvenile and darkly playful about her.

“Good evening, miss. I was just about to turn in for the night,” you say, craning your neck to meet her eyes. Clever and golden, like her mother's.

“Hmph,” she huffs, and takes a step back. “So boring.”

Behind her is Cassandra, sickle in hand. The sight of it makes your heart falter, and you can almost feel the blade pressing against your throat again, where your pulse is thudding. But she makes no move towards you, only traces a long finger over the shining edge.

“Don't be so rude to our guest, Daniela. Poor little thing…” Cassandra sneers. “How kind of Mother to invite the mouse to play again.”

A new voice rings out in the corridor, footsteps approaching steadily.

“Behave, sisters. Remember what Mother said.”

The third sister, graceful and blonde. She is just as beautiful as the other two, but markedly more serious, carrying herself with a distinct air of authority. Momentarily her name escapes you, though you know you've heard it before. Cassandra, Daniela, and…

“...before Bela and Daniela catch a whiff…”

This one, Bela, halts a few steps from you, looking down her nose. Her sisters appear to shift at her presence, shrinking back a little into themselves. They are notably subdued, chastised. You are beginning to understand Bela's warning to them, and you feel a little calmer for it. The countess must have given her daughters orders not to harm you.

“As I say… I was just on my way to bed,” you mumble. “It's been a rather long day, you see.”

You start to trudge past the three sisters, keeping your gaze down. There's little use needling them; even if they are forbidden from hurting you, they are undoubtedly bloodthirsty, and one push could be all it takes. Cassandra, in particular, looks at you the same way a lion would a gazelle - hunger and violence bleed bright from her eyes.

“She'll not last long,” Bela says darkly as you walk away. You're trying to look purposeful, so you act as though you didn't hear her remark. Your hands quiver, your breath caught in your throat. Three sets of golden eyes follow you until you round a corner.

A couple of turns later down the now-empty corridors, and you dare to stop, to breathe. The staff who streamed through the castle have all retired for the night. Where the solitude should be comforting, it instead presses against you, claustrophobic. In a place so full of human life, you somehow feel like the last person around. This is a sombre place, a deathly place; it’s absurd that you, apparently, are to dwell here now. Having survived this evening is surreal in itself.

You wander until you come across a utility cupboard full of linens, enough to make a nest of sorts on the cramped floor. Fumbling in the darkness, you find that the door can be locked from the inside. Not much of a defence if the countess or any of her daughters decide to come and find you, but it provides some small illusion of safety.

Curled awkwardly on top of the linens like a half-crushed spider, you can't settle. You hold the bestiary close to your chest, and trace the letters on its spine. The cupboard is draughty, the linens too starchy beneath you. This night will be long and sleepless, so you try to blank your mind and stave off the dread creeping through your bones.

The castle begins to stir outside the door some hours later, and you rise quietly with it.

***

Observe, stick to the shadows, don't make a sound. You slink through corridors with your eyes low, but you’re alert, always.

Days and nights bleed away within the castle walls, and you really are beginning to feel the truth of the countess’ moniker. Poor little mouse. You haven't uttered a single word since that evening with the Lords. In your mind you rake over it, searching for some scrap of clarity amongst the confusion. You come up short, but this doesn't stop your brooding.

As was your suspicion, Lady Dimitrescu's daughters have been instructed not to harm a hair on your head. This doesn't deter them from trying to frighten you out of your skin when a swarm suddenly engulfs you, or the haphazard swinging of a sickle or knife as you pass by. You try not to let your terror show, and by the fourth or fifth instance, they grow bored. Bela, contrary to her sisters, does not participate in such games. She merely watches with cold eyes, more often than not at her mother's side.

All the while, tucked into corners or alcoves, you spend the long hours of nothingness updating your bestiary. First are the three daughters, their faces marred by streaks of blood both fresh and dried, identical tattoos on each of their foreheads. You watch closely as they dissolve into flies and back again, trying to work out the intricacies of these strange transformations. It always happens too quickly for you to decipher what you're seeing. Scribbled notes on their subtler differences fill the margins around the sketches, snippets of their varying temperaments.

Daniela is wild but calculating, at least until she locks in on whomever she decides to torment. She delights in frightening the staff, toying with them in cruel ways that provide her seemingly endless amusement. Beside her pencilled image, you write: Unpredictable. Possessed by bouts of rage, disappears for hours on end. Much calmer when she returns, until the next mood takes her.

When Cassandra slips through the heavy cellar door by night, screams are certain to follow. They rise up through the walls and ceilings, inescapable. The staff seem to fear her most, and they do not cry when she drags one of them away for punishment, or worse. They whimper and go stiff, their mouths moving in silent prayer. You do not interfere. Whenever Cassandra's eyes seek you out from across a room, catlike and venomous, you make yourself scarce. The screams of young women ring in your ears.

Somewhat frustratingly, Bela is the one you simply cannot get a measure of, try as you might. In part because you rarely see her, mostly because she gives nothing of herself away. She holds herself with a poise reminiscent of her mother, more restrained than her sisters. But you know well that she is just as bloodthirsty.

These women are all hungry, fervent in their need to hurt, to consume.

You are forced to acclimate quickly to the scent of blood and death, and to numb yourself to the suffering all around. You bury your horror by continuing to observe from a distance, then retreat to the comfort of whichever hidey-hole you choose each night. With your bestiary and pencil in hand, your mind quietens a little. You leave no room for thoughts of the future or past. Stay present, write, draw, try to sleep. Start again by morning.

And still, you cannot complete your sketch of the countess. Lady Dimitrescu situates herself in those places you can't reach, behind locked doors or parts of the castle as yet unknown to you. The glances you manage to catch are fleeting, and insufficient to work with. It becomes your obsession, and frustration mounts each time you try and fail to seek her out. Mere minutes are all you need; you wouldn't even bother her. You're driven to track her movements, gripped by a need that you still don't understand. While the sketch remains half-finished, you're losing sleep.

This bizarre game ends in the courtyard, after an afternoon spent tailing the countess through the castle. For the first time, you see her in the light of day. She is alone on a bench, contemplative and statuesque. Concealed behind a withering rose bush, you crouch with your pencil hovering over the page. You have to deconstruct her before attempting to recombine the pieces onto paper, and so you watch, rapt. She is smoking, staring with eyes unfocused at some point beyond the castle’s outer walls.

Her hair, you note, has the subtlest hint of brown; like a black cat in the sun, this other hue only now comes to light. She has neglected to don her leather gloves, and with the hand not holding her cigarette, plays idly with a silver lighter. You see her cheek hollow where she seems to be biting the inside of it. Unbidden, your own hands twitch. You're beginning to lose yourself in this voyeurism, slipping away as everything shrinks to occupy the spaces between.

Somewhere between seconds and minutes, you have forgotten why you followed the countess here. The bestiary is slack in your right hand, your left fiddling aimlessly with the pencil. An insect lands on your shoulder and you half-shrug to dislodge it, not moving your eyes from the countess.

“Naughty, naughty. Don't you have a wife?”

Before you can make a sound, a strong hand clamps over your mouth. Sharp fingernails press into the flesh of your cheek. The voice in your ear is a low hiss followed by a quiet, breathy laugh.

“I'll just be borrowing this. You don't mind, do you?”

Daniela. The bestiary is snatched from your grasp, and the hand silencing you dissipates into those awful flies. She's gone, buzzing erratically away. Your jaw aches where her fingers were, bruises waiting to surface. You steady yourself with tremulous breaths, slowing your heartbeat. Daunted as you feel, you need to retrieve your bestiary, one way or another. You’ll have to go after her.

Taking care not to alert Lady Dimitrescu to your presence, you back out of the rose bush and stay crouched as you creep away. Once out of sight, you straighten up and break into a jog, through the open courtyard door. Daniela has long since disappeared, but you know you will find her; it's what she wants. You curse yourself for thinking that she’d grown bored of taunting you, knowing now that she was merely lying low and formulating a plan.

Daniela's game, as it happens, is rather simple. At intervals through the lower floor of the castle, she makes herself known by leaving a few flies straggling in her wake. You just have to follow them, but the path you're treading is one that leads to the worst place possible. The only place she would choose for such a game.

The door to the dungeon is flung wide open and beside it, Daniela and Cassandra are wearing identical, equally nasty grins. Your eyes search both of them for any sign of the bestiary, but your hope is half-hearted. You already know where it has ended up.

“Hello, you two. Could I have my book back, please?” you ask, pushing for a falsely light tone. Their smiles don’t falter and Daniela begins to giggle, as though being caught out in a secret.

“But of course,” Cassandra says brightly, playing along. “It's just down in the cellar. Mind the steps; they can be quite slippery. Blood, you know? Gets everywhere.”

This sends Daniela dissolving into a more raucous fit of laughter.

The steps beyond the door are a gaping black chasm, that space from which the screams emerge most nights. Is that damn book really worth it? You've no idea what lies down there. But, if you're quick enough - a rapid dart down those stairs and back up would see you back to safety. The bestiary, your last anchor to reality, to yourself; you can't bear the thought of losing it, all for the sake of cowardice.

“It looks, erm, rather dark down there…”

Immediately Daniela produces an ornate lighter from somewhere within her cloak, likely one of her mother's. You take it without looking in her eyes, which you know are alight with mischief and cruelty.

“Off you pop,” she chirps, and steps around to the back of you. Her hand lies flat between your shoulder blades, and gives you a shove that almost sends you toppling. Avoiding another push that would have you hurtling down the stairs, you mount the top step and stare down into the blackness beneath. You swallow the saliva that has pooled in your mouth, and strike the lighter. Its stuttering flame barely illuminates a metre ahead of you, and the light from the dim corridor does no better.

As you descend, the two sisters scramble to watch from the doorway above, snickering. Underfoot the stone is slick with something you daren’t look down to inspect, unsure if Cassandra was joking about it being blood. The heat of the lighter is becoming uncomfortable in your hand, its weak flame sure to die if you don't hurry up.

Your foot hits flat ground. There is a persistent sensation of cold spreading through your chest; something is terribly, terribly wrong down here. The iron tang of blood cloys in the air. Worse, your skin prickles with that familiar warning that you're not alone. No movement or sounds, but you're sure there's something lurking.

“Check the wine racking,” Daniela pipes up from the doorway, and you wince. Her voice echoes down through the dungeon, and you dread to think what it might attract. You turn left and right, nerves fraying as you squint into your dim surroundings. And just beyond the orange glow that the lighter emits, there is a dark rectangular shape. Some sort of shelving, up against the mossy bricks.

You approach with soft steps, and the shape becomes clearer. Raising the lighter, which is flickering on the verge of going out, you see it. The gold lettering of your bestiary, up on a shelf that you can just about reach. You slide it off the edge, then hold the flame over the cover gingerly. It's unscathed. Sighing, you turn away to make a hasty break for the stairs.

“Ah… Oh, no…”

There's something shuffling towards you, groaning as it comes. Human in shape, hooded and unnaturally pale, its bare feet dragging over rough stone. A short, curved blade hangs loosely from one of its bony hands. It's slow-moving, but clearly after something, attracted by the movement and noise. All you can see of its face is a mouth gaping open, broken-toothed and red with blood.

The creature is blocking your exit. Cursing, you back up against the shelving, defenceless. You're hesitant to turn your back on the thing, but you have to face the shelves to climb to safety. Another obstacle is that your hands are full, occupied with the bestiary and lighter. One or the other has to go.

You plunge yourself into darkness, flicking the lighter's lid closed. Now you can tuck the bestiary under one arm, leaving both your hands free. The shelves are stable enough to take your weight, and it’s a quick climb to the very top. Still, you're not convinced of your safety up here. That pale creature might be able to reach you, or even scramble up the same way you did.

“Very funny, you two,” you quaver in the direction of the doorway. “You got me. But I'd quite like to come up now, please…”

“Calm yourself, mouse. It's just a little moroaicǎ!” Cassandra struggles to get the words out as she cackles.

Moroaicǎ…?

And then you're back by the bookshelf at home in Oxford, reading the word in an obscure handwritten book of Aideen's. Moroi…moroaicǎ. Here, now, one of them is hissing as it reaches the base of the racking. It swings its blade upwards clumsily.

“Do you mean to tell me they're real?!” you yelp. The shelf wobbles beneath you as the wretched thing grabs onto the supports. “Please! Someone just-”

“What on Earth is going on down there? Answer. One of you, now.”

You squint up at the door, and there is the unmistakable white of Lady Dimitrescu's dress as she stoops to peer down at you. Oh, God. Perhaps you'd fare better against the creature, now trying to find purchase with its claws to reach you.

“I need help, please!” you shout weakly, and then she is sweeping down the stairs, bending to avoid the low ceiling. In three strides she is behind the moroaicǎ, sweeping it aside with a flick of her wrist. It falls some five or so metres away in a heap on the ground.

“Thank you, thank you,” you babble, shuffling forwards on your backside. But the shelf is higher than it seemed; you look down to the floor, thinking you might injure yourself if you drop.

“Oh, for Heaven's…”

Lady Dimitrescu tuts and glares at you venomously. With her height she towers above the racking, and you can do nothing but give her a pathetic, pleading look. She reaches behind you and her fist closes around your collar, then she's lifting you down as one might scruff a kitten. How embarrassing. Mumbling your thanks again, half-incoherent, you stumble for the stairs and take them two at a time. At the top you double over, heaving as you try to fill your lungs with cleaner air.

Cassandra and Daniela are no longer breathless with laughter. They’re uneasy, shifting guiltily as they look not at you, but past you, to their mother. You, however, aren't so brave as to chance a look over your shoulder. Her footsteps echo off the bricks as she stamps up the stairs. With a fleeting idea of slipping away unnoticed, you edge past the now sullen sisters.

“Where do you think you're going?”

It's tempting to pretend you didn't hear. But it's no good; the countess stands behind you now, and you feel her presence just inches from your back.

Your neck cricks as you wheel around to face her. “Yes, my Lady?”

“Go to the parlour,” Lady Dimitrescu snaps. “I'd like a word.”

All you can do is as you’re told. A flush rises up your face as you walk stiffly away. You've at last caught her attention, and it's the very last thing you wanted.

***

The fireplace is cold, full of ashes. It's the same room in which you met Heisenberg and Lady Beneviento, but the space feels much larger without their presence. You're not entirely sure how much time has passed since that meeting, and your thoughts wander to what they might be up to now.

The Lords dispersed without any semblance of a plan to find Miranda or Aideen, and no agreement to reconvene at a later date. You wonder, then, why you're still here. Certainly, none of the castle's occupants are pleased with this arrangement, and nor are you. Everything has stagnated, and this stasis is slowly chipping away at your mental state. Perhaps the countess will come with your marching orders, or worse. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing.

You’ve been waiting for the best part of an hour when she finally barges through the door.

“I'd like to make this quick, because I've got better things to do.”

She doesn't sit down. Instead she paces in front of where you're seated, and she is taut with irritation. You blink at her, perplexed. Is she really so ruffled by what happened down in the dungeon? Besides, you have nothing to say for yourself on the matter. It was merely a trick played at your expense, albeit a dangerous one. You conclude that it's better to keep your mouth shut; if she needs to blow off steam, you'd best sit by and let it happen.

“I thought I had made myself quite clear when I so graciously allowed you to remain here in my castle. You were to stay out of my way. Why, then, have you been trailing after me like some sort of stray animal?” Lady Dimitrescu demands. She has halted in the centre of the room, and the look in her eyes makes you shiver anew.

Her question wasn’t the one you were expecting. So, it wasn't her daughters’ antics that set her off. Rather, your sneaking around has, apparently, broken the rules she set in place.

“I’m sorry, it’s just, you see…” you start, frantic, then trail off. Still flushed from your neck up to your ears, you are mortified. There's no use babbling your way through this, but you can't help it, faced with the countess’ ire.

“Well?”

“The truth is, well, I wanted to…to draw you, my Lady. But you had told me to stay away, so I was, erm, trying to do just that,” you mutter. “I apologise. I've been driving myself half mad with this stupid book, and I’m just sorry to have been a bother in the first place.”

As you finish, you drop the bestiary onto the cushion at your side. Lady Dimitrescu squints down at you, and there's something of a curious look in her eye. Your honesty seems to have thrown her a little. Either that, or you are witnessing the calm before the storm. Perhaps she is deciding whether there will be a storm at all, weighing up both sides. It feels like the worst coin toss imaginable, waiting for it to drop and praying for the more favourable outcome.

“Theoretically speaking…” she says slowly. “If I were to let you complete your task, you would stop this little sneaking charade of yours?”

You’ve been staring miserably at your knees, but now your head snaps up.

“Yes, of-of course, my Lady. You have my word.”

Her eyes flick over to the bestiary, then back to you.

“I will give you half an hour each day to draw me, and no more, until it is complete. You will not speak to me, or ask inane questions. If your work isn’t up to standard, I will revoke the agreement. Understood, mouse?”

You nod emphatically, unable to quite believe how this has turned out. Why the concession? The question is on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it down. Better not to push your luck. Already your mind is moving to the tools you might need, more than just a blunted pencil.

“Do you have paints of any kind? Watercolour, maybe? I'd like to do a proper job, you see,” you pipe up, crossing your fingers behind your back.

“You'll manage,” the countess says dismissively; her voice is cracked, weary. “Speak with the Duke when he passes through.”

With that, she sweeps out of the parlour.

“Thank you, my Lady,” you call after her, but she is already gone. Only now do you register that you're shaking lightly, still reeling from the anticipation of something that never came. Your trembling fingers reach blindly for the bestiary, and you let it fall open on your lap.

Repeated failed attempts at drawing the countess stare up at you, each shoddier than the last. Every time, you had fallen short of being able to capture her image. Something about her eyes, or perhaps the way she holds herself, eluded you. Now, you've been afforded a chance to get it right. You open up a fresh page, and scrawl a quick title in preparation. Countess Alcina Dimitrescu.

She will be the crowning jewel of the Liber Bestiarium, and this will be your best work yet.

Notes:

Castle life huh? Can't beat it!

I wanted to inject some levity into this chapter (and a tinge of hope maybe?) after such bucketloads of angst, I enjoyed writing a lot so I hope you've enjoyed reading! Thank you <3

Chapter 7: Appetites

“It's my lucky day, it seems. A pleasure to see you again, dear friend!”

The Duke’s face lights up with a fond smile as you approach.

“Likewise, Mr Duke. I was wondering when I might see you here,” you say, extending a hand to the old merchant. He takes it and plants a wet kiss on your knuckles. In a little side room on the lower floor, he has surrounded himself with his wares, and sits smoking a thick cigar. The smoke is sweet and cloying, and you have to swallow a cough as it wafts around you.

“Now, I must tell you off a little bit before you ask the question I can see you're burning with,” he scolds, and his expression takes on a mocking sternness. “Your good friend at the inn has been beside himself, pondering on your whereabouts.”

Cristian. You've scarcely thought about him, amongst all that’s happened since you were taken from the inn. More importantly, if he's been asking after you, he must have returned safely from the ‘jobs’ he had taken on. Mira had been consumed with worry last you saw her, oddly cagey about what Cristian had left town to do. At least he's alright, you think, as you nudge down a twinge of guilt at having worried him so much.

“How is he?” you ask the Duke. “And his sister-in-law? His children?”

“Rest assured, all is well at that charming little inn,” he says, nodding sagely. “I had the pleasure of dining there, in fact. The young man told me of your misadventures around the village. Rather an entertaining tale, I must say.”

At this, you come over indignant. “Yes, well, you sent me into the castle with nothing but a knife. What use was that going to be? I almost died.”

“Ha! I would never compromise your safety, dear woman. That was a rather good knife, I'll have you know. Though, not a patch on that fine revolver you wielded at the reservoir. I was thrilled to hear of it.”

“Right,” you mutter, shaking your head. “That aside, please tell Cristian I'm as safe and well as I can be. And please pass on my apologies for all the trouble.”

“He will be most glad to hear it. He all but threatened to jump on my carriage and hitch a ride here if I didn't promise to assure your well-being,” the Duke grins. “Now, I can still hear that question on the tip of that sharp tongue of yours. What is it that you need, my friend?”

You glance around at his wares. There doesn't appear to be anything of much use to you here, but you suspect that he already knew of your request beforehand. The intricacies of how the Duke operates are as yet unknown to you, and you have a feeling you'll probably never be any the wiser.

“I need some paints. Watercolour, preferably. Some pencils and charcoals too, if you have them.”

“Ah. I see.” The Duke starts rifling excitedly through a small case. “For your depiction of the lovely countess, I take it?”

“How did you…?”

“Now, you must know by now… there is not much I don't catch wind of around here,” the Duke says self-importantly, and winks. “Impressive work on your part, having the good Lady agree to such a thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here we are!” the Duke booms, ignoring your question. He has produced from the case a silver box full of various pencils, and a palette of paints in an equally ornate casing. You wince; they look expensive.

“Don't look so glum. The countess herself paid ahead for your items. Here.”

Taking the boxes in your hands, you inspect the contents. It's a fine set of pencils and charcoals, and the paints look to be of decent quality. You're quite taken aback by Lady Dimitrescu's gesture, though you doubt that it was borne of any sort of kindness. Vanity, perhaps? She must want the drawing to be a respectable work of art, else she would simply let you go on with your blunted pencil.

“Thank you, sir. This is a fine set.”

The Duke bows his head in acknowledgement, then leans forward conspiratorially, beckoning you closer. You lean in and cock an ear towards him.

“Now, I only tell you this on account of our long and fruitful association,” he stage-whispers, and you only just manage not to roll your eyes. “But when you find yourself alone with the countess, I advise that you have your wits about you. She has certain, shall we say… appetites.”

You reel back. There's a twinkle in the Duke's beady eyes that's familiar, like a joke you haven't quite grasped the punchline of. But you already know that the countess and her daughters alike sustain themselves on a diet of flesh and blood.

“If you mean about what she, erm… consumes, then I'm well aware of that.” you say, feeling your ears burning. “I’ve seen enough of her daughters to put two and two together.”

“Hmm, yes, there is that…” the Duke muses. “Those are not the appetites to which I refer, I’m afraid. Well, I suppose you'll find out for yourself soon enough.”

After blinking owlishly at him for a moment, you register that he is dismissing you. Already he's humming to himself as he clicks the latches on various cases and bejewelled boxes, preparing to depart. You shake your head, bemused, and turn to the doorway.

“Good day then, I suppose.”

With your tools in hand, you shut the door on the Duke, intending to deposit the items somewhere safe. Afterwards, you'll more than likely continue your usual aimless traipsing around the castle, trying to avoid Cassandra and Daniela. Since their last trick, they have both been worryingly quiet. You have to stay sharp in this place, peeking around corners before you round them, listening out for the high-pitched buzzing that heralds trouble.

As you wander, the Duke's cryptic words of caution play on your thoughts. “I advise that you have your wits about you.” If there is more to the countess’ proclivities than mere bloodlust, you are clueless as to what that might be. She is, perhaps, the most enigmatic being you have ever come across. And your job is not to unravel that enigma, much as it calls to your curiosity. Perhaps there are certain things best left unknown to you.

***

Impatiently you wait in the days that follow. You hear nothing from Lady Dimitrescu, no invitation to begin your work with her. The promise of half an hour with her each day seems to have evaporated, and you can't help but feel a little stung. You manage while away the best part of two days looking for somewhere more suitable to sleep than linen cupboards and secluded alcoves. One of the kindlier young maids takes pity on you and makes up a bed in one of the disused guest rooms, and surreptitiously hands you a key with which to lock yourself in at night.

“Just don't tell the mistress, please,” she says, as you help her dust and air the room. “I'm not sure she'd be best pleased with me, if she knew.”

“Of course,” you assure her. “She won't hear a peep about it. I'll just say it was all my doing, if I'm asked.”

“Thank you,” the girl smiles, and you feel better for her presence. She does, however, have more pressing duties to attend to, and has to leave in a hurry. The room is scarcely larger than a cupboard, the bed squeezed between three walls, but having a bed at all is a welcome relief. Cleared of dust and detritus, the space is very nearly pleasant. For a spell you rummage in the single wardrobe, coughing from the dust that spills out, but you find nothing of note. The shirts and trousers haven't been touched in decades; perhaps they'll do alright for you after a turn through the wash.

As it's fast approaching evening, you decide that you may as well see if you can happen across Lady Dimitrescu again, with a faint idea that you might make some small amount of headway on the initial sketch. From a distance, of course; you doubt she would take kindly to any deviation from the terms she has laid out. You've grown too restless to wait any longer for her summons, but you daren't try and rush her.

With your book and pencils in hand, you lock up the room and set off on a meandering path through the castle. Around this time, she could be anywhere. You haven't yet been able to string together an idea of the countess’ daily routine, if she even has one. She seems to just appear in places, then disappear before you get chance to register her presence. It's as unnerving as it is fascinating. Once or twice, you're certain you've caught her glancing at you with some intensity, curiosity flitting across her features. Each time, you avert your eyes and struggle with the urge to drink her in, dissect these looks. Something about ‘appetites’ plays in the back of your mind.

Tonight, something is calling you to the study. For some reason, you get the sense that she will be there. Your hunch pays off. The door is open a crack, and you press your eye to it eagerly. There is Lady Dimitrescu, working at an enormous dark wood desk. She has her back to you, meaning you couldn't possibly try to draw her, but that idea is already slipping from your mind. It's a strange effect she has; it ought to disquiet you, but you're inexorably drawn in by some force that you cannot push against. Too low for you to make out her words, it sounds as though she's muttering to herself as she writes. Her pen scratches, and she keeps on whispering. You're in that trance-like space again, so focused that you do not immediately register the presence at your back.

“It seems you haven't learned your lesson about spying.”

You stiffen at the voice just behind your ear. Warm breath on the back of your neck and a voice that's familiar, but just different enough to distinguish itself.

“Hello, Miss Bela,” you whisper, backing away from the door. She is bearing down on you, her face cold. Unlike her sisters, there is nothing playful or mischievous about her. Rather, she glares down at you with a menace that frightens you far more than any amount of dangerous tricks could. Her eyes are narrowed, full of undisguised distaste. You're quite sure she can hear the erratic thumping of your heart.

“You're lucky I smelled you before she did,” Bela says, jerking her head towards the study. “I was just looking for you.”

“Smelled me?” you ask, unable to keep the question buried. Even with all the restrictions in the castle, you've managed to keep yourself clean, darting into the staff facilities when the coast is clear in the small hours of the night.

“Your blood,” Bela scowls. “Obviously. As I say, I was looking for you. Mother will see you tomorrow evening in the atelier to begin this silly little project of yours. Seven o’clock. If you're late, the deal is off.”

“Okay, erm… thank you. I'll be there,” you stammer. Assuming you're free to go, you make to leave the area with haste. But Bela makes a low hissing noise through her teeth, and you freeze. She shifts her cloak, just enough to reveal the metallic glint of a blade beneath.

“Oh, I know you'll be there. You'll stick to the rules and behave, I'm sure. But, if you don't…” The tip of a knife gleams as she begins to unsheath it. “I will hear about it.”

“Understood,” you breathe. Bela dissipates into a swarm, the sound of her buzzing distinctly irritated. For a few terrified moments you do not move, rooted where she left you. Only when you hear the countess shift inside the study do you come to your senses, and hurriedly dart away from the door. The echo of Bela's threat makes your skin prickle. Images of that knife sinking into your skin drive the message home: know your place, else your blood will be spilled. Bela will not play games, like her sisters. She will make certain that you regret ever stepping out of line.

Once safely back in the tiny sanctuary of the guest room, your fear ebbs a little, but your heart is still pounding against your ribs.

God. You're far, far in over your head. What’s happening to you? Consumed by this ‘silly little project’, you've lost sight of why you are here in the first place. Aideen. And, with swoop of guilt in your stomach, you realise how little you've thought of her. You’ve lost any sense of time, holed up in the castle. Still, you should never have lost sight of what is most important, should have kept Aideen sharp in your thoughts. In your mind you reach for her, determined to remember. You strain to grasp onto the memory of the last time you saw her face before your life was torn apart.

She had been sullen that day. Just another one of her increasingly frequent strange moods, you had thought. And you had been annoyed, truthfully. All of your energy was firmly pointed at your studies, and there she was at home, self-absorbed and moody. You were fortunate enough to have been gifted the house by your ageing parents, supported through your long years of study. Aideen, conversely, had no-one to fall back on. No family to speak of, no qualifications, only you. But you had married her, and so she was your charge; you loved her, after all. That was all the reason in the world for you to work hard and support her.

You don't recall what had been her latest obsession at the time, only that you had little time to indulge her. Perhaps you'd been a little bit dismissive, more so than usual. All morning she watched you with hurt eyes, which you determinedly avoided. You had a seminar to lead at the university and, weary of Aideen's dark mood, headed for the door without another word. But you had looked back, intending to at least bid her goodbye. There she was by the kitchen door, staring after you. Her eyes - were they green or hazel? - said all the things she kept buried, those things you preferred not to acknowledge.

Dropping your head into your hands, you begin to regret dredging up the memory at all. You can't even recall the colour of your wife’s eyes anymore. Not the way she moved, or how she wore her hair. How could you forget? What is this place doing to you? For a moment you imagine yourself back home with Aideen, who is all but faceless. You don't even have a photograph to ground yourself, a reminder of who you were, who she was. Hopelessly, you try to stave off the shame that creeps like ice through your veins. You're tired, you reason. A lack of rest has sent your thoughts to dark places.

You manage a thin sleep, dreaming of Aideen with Lady Dimitrescu's face plastered onto her head, and wake up in the early hours coated in a film of cold sweat. The antique clock on the wall reads half past four. There is no window in the room, and no light by which to confirm the time. But the silence of the castle is enough to go by. The disturbing dream lingers. It seems the harder you try to conjure Aideen's face in your mind's eye, the further away it slips.

You'll see her soon enough, you tell yourself. Then you won't have to remember.

The clock ticks away the seconds until you have to go to the atelier. You wait with it, trying not to imagine the countess’ face where Aideen's should be.

***

Hours later, in a panic, you scurry down a corridor that you've already trodden multiple times. Where is this damned atelier? It must be nearing seven o'clock by now, and Lady Dimitrescu will not wait for long. That much, she made absolutely clear. The entire arrangement will be called off if you don't keep up your end of it.

You try to call the attention of passing maids, hoping for a pointer in the right direction, but every one of them avoids your gaze determinedly. Cursing under your breath, you turn back the way you came. It's no good; you won't find the atelier in time, and you will lose the opportunity you've been clinging onto like a lifeline.

“Are you alright?”

The kind young maid who helped you with your room, looking at you with some concern. She detaches herself from a gaggle of her colleagues, who are throwing uneasy glances your way. Relief floods into you at the sight of her.

“I can't find the atelier,” you say quickly. “Could you tell me where it is, please?”

The girl nods and motions for you to follow her down a narrow corridor. She is silent as you walk, absorbed in herself. You're too on edge to strike up a conversation, so you let the girl lead the way without speaking. Instead you examine her out of the corner of your eye. She looks barely out of her teen years, nervous and small. You wonder how she wound up here, how any of the staff did. Are they employed by choice, or something else? There are too many questions about the castle swarming in your head, none of which seem appropriate to ask.

“Here.” The girl stops abruptly outside a door. “Just… be careful, won't you? You're nice. Nice people don't do so well here.”

You offer a thin smile. “You're nice enough, and you seem to be doing just fine. Thank you, though. I'll be alright.”

Returning your smile, the girl opens her mouth to respond, but she's cut off by a voice drifting through the corridor.

“Antonia? What are you doing down there?”

“Coming!” She shoots you an apologetic look, then rushes off in the direction of the voice. You watch after her for a moment, take a deep breath, and face the door. Behind it waits Lady Dimitrescu. Your palms are clammy as you knock.

“Enter.”

It's a softer, more welcoming room than any you've seen so far in the castle. Dominating one wall is an enormous portrait that can only be of the countess herself, but she looks remarkably different - she looks human. A softer face, kinder eyes lit by a gentle source. You’re a touch daunted, because this is a fine piece of work, and you wonder how you might pull off something just as impressive in your humble bestiary. You gaze at the portrait until there is a small cough behind you, and you startle.

“Do get on with it. You have half an hour.”

Lady Dimitrescu sits in an ornately carved chair, one fit for her size, and she is absolutely devastating. Her sharp eyes drift over you dispassionately. The cream of her dress is stark against the dark wood behind, and there is a sharp floral scent drifting from her, mixed with the heady aroma of red wine. On a little side table is a bottle, and a glass already filled to the brim. A faint lipstick mark on the rim tells you that this isn't her first drink.

“Good evening, my Lady. Thank you for inviting me here,” you say, a note of deference in your voice. If she's pleased by this, she doesn't show it. She sniffs disinterestedly and gestures to the hard stool and easel set up for you, a few feet in front of her chair. You arrange the bestiary on the easel, open up a fresh spread of pages, and twiddle your pencil anxiously.

Right. Where to start…?

The pressure is mounting, though you're aware of the fact it's mostly self-inflicted. The worst Lady Dimitrescu could do is call off these sessions; as far as you're aware, there will be no punishment for a shoddy piece of art. At least, you don't think there will be any punishment. You could very well be wrong.

The initial sketch starts out well enough, the rough shape of the countess as she reclines at ease. But when you get to mapping out her facial features, you realise it won't be so simple as it seemed. She is, infuriatingly, looking off to one side as she drains another glass of wine. Like this, you will make no headway on arguably the most crucial part of this. No inane questions. Surely, it wouldn't be unreasonable to ask her to face forward. If she wants a respectable piece of work to come out of this, she will have to acquiesce. You steel yourself, and clear your throat.

“Excuse me, my Lady, but…” you begin, hesitant. “Could you please look this way, just for a moment?”

With a melodramatic sigh she looks at you head-on, pursing her painted lips. You murmur your thanks and quickly mark out the shape of her face, the way her hair falls around it, her eyes. You look up from the page, and your hands tremble a little. The countess notes this, and her lips twitch into a barely perceptible smirk. She promptly goes back to staring fixedly off to one side. You can't seem to move your eyes back down to the page.

Before you've begun to collect yourself properly, Lady Dimitrescu clicks her tongue and gets up from the chair. She looks set to leave without a word, but halts at the doorway, the bottle and glass clutched in one of her large hands.

“Your time is up. I will send for you again in the coming days. Don't bother me until then.”

Only when she is gone do you examine your work so far. The sketch is rough, but for half an hour's work, you're satisfied enough. It's a base from which you can build up next time - if there is a next time. Lady Dimitrescu could easily tire of this and change her mind. You remind yourself to tread lightly, and play by her rules. She will not make it easy, though. You know this well enough.

***

The next time you are called to the atelier, you're surprised to find Lady Dimitrescu smiling as you enter. Not one of cruelty, either. It's something close to warm, edged with amusement, and this unnerves you more than it perhaps ought to. Your eyes fall on the table beside her, and rapidly you piece things together. Not one, but two bottles of wine, the first of which is near-empty. How long has she been here, drinking all by herself? This new, easy mood of hers is jarring, and you find yourself even more guarded in the face of it. So you silently set yourself before the easel, and begin working.

It isn't long before Lady Dimitrescu breaks this silence. You've been laser-focused on drawing the way her curls are arranged, and you jolt when she speaks up.

“Care for some wine, little mouse?”

Your eyes flit up. There is that smile again, with a flash of teeth between her lips. You oughtn't take a drink from this woman, but you fear for her reaction if you refuse. What harm could a glass of wine do? If anything, it may serve to settle your mounting nerves. There is, of course, the matter of staying on the countess’ good side. You decide to indulge her.

“Yes, alright,” you say, your voice emerging tremulous and small. “Ah, but… there isn't a second glass, is there? Never mind.”

Lady Dimitrescu laughs lightly. “Come, now. You may drink from mine. It's a very special wine; a shame not to share it.”

You look at her with a suspicious curiosity, wondering what game she's playing here. The offer would be innocuous, coming from almost anyone else. But there's something about the countess’ smile that throws you off. She is beckoning you to her, and your feet carry you before your mind can put up much of a fight. Some feeble voice inside tells you to stop, but the countess is watching expectantly as you clear the distance. You get within an arm's length of her, still with enough self-preservation not to draw any closer.

“Good,” she hums, and refills the glass. “Very good. Now, taste.”

You take the glass from her hand, dwarfing your own, and bring it to your lips. The scent drifts up from the dark liquid, an edge to it that's unlike any wine you've had before. Something about it is vaguely repellent. You're about to hand the glass back over and make an excuse not to drink, but the countess’ eyebrows shoot up, anticipating your reluctance.

“Something the matter?”

Shaking your head, resigned, you raise the glass to your mouth once more. Your hand twitches, disturbing the liquid inside. It's thicker than you expected, clinging to the sides of the glass. Before you can think too hard on this, you tip back a mouthful of wine. It is thick, heavy as it coats your tongue. And God, it's like nothing else you've ever tasted. There is the usual richness of red wine, but it's sweeter, and oddly metallic. You tilt the glass further, and realise with a start that you've drained half of it already.

“Good,” Lady Dimitrescu murmurs again, watching you raptly. “You have good taste, it seems.”

Wiping your mouth with the back of one hand, you offer the glass back to the countess, bashful of your own indulgence. But she merely smiles, and shakes her head. She wants you to finish it off. You start to protest, but she is already pushing the glass back towards your face.

“I don't think I should-”

“Oh, but you most certainly should. There's plenty more. You are a guest, after all.”

You distinctly remember her making it quite clear that you were not a guest, at some point, but you think it wiser not to point this out. You drink again, hoping to get this over with. But as the next mouthful hits the back of your throat, you begin to feel unsteady. Your legs wobble beneath you, and your vision swims at the edges. Spluttering as you swallow, you look at the countess with wide eyes.

“This isn't normal wine, is it?” you mumble. The countess shakes her head, grinning again, and the glint of her teeth is acutely sinister.

“I was curious as to the effect it might have on you,” she says lightly. “A little stronger than what you're used to, hm?”

Your head is heavy as you try to nod, and the hand that snakes around to your back, steadying you, is strangely comforting. You blink, and quite suddenly you're leaning against Lady Dimitrescu's shoulder for support. This isn't drunkenness, not as you know it. It's as though the wine has shaken your mind out like a creased bedsheet, making everything smoother, softer at the edges. The countess is warm at your side, and you're aware of her presence, closer than you remember her being. She breathes steadily against your neck as you realise, with a sort of distant horror, that her lips are making contact with your skin. You have strength enough left in you to move, but you don't.

“I should go…”

“Should you, now?”

“I'm married,” you say weakly.

You feel her smirk against your skin. “I know.”

She could crush you. She could kill you right here, sink her teeth into you. There are so many things she could do. Vaguely imagining those teeth biting through skin and tendons, you shiver. Lady Dimitrescu makes a small shushing noise in your ear, and you sink further forwards. Your head rests limply on her shoulder. A small voice inside you, growing feebler by the moment, whispers for you to wrench yourself away, run and don't look back. But this is so warm, so comfortable. Just a moment longer, and you'll stop. The heat of the alcohol is pleasant in your stomach. And the countess is content to merely trace her lips, feather-light, across the edge of your jaw, down to your pulse point.

And you're turning your head, thinking only that you might meet her lips, just for a second-

THUD.

The door hits the wall hard as it flings open.

“Mother?”

You scramble away from the countess, growing cold as the horror inside you reaches a peak. The shock sobers you rapidly. In the doorway stands Daniela, panting as her eyes flit from you to the countess and back again.

“Yes?” Lady Dimitrescu asks, appearing entirely unaffected by the intrusion, the scene Daniela has just stumbled upon. “What is it? Something worth disturbing me for, I assume.”

“It's… you're needed on the telephone, Mother,” Daniela says slowly, her gaze now fixed on you. Quickly you revert your attention back to the bestiary on the easel. “And it's, um, quite urgent.”

Lady Dimitrescu quirks an eyebrow impatiently at her daughter.

“It's… Mother Miranda. She's asking for you.”

Now you are well and truly sober and the countess’ face, already ghostly white, pales even more. She is out of her seat in a heartbeat, marching for the door with something like a snarl contorting her mouth. And you are scurrying after her with one thought held close. You move with full intentions of somehow getting on that phone yourself, and demanding to know Aideen’s whereabouts. The idea is tinged with a sickly feeling of shame, because you can still feel where Lady Dimitrescu's lips met your neck.

“You will stay here,” the countess snaps at you as she reaches the door, striding past a dumbfounded Daniela.

“No! She's got my wife, I won't-”

“Daniela, keep her here. By any means necessary.”

The door slams shut, but still you move towards it, reaching for the handle. A strong hand catches you by the wrist, and squeezes until it hurts. You let out a tiny gasp, feeling your tendons strain under the firm grip.

“You heard Mother,” Daniela says. “Stay put. I'd rather not hurt you, believe it or not. So, behave.”

There's no choice but to let Daniela steer you onto the hard stool, where she stands over you with a troubled expression. You rub at your wrist where she grabbed you, glaring at her sourly.

“This isn't fair, you know,” you say, after a few minutes of this. Daniela opens her mouth to respond, then turns stock-still, whipping her head around to look at the door. She puts a finger to her lips, waiting for something. You can hear nothing, but it seems her senses are much sharper than yours, because a beat later, the door handle turns again.

Lady Dimitrescu ducks into the room and her face is mask-like, shaken. She can't quite meet your eyes as she looks to you, or rather past you.

“Well, it seems we need search no longer, little mouse,” she says, and you see her throat bob as she swallows. Her voice wavers. “Mother Miranda is on her way.”

Notes:

🚨 BIRD LADY'S ON HER WAY 🚨

And lovely Lady D's getting a bit cheeky... she just had to at some point didn't she?!

Thanks so much for reading! Things are about to get even more dicey I think 👀🌪

Chapter 8: Nothing Cuts Like a Mother

The castle is bursting into life.

You scramble to keep up with Lady Dimitrescu as she strides at a frankly alarming pace through the castle. She shows no sign of slowing or stopping as you try to question her through the burning stitch in your side. A swarm of flies trails behind; Daniela, shepherding you along. There is a distinct nervous edge to the sound of her buzzing. The countess spares no notice for either of you. Once she had delivered the news that Mother Miranda was to arrive shortly, her face had quickly changed from terror to rage. She stormed out of the atelier with you close at her heels, your heart in your throat.

“My Lady…” you pant. “Did Mother Miranda mention my wife at all?”

She mutters something you don't quite hear.

“I'm sorry?”

“I said,” she spits over her shoulder. “Keep your stupid questions to yourself.”

You bite your tongue, accepting that you won't glean any answers. You need to know, more than anything. But you will be no good to Aideen if you wind up skewered on the countess’ claws, or fed to the moroaicǎ. All you can do is follow wherever Lady Dimitrescu intends to go, battling to keep your mind together. It would be foolish to let yourself hope. But you sense that everything is about to change, one way or another. You can feel it in the very air itself, charged with that thick scent of uncertainty.

Somehow, word of the impending visit has spread throughout the staff. They run to and fro in panicked huddles, scurrying out of Lady Dimitrescu's path. The castle itself seems to wait, wound up like a spring, for what is about to darken its doors. Even without having laid eyes on her, it's clear enough to you already that Mother Miranda is a deadly presence to welcome over the threshold. But, until now, she has been a mere spectre of sorts in your mind, a shadow working behind the veil of this village. Tonight, she becomes real. And only now does it strike you that Lady Dimitrescu is quite terrified beneath her anger. It’s difficult to envision someone who could strike such fear into her; this being who, in your mind, would bend to no-one on Earth.

This race through the castle ends in the entrance hall. You breathe hard with your hands on your knees, winded. A few paces away, Daniela materialises from her swarm, and her eyes dart around in search of her sisters. They aren't here yet. And all around, the castle’s staff move frantically, some with sweeping brushes, others bearing bouquets of fresh flowers. You recognise Beatrice in the midst of things, barking instructions at her subordinates. Come to think of it, you haven’t seen her since that unpleasant carriage ride to the castle. She takes no notice of you as she sweeps past, harried and red in the face.

A burst of buzzing rises up at your back, and you turn to see that the two missing sisters have appeared by Daniela’s side. Or rather, Cassandra is at her side; Bela remains several feet away, her expression unreadable. The other two huddle together, not speaking. You take your chance to edge closer, but still out of range of any swinging weapons.

“This is quite the reception for a visitor,” you remark, trying for a smile but failing spectacularly. “Is it always like this?”

“Don't play at being stupid,” Bela scowls. “You already know Mother Miranda hasn't been seen for, what, a year? This isn't a joke. And you're the reason she's coming here, you've brought this on. I told Mother we should have gotten rid of you.”

“Why haven't you, then?”

The question slips out before you can help yourself, and Bela hisses, low and threatening. You tense in anticipation of a blade or a fist, but neither comes.

“Watch your mouth. I'd kill you now, but you're not worth staining the floors for.”

Daniela, quiescent up until now, speaks up in a strained voice.

“Bela, not now. Mother needs you,” she says, staring fixedly past you. “I think she's coming.”

You turn to the source of Daniela's agitation. In the centre of the atrium, Lady Dimitrescu is whispering rapidly down to Beatrice, and the maid nods sharply. At a gesture from her the staff disperse, running off in all directions, through doors and up the grand flight of stairs. Lady Dimitrescu looks as though it's taken all her restraint not to bloody her claws with the unfortunate bodies of her maids.

Bela stiffens, nods once, then marches to her mother's side. They stand there together, neither speaking a word. You stay where you are, fighting an odd instinct to shuffle closer to the other two sisters. They likely wouldn't care if you did, not now. There is a certain tenuous bond in this moment, forged from a collective holding of breath, a shared terror. Bela, on the other hand, shows not a hint of fear or trepidation, and stands stolidly beside the countess. They appear to leech some comfort from one another, the same way Daniela and Cassandra do.

Sensing something, perhaps a disturbance in the air, Lady Dimitrescu draws herself up to her full, impressive height. Readying herself. Bela, in an unconscious echo of the gesture, squares her shoulders.

The doors groan as they open, and you squint out into the shadows beyond. Nothing, only darkness. Time seems to slow and distort as those shadows quiver, disturbed, and a figure steps into the light.

It’s unmistakable. This can only be Mother Miranda, silhouetted starkly against the blackness of night. She casts a shadow much larger than herself as she stands, immobile, allowing the moment to stretch until it thins and shrinks to a pinpoint. Your eyes scan the space around her, and your heart plummets; she is alone. Aideen is not with her.

“Mother Miranda.”

The countess’ voice rings from the high ceiling, strong and clear, lingering long after the words leave her. Mother Miranda steps, or rather drifts, into the room, and the doors swing shut. In the silence, you can hear her fine robes whispering across the tile beneath. Everything about her - the way she carries herself, the quiver of feathers behind her back, a beak-like golden mask - calls to mind an odd, but seamless, combination of bird and woman. From behind the glint of that mask, a pair of shockingly pale blue eyes sweep the room. Cold, emotionless. They flick over to you, and your breath catches like ice in your chest, as though frozen by that stare.

The puppet master, the spider at the centre of the web; she is here, finally present to consider this new bit of prey, tangled in her silk. And you stare right back, struck by something you can't quite comprehend. After a split second, it hits you.

This is no mere woman, despite the cloaking of flesh and sinew she wears. No - this is a god, a deity come to lay disinterested eyes on her subjects. She is power undressed, in its rawest form. She is the most dangerous thing you have ever seen.

The moment breaks, and Mother Miranda finally looks away. Air returns to your starved lungs, as though you've at last been given permission to breathe again.

“Alcina.” A surprisingly soft voice, though like her eyes, there is no warmth within. “Thank you for this welcome. It's wonderful to see you again.”

“Yes,” Lady Dimitrescu says stiffly. “I would ask where you have been, but I rather suspect the answer will not be forthcoming.”

For the first time, Mother Miranda smiles behind the mask. Her lips curve up, a hint of teeth between them. A shiver runs through your limbs, and the sensation jolts some kind of sense into you. Mutely you watch the countess and Mother Miranda stare at one another, neither seeming inclined to disturb the quiet. It's like watching a pair of predators circling one another, each waiting for the first strike.

“Excuse me,” you whisper. Mother Miranda shifts her gaze back to you, looking almost bored. Behind it, there seems to be a flash of recognition, though she cloaks it quickly with derision. She rearranges her expression artfully, and puts on a smirk.

“Who might this be, then? Supper for you and the girls?” she addresses the countess, who dutifully smiles in response. A faint lick of anger flares in you.

“You know who I am, do you not? You know Aideen?” Your voice rises as you speak, ignoring Lady Dimitrescu's warning glare. “I'm her wife. Where is she?”

“Quiet!” the countess snaps. “Have some respect, you insolent wretch. Mother Miranda, I cannot apologise enough…”

You glare back at her, hating her for this charade. Her deference to Mother Miranda strikes a nerve. From that moment in the atelier, that closeness, she has reverted back to openly hating you. It's difficult to quash the twinge of hurt and confusion in the wake of this shift. But Mother Miranda is eyeing you curiously; you've caught her attention, for better or worse. Likely worse, judging by the cruel twist of her mouth as she takes you in.

“Calm yourself, Alcina. We may all speak freely here,” Mother Miranda says lightly, turning back to you. “You are the wife of Aideen Byrne? How curious. Not quite what I expected…”

She moves further into the room, sweeping past Bela and the countess without so much as a sideways glance. And she is making straight for you, this awful, beautiful god, moving into your space. You fight the urge to recoil away, resolving to stand your ground. But you cannot hold her gaze, doused in an absurd fear that looking in her eyes could hurt you in some way.

“Yes, she's my wife. And I'd like to know where she is, and if she's okay,” you manage to say, through the tightening of your chest. “Why did she come here? And who are you to her?”

“Now, now. Why the rush? Let me take a look at you.”

And so she begins a slow circle around you, far too close for comfort. Across your back, you feel a wisp of feathers trailing. Occasionally one of her hands, their fingers tipped by shining gold talons, reaches out, but stops just short of touching you. This goes on for several long, agonising minutes, in which no-one moves save for Miranda. You clench your fists, losing patience with this game. Always games with these people, and never any answers.

As she drifts around to your front, ready to circle again, something snaps. Your hand shoots out before your brain can tell you to stop, and your fingers clench around a cold wrist. Miranda stops, stiffens, and stares down at you impassively.

“Where is she?” you demand through gritted teeth.

She blinks slowly, once, twice. On the third, her body tenses, and you find your hand suddenly empty of her wrist. And then you are launched backwards through the air, landing before you can even register the shock. There is a sickening crunching noise inside you as your ribs slam into the corner of a stair, and then the pain begins. You cry out with it, a fire spreading through your side, but you muffle yourself quickly by stuffing your knuckles into your mouth.

“You were quite right, Alcina.” The voice comes as though from very far away, though you know she is just metres from you. “This one is insolent. And impatient.”

“Yes,” Lady Dimitrescu murmurs. “I will deal with it.”

You lie there, trying to suck in air as quietly as you can. Hot tears spill down your cheeks, and the agony is almost unbearable. Curled in on yourself like a crushed spider, not daring to move, you dimly register a note of concern in the countess’ voice. Perhaps you have imagined it, dazed by pain.

Mother Miranda raises her voice to address everyone, even though a whisper would carry easily in the hush that has fallen.

“Gather my Lords here tomorrow night, Alcina. We have much to discuss. Have that one present, too. She will want to be there.”

There is the flapping of wings, a rustle of feathers, then a pressing, claustrophobic silence. You chance opening one teary eye. Mother Miranda is gone, the only trace of her presence a single black feather, still floating in swooping arcs down to the floor. Lady Dimitrescu stares at the empty space for a long moment, then turns on her heel and stamps away. Bela, jolted into action, follows closely, but not before glancing back at her sisters.

“Gods…” A choked whisper somewhere above you, followed by a shaky sigh. Cassandra. “What was that?”

A whimper escapes you, and it seems to alert one of them to your presence. Cautious footsteps approach, and you sense someone kneeling by your side. Again you force open your eyes to see Daniela's face swimming in front of your vision. Her expression is startlingly soft, concerned.

“How's it going down there, little mouse?” Daniela whispers. Another set of footsteps comes up next to her, and Cassandra yanks her back by the hood of her robe.

“Leave it, Daniela. It's caused enough problems as it is,” Cassandra spits. She eases a foot under you and rolls you onto your back, none too gently. Another yelp bursts from your lips, and you clutch at your side helplessly. The pain has heightened to a peak, or what you can only loosely hope is the peak. You're not sure how much more you can tolerate.

“Bela was right,” she continues. “You brought this on. Brought her to our door.” You don't need any clarification; she means Mother Miranda. “Come, Daniela.”

You look up at Daniela plaintively. She wants to help you; it's clear from the hesitation in her face, the way her eyes flit from her sister to you. But she just gives the tiniest shake of her head, and disperses into a swarm. Cassandra takes one last, hateful look at you, and follows suit.

It takes only seconds for you to pass out on the cold marble, awash in a red mist of pain.

***

You rouse reluctantly as a small hand shakes your shoulder. Answering with a groan, you curl into yourself. All you want to do is sink back into blackness. Is this another tormentor, come to finish the job Miranda started? You can't seem to open your eyes to look, and an odd whining noise comes out of you when the hand shakes you more roughly.

“Shh! Let me help,” a voice hushes you urgently. “Can you stand?”

It's familiar. Your groggy mind struggles to place it, to dig up the name it belongs to. But you know it's a voice you've heard recently. Some spark of recognition emerges, and you mumble out a name.

“Antonia.”

“Yes!” She sounds pleased. “Hold still. I'm going to try and sit you up.”

You allow yourself to be manoeuvred into a stiff sitting position, and shove your knuckles into your teeth once more to stifle another yelp. Blinking hard, you manage to focus your eyes on Antonia. Worry is painted all over her delicate face.

“Let's get you up… lean on me… that's it, well done.”

With her aid you climb to your feet, doubled over and heaving for breath. The stairs are even worse, but together you manage to ascend at a snail’s pace. At your door, Antonia fishes the key out of your trouser pocket and eases you into the room gently. She settles you on the edge of the bed, where you tremble and pant, sweating profusely.

“It's your ribs, isn't it?” she asks, and you nod, clenching your jaw hard. Without any preamble she begins to work at the buttons of your shirt, and you somehow muster up a pained smile. You have no time to be embarrassed, and you're in no position to do anything about it, either.

“Steady on. I want a drink first, at the very least.”

“Oh, shush,” Antonia tuts. Once you're half undressed, she lies her hand against your ribs and presses down. Even such a gentle touch has you crying out again. She winces in sympathy, but keeps on prodding and muttering to herself intermittently. It's all you can do not to push her away to stop the pain.

“Not broken,” Antonia says brightly, taking her hands away. “Bruised, most likely. If you bear me five minutes, I'll get you some ice and make a compression bandage. But most of all, you need rest.”

“Are you a nurse?” you ask, glad to be relieved of the poking.

“Sort of, yes... well, used to be. In the village, they came to my mother and I for minor injuries and such.”

She doesn't elaborate further, and even in your fragile state, you have sense enough to know that it's better not to press. Instead you offer a small smile, which she returns, but she can't erase her harrowed expression beneath it. For someone so young, there's a weariness to her gentle brown eyes that suggests a hard life. But she doesn't seem inclined to talk, too busy fussing over you. You allow it, feeling that it helps her in some way. Once satisfied that you're not going to do yourself any more injuries by sitting here, she darts out of the room.

True to her word, she leaves you alone for just five minutes before returning with her arms laden. Deftly she wraps layers of bandages around your midriff, just tight enough that they don't make you wince or restrict your breathing. Next is the ice, wrapped in a piece of cloth, and you groan with relief as you press it to your side. Antonia watches intently, her brow creased. Your eyes droop as the pain eases somewhat, and you're being pulled down by exhaustion, adrenaline fading. But your mind is also coming back to life as your body calms itself, and your thoughts are a blur. It will be a miracle if you can quiet them enough to sleep.

“You'll be okay,” Antonia says softly. “Get some rest, as much as you can. I know it's not going to be easy tomorrow. I have to go now.”

“Wait. How much of… that did you hear?” you ask.

“Just that Mother Miranda was here, and she's gathering the Lords at the castle.” Her voice drops to barely a whisper, and you lean in to listen. “Be careful. She can do a lot worse than bruised ribs.”

Feeling sick, you nod wordlessly, and there is no more to say. Antonia draws back, hesitates a moment, then plants a kiss on your cheek. Her face is flushed as she leaves.

You wish she'd stayed. This night will be long, certain to be uncomfortable. There's no point hanging onto the idea of sleep, with just how wired you are, so you let the ice soothe your bruises until it melts. With your eyes half-closed you allow your mind to rake over all that's happened tonight. The initial shock of meeting Mother Miranda has abated, but still you shudder at the memory of her eyes piercing you, that cold examination. Her parting words as you lay there, reduced to a crumpled heap.

“Have that one present, too. She'll want to be there.”

She can only mean Aideen, surely. Aideen, here in the castle, tomorrow. The thought of seeing her churns your stomach in a way you could have never anticipated. How will she have changed? Will you find yourself standing face to face with your wife, or someone else entirely? Three years can change a person; it's certainly changed you. Just a few weeks have made you feel ten years older. How might Aideen's new life have transformed her? A life with Mother Miranda is surely no life at all. Unfeeling, unfathomably powerful and clever, casually violent.

But then, Aideen always was drawn to things that might hurt her. Adventures and diversions, not only physically, but within herself, too. So unlike you in that way; adventures were a waste of time, you thought, and diversions were just that, a distraction from what needed to be done. There was seldom any opportunity to retreat into yourself, where Aideen had all the time in the world, and it proved her undoing. You spent half your life trying to drag her from those dark corners of her mind, only to come home that day and find her gone. Was it all for nothing?

You wonder if she'll be delighted to see you, if she'll break into that beautiful smile that she always doled out liberally, whether genuine or not. Or, perhaps, she will be just as anxious as you are. It's impossible to preempt her reaction after all these years. More likely than not, it will not be the reaction you are searching for. Will she even allow you to take her home? What on Earth will you do if she refuses?

You shake off this train of thought. All of it can wait until she arrives; there's no use driving yourself half-insane with these endless questions. You're too weak, too shaken to get your mind in any kind of order. So you rise painstakingly, shuffle out of your quarters. Maybe you can risk a hasty dart into the kitchen or pantry to settle the empty, queasy feeling in your stomach.

It's slow going through the corridors and passages, and much more difficult to navigate by night. The castle is steeped in a dead silence, dormant, at odds with the chaos that broke out only hours ago. Oddly peaceful, too, as though it's relieved at having disgorged Miranda, that cruel intruder. You find the pantry unlocked, and skim off handfuls of food here and there, not enough to be missed. None of it is particularly appetising, but it should give you back some strength. With your pockets full, you set back off on the arduous journey back to your room.

As you clear a set of stairs and pause at the top, wheezing with exertion, you realise you've taken a wrong turn somewhere. You curse under your breath and cast around for something to guide your way. By day, this would be simple, but there is scarcely any light to see by, so you continue near-blindly. You'll find your way back eventually; it may just take longer, with your disorientation and injury hampering you.

Another corridor, another wave of frustration. It's as though you've walked in circles. But, at the end - a familiar spray of flowers in an antique vase. Relieved, you head for it, knowing exactly where you are now. You're close to the atelier, and there is only a flight of stairs between you and your destination.

Although…

Your feet carry you irresistibly the opposite way, towards the atelier. A strange, dark part of you drags your mind and body back there. A stab of guilt accompanies this feeling. These last hours have been spent thorned between - you have to face it - your burgeoning desire for the countess, and remorseful thoughts of Aideen. They twist together into a fog of confusion, squashing your inhibitions. Something much more powerful than yourself propels you.

There is a faint glow coming from the door, and it has been left open a few inches. You creep forwards, grateful for the carpet muffling your footfalls. Who might be in there at this hour? Do some of the staff have duties cleaning at night? You're not sure, but still you inch closer. As you do, you think you hear a sigh from within. No, not a sigh; breathing. Laboured but hushed, as though the one breathing is trying to quieten themselves.

You need only press your eye to the door. A quick look and then you'll leave. Even so, you hesitate. Something about this feels intrusive, like you're about to lay eyes on something you shouldn't. Foolishly you ignore the warning flutter in your gut, and glance through into the room.

The moment is just that, a split second. But it’s enough to make you recoil and set your heart trying to hammer out of your chest.

On her grand chair sits Lady Dimitrescu, but she is not alone. A slender body is draped over hers. At first your brain struggles to comprehend the scene, and a beat later, it clicks into place. The countess’ mouth is latched onto the figure's neck and she is drinking deeply, her eyes half-lidded. One of her hands holds a grip on her captive's jaw, and the other is - oh, God - her other hand is thrust beneath the maid's skirts, moving rhythmically.

The breathing you heard was this maid, trying to stifle sounds of what can only be pain mixed with pleasure. And you must be breathing heavily yourself, for the countess’ eyes lift, but she does not react. She holds your gaze for a fraction of a second, then lets her eyes close again. Subtly, just slightly, she shifts the maid's face into the light. The girl does not see you, too lost to the countess’ touch, but you get enough of a glimpse to identify her.

Antonia. Her hands grip the sides of the chair; those hands that were, not so long ago, deftly caring for your injury. You back away from the door, this image that has your stomach in knots, and hobble back in the direction you came. You feel sick, with your clammy hands and ragged breathing, sounding just like Antonia did. Paying the price for your voyeurism. For being the little mouse, creeping about the castle and peering at things that ought to stay hidden.

For the rest of the night, you shift restlessly between the rough sheets, trying to think of something, anything but that. Nothing seems able to wrench your thoughts away. Not even the ache in your ribs, which flares each time you toss and turn. Instead a different ache rises, one that begins in the pit of your stomach and spreads outwards. One you haven't felt in a very long time, that you haven't even allowed yourself to feel.

A naked, shameful lust. And it mortifies you, truly, in more ways than you can count. But it's still not as repellent as it should be, and utterly impossible to thrust from your mind. The shape of this desire has morphed and expanded into something you can no longer ignore, or cloak behind innocent curiosity. You can't dislodge the image of the scene you stumbled across, the way it made you feel. And worse, as your thoughts drift, Antonia is replaced with you, draped across the countess’ body. Drinking her fill, extracting pleasure with those clever hands…

Stop it, you tell yourself sharply, alarmed by the stirring heat in your abdomen. It's both alien and unwelcome. Not that there haven't been temptations over the years you've spent alone, of course there have, but this is different. Frightening and thrilling all at once. And you're terrified of what it might do to you, should you succumb to it.

A cold thought comes to you as you try to quell this awful feeling. Surely, you've not been alone in struggling with the pull of desire; Aideen is only human, with needs just like anyone else. But has she been weaker than you? Has she succumbed to it? If so… God, no. There is only one possibility that adds up, in that case. And it doesn't bear thinking about. Your wife, your Aideen, tangled up with Mother Miranda…

No. Absolutely not. She hasn't; she wouldn't. You tell yourself over and over, so many times that it loses all meaning. You're not sure what to believe anymore.

Desperate, you pick up your bestiary, seeking distraction. Your hands tremble over the paper. There is the drawing of Moreau, still unfinished. A half-hearted sketch of the moroaicǎ that attacked you. The three sisters stare up at you from their respective pages, surrounded by scribbled annotations.

Inevitably you flip through to your sketch of the countess, worked on only hours ago, and slam the book shut before those thoughts come crashing back in. But not before a wave of shame engulfs you once more. You sit with it the entire night, and wait for the sun to come up.

***

“Little mouse?”

Daniela’s whisper reaches you just as you're beginning to doze, sometime around dawn. She raps on the door softly, and you force yourself out of bed, knowing it's pointless to ignore her. You crack the door open just enough to see one of Daniela's eyes peering in at you.

“What do you want?” you mutter.

“Nothing, I…” She pushes on the door, slides past you into the room, and you're too weak to stop her. “Just seeing how you are. Not very well, obviously.”

You don't respond, instead opting to sit back down and look pointedly away. Rationally you know that none of this is her fault, and you don't blame her for following Cassandra last night, but you're still stung. At least Antonia came to your aid, but you can't think of her right now. Not after what you saw through the door of the atelier.

“Cass was upset,” Daniela says, and you barely hold back a snort at this. “She still is. But she's frightened; we all are. And… I just wanted to say that I know it's not your fault. About Mother Miranda and, you know, everything else.”

Despite your determination to be cross with her, you simply can't brush off her words. It’s not your fault. Well, it is, in a disconnected sort of way, but here is Daniela, absolving you of blame. You sag where you sit, and let out a long sigh.

“Thank you, Daniela. I appreciate that.”

She nods in acknowledgement, and a brief shadow of guilt falls across her face before she brightens and paints on a smile. She's oddly sweet in her own way, if you manage to forget the bloodlust and cruelty.

“It's not all bad, is it? Sounds as though Mother Miranda might bring your wife along tonight,” she says, and your throat tightens. Clearly she's attempting to cheer you up, albeit clumsily, but the reminder of what is to come only makes you feel worse. No amount of false cheer could loosen the knot of anxiety inside you.

“I'll make sure someone sends for you later,” she continues, losing some of her chirpiness at the sight of your head hanging dejectedly. “To help you get ready and downstairs.”

With that she leaves you, and you set about the draining task of getting dressed. You'd rather not need assistance with this, pathetic as you already feel. Aside from being embarrassing, you strongly suspect that Antonia will be the one sent to you. The way Lady Dimitrescu reacted to your presence last night, made sure you saw Antonia's face in the light. You assume your lurking will not go unpunished.

In front of the cracked mirror inside the wardrobe door, you gingerly pull down the bandages over your ribs. The bruise is at least the size of your hand, almost completely black in the centre, radiating out into a bluish purple at the edges. You touch it; tender, still impeding your movement, but nowhere near as bad as it was. The ice must have done it some good. Sighing, you dress back in yesterday's clothes, and wish you had something more decent to wear. If you're to see Aideen, you'd rather not look dreadful. Then again, what does it matter? Your face is pinched already, your eyes dark with exhaustion. There’s little that can be done for your appearance.

By late afternoon, you find out who has been sent to help. Not Antonia, but Beatrice. It's all you can do not to groan at the sight of her. She shoulders into your room without knocking, and gives you a venomous look as she lies a neat stack of clothes on the bed.

“The mistress has decided to overlook your rudeness in not asking if you could use this room,” she sniffs. “Fortunately for you. Myself, I wouldn’t be so soft. But she is distracted today, as you can imagine.”

Ignoring the slight, you paw through the folded clothes, and find that it's a fine suit in a soft, grey fabric. The stitching looks to be recently done. Someone must have gotten your measurements, somehow, perhaps from clothes you'd left out. It's a disconcertingly kind gesture, and you can't help but wonder who was thoughtful enough to do this for you.

“Thanks,” you say, glancing up at Beatrice. She's still staring at you nastily. “Do you need something?”

“No.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Erm… okay. Can I get dressed, then?”

Beatrice gives the room one last distasteful look, and slams the door behind her. Why she hates you so much, you couldn't even guess. It seemed to begin the moment she met you at the inn, and has only deepened since then. Not that it isn’t mutual; she didn't exactly endear herself to you from the off. You wonder what the countess sees in her, to give her such a high rank amongst the staff. Perhaps it's her unsympathetic nature that makes her suitable.

You're glad of the solitude as you dress in the suit, wincing with each movement and gritting your teeth against the renewed stabs of pain in your side. But, once it's on, you find the thing quite comfortable. It's a near-perfect fit, and the soft fabric is pleasant on your skin. Almost as nice as the suits you brought from home, only to lose your briefcase at the reservoir. Moreau may have been able to salvage your bestiary, but not the rest of your belongings. You remember, with a glimmer of hope, that he will be here tonight. Mother Miranda wanted all of her Lords present, which means you'll get to reunite with both Moreau and Lady Beneviento. It's almost enough to lift your spirits, but not quite.

All that's left to do is wait for your summons. But you're neither able to sit still, nor occupy your mind in any way. Everything comes to a head tonight. How can you be still, keep yourself calm, knowing that you will see your wife in a matter of hours? You find yourself struck by a sudden sense of inadequacy, not knowing where it comes from.

Fortunately, the wait is not long. A maid you do not recognise comes to collect you shortly after sundown, her face a stark shade of white. She doesn't bother with pleasantries, and you afford her the same, knowing you're both too worked up to waste time on such silly things. She just offers her arm to help you down the staircase, which you deny. Better to turn up with a small shred of dignity, not clinging onto some girl's arm for support. The maid tells you to go straight to the dining hall, where the Lords are already waiting.

Fuelled by anticipation and nerves, you move quickly through the castle. The ache in your ribs, as though it knows the importance of this, dulls itself, allowing you to keep up a strong pace. You consciously straighten your back as the dining hall comes into view, yellow lamplight seeping out from within. This is it.

When you reach the doorway, you pause a moment to breathe and take in your surroundings. It's a beautiful, decadent space. The table is heavy with dishes and trays of food, still steaming, all untouched. The wine, however, looks to have been depleted considerably. But the occupants are what demand your attention. Arranged around the table without any discernible order, the Lords look up at you in unison.

“Salvatore,” you say immediately, and he springs up from his seat with a little noise of joy. He’s unharmed, and looks much the same as when you last saw him. It’s unbelievable that he survived the lycan attack, let alone recovered in such a dramatic fashion. He gestures to an empty space between himself and Lady Beneviento, which you take with a murmur of thanks.

“Are you all right?” Lady Beneviento whispers as you lower yourself into the seat, wincing. Though her face is obscured, you can see her hands twisting over one another, and a few of her nails have clearly been bitten close to the skin. Otherwise, she seems to be keeping her composure quite admirably. Angie sits on her lap, ignoring you in favour of pulling faces at Heisenberg across the table. He makes a rude gesture at her in return.

“Yes. I'll explain some other time, though…” you say, because you catch sight of Lady Dimitrescu eyeing you suspiciously from the head of the table, and you can't be confident that your conversation will go unheard. Heisenberg sits nearest to her, idly playing with a steak knife. He is no more perturbed than if this were just a perfectly normal dinner party amongst friends. The countess ceases her glaring at you to scowl at him briefly.

Moreau is overexcited, seemingly oblivious to the charged atmosphere, and babbles ceaselessly at you. It's mostly drivel, but you catch the odd mention of ‘Mother’ in amongst it. Half-listening, you nod and smile along with his chatter, all the while shooting glances at the door. Any minute now, surely. What could be keeping Mother Miranda and, by extension, Aideen? Your throat is dry, and you begin to sweat under the lamps. None of this feels quite real; everything around you has a dreamlike quality, hazy at the edges. Your breathing is sharp, shallow. You begin to tune out Moreau’s words more and more, until they are no more than a faint hum in your ears.

It takes you longer than it should to register that someone is trying to catch your attention.

“Hey, kid. Kid!” Heisenberg barks, clicking his fingers. “You with us?”

“Sorry, sorry,” you stammer, looking up from the table to find all eyes trained on you, even the maids that line the walls. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Heisenberg grumbles. “You got any idea what's taking your woman so long?”

You shake your head, bemused. “No, why would I? She-”

Your words are cut off by a skidding noise in the doorway. A young maid stands there, trembling as she catches her breath. Lady Dimitrescu's nostrils flare as she waits for the girl to speak, and she grips the edge of the table with such force that it's a wonder it doesn't snap beneath her fingers.

“My Lords, Mother Miranda and her, um, guest… they've arrived.”

Before she finishes the sentence, the countess is on her feet, and one look is enough for the staff to understand that they are dismissed. They file out of the hall through a smaller doorway, and the maid who spoke rushes off.

A moment passes, stretching into a minute. You strain your ears, difficult over the thumping of your heart. And then, there it is - a set of whispery-light footsteps nearing the door. But only one set, not two. Has Mother Miranda come alone again? Surely not; the girl quite clearly mentioned her ‘guest’.

Mother Miranda's shadow falls into the room. Again she pauses in the doorway, surveying the scene before her, forcing everyone to regard her in turn. Must she always be so dramatic? And is that a satisfied smirk at play behind her mask? She steps forward, her eyes roving in that cold way, landing on you last. You draw yourself up in your seat, showing her that, no, she hasn't broken you, that it would take much more to do so. Miranda's smile falters only slightly, apparently dissatisfied at what she sees. At your side, Moreau is all but vibrating with either terror or excitement, or perhaps both.

Lady Dimitrescu is still on her feet, and pulls a chair roughly out from the table. Not so composed as she would prefer to be, with her jaw set so tightly that it looks painful.

“Well, here we all are, as requested,” she says, with all the warmth of a blizzard. Then, as if to correct herself, a feeble attempt at politeness. “Please, join us.”

Mother Miranda looks at the countess for the first time, dispassionately.

“Certainly. But, before I do, I believe there are some introductions to be made. Or should I say, reintroductions.”

A jolt of excitement in your gut, followed closely by a baffling mixture of joy and sadness. Whether you want to laugh or cry, you couldn’t say. And at this moment, you find that you don't care about anyone in this room. Not the countess, not Lady Beneviento or Moreau; they may as well not exist. Only the one who stands somewhere beyond its walls, waiting to be brought forth. She's here. All that you've been through ceases to matter. You fight a smile, hold back tears. Everything dissipates around you, reduced to that chasm between you and the door. Any moment now, and it will all have been worth it.

Now her footsteps approach. You know they are hers, you remember what she sounded like padding over the bare boards of your old house. And as her shadow crosses the doorway, Mother Miranda spreads her arms wide, triumphantly. This should tip you off that something is wrong, but you’re too far gone, beyond the reach of any amount of warning or apprehension.

“May I present to you all…” Miranda announces, her grin razor-sharp. “Aideen Byrne. The fifth Lord.”

Your wife crosses the threshold, and you rise from your seat before chaos erupts.

Notes:

waiting 3 years for your wife to come home be like

and then there's Mother.... I can't go 5 minutes without putting reader through some Shit™️

thanks as always for reading and bearing with me while I worked on this big ol chapter!! really hope you had fun! 🩷

Chapter 9: A Pale Imitation

Clamour and shouting, two voices louder than the rest. Lady Dimitrescu and Heisenberg are both on their feet, advancing on Mother Miranda and snarling unintelligibly over one another. Miranda casts disinterested eyes over them, unaffected by the deluge of rage and bewilderment. She lets it go on. Her smile has slipped, but not by much. Her gaze keeps flitting between you and the doorway. You and Aideen.

The noise does not diminish, but it's inconsequential. You block it out with ease. Greedily you take in the sight of your wife, afraid that if you blink, she might just disappear again. It's been so long. Your heart aches and swells, your blood a high tide on a storm-tossed sea.

There she is. Through your tears she is slightly blurred, but whole. The same wild red hair that falls to her waist. Her beautiful, deft hands, tapered fingers. Unchanged, as far as you can tell, though perhaps a little wilder around the eyes. They are green, you note with some relief. A muddy shade, like that of decomposing leaves. Eyes that always broke your heart, seeming to hold every bit of sadness of the world in them. And all over her lovely face, she wears an expression of absolute disbelief. Is something different? You couldn't say, not from this distance. It doesn’t matter; she’s here. Nothing else matters.

The chasm between you is now enclosed, as though netted in a huge bubble. You can see the others’ mouths moving, drowning Mother Miranda in questions, but you hardly hear them. Moreau shuffling to and fro, hands clamped over his ears. Lady Beneviento has remained seated with a vice-like grip on Angie, who squirms as she tries to free herself.

You shove out your chair and begin to walk the length of the table. Aideen sways where she stands, takes a stumbling step backwards. Her hands fly to her mouth. You realise, now, that you must look quite mad with your wide eyes, lurching towards her at pace.

“Love…” you choke out. “Aideen?”

She flinches at the sound of her name, as though it is foreign to her. And her face, already so pale, whitens another shade. Like she's looking at a ghost. By now, she should have fallen into your arms. At the very least, she ought not to be visibly recoiling from you. Are you really so ghastly a sight?

It's shock, you tell yourself. Give her a minute. Let her come to you.

It takes all your willpower to stop moving. You give her six feet or so of space, and try to soften your expression. And you wait for what might just be the most excruciating seconds of your life.

“What… are you doing here?” Aideen asks haltingly, and the sound of her voice is enough to set your eyes watering again. She lowers her hands from her face and finally, slowly, starts towards you. Expectantly you open your arms. Your eyes sweep over her, and for the first time you notice what she is wearing. A simple black dress with sleeves that fall just short of her elbows. Encircling her thin wrists there are identical, narrow bruises, almost faded. Before you can consider this for more than a moment, she has wrapped her arms around you.

God. She's solid, real, whole. Your ribs ache with the force of her embrace, but you hardly notice. Her hands claw at the back of your jacket, finding purchase on the soft fabric as she collapses against you.

“What are you doing here?” she asks again, urgency in her beautiful voice. Little more than a whisper by your ear, you register the panic in it. As you brush her hair aside to respond, the noise in the room boils over to a deafening level. Aideen freezes in your arms, begins to disengage. In turn, you hold on tighter. You can't let her go.

“Enough!”

Mother Miranda’s voice rises above the rest, silencing them. In the hush that follows, Aideen manages to wrench herself out of your grasp. The loss hurts, but is quickly deadened by the sight of Mother Miranda. She is staring at the Lords with eyes full of venom, at last pushed to anger. Something they said must have made her snap, and the gravity of her displeasure fills the room.

Heisenberg and Lady Dimitrescu’s faces are contorted into near-identical expressions of fury but, subdued by the force of Miranda's authority, they keep their mouths shut. She drags her eyes away from them, and her face softens as she turns to Aideen.

“Aideen,” she says, astonishingly calm after the outburst. Your wife's name in her mouth sounds like poison. “Go, speak with your wife privately. There are matters I need to discuss here. Bela will escort you, and ensure you remain undisturbed.”

A high-pitched buzzing signals Bela's approach, and almost immediately she solidifies in the doorway. She looks across the scene before her, and a flash of surprise passes over her face before she neutralises it, becoming impassive. Her ability to do so is remarkable, and strongly reminds you of her mother.

“Come on,” she says gruffly, jerking her head at you and Aideen. You follow obediently, Aideen trailing not far behind. Before Bela shuts the doors, you can't help but take one last look over your shoulder. The faces that look back at you are much the same as they were following Miranda’s call for order. Except one.

Lady Dimitrescu stares not at you, but Aideen. Her sharp eyes are narrowed, her brow creased. And her mouth is twisted with abject disgust, the way you might look at a corpse spilling over with maggots. It's a baleful glare, pure revulsion. Mistrust etched in every line of her face. Aideen seems not to notice, but you lodge that expression in your memory, without quite knowing why. You'll remember it for a long time.

The doors click shut, and you hear the turn of the lock on the inside.

Bela is already several strides ahead, with Aideen in tow. She cuts a furious pace through the castle until she opens a door, seemingly at random, and all but shoves the two of you inside. It's another musty storeroom. You listen at the door, breathing heavily from trying to keep up with Bela. No buzzing or footsteps; she must be standing guard outside.

You close your eyes for a moment to steady yourself. Now that you're alone with Aideen, you're unsure what to do with yourself, short of weeping uncontrollably. No - you must keep calm, and use this time well. This is probably the only chance you’ll get; who knows if Miranda intends to snatch her away again? You need a plan.

When you open your eyes, you find Aideen with her head in her hands, sunken onto an upturned wooden crate. She rocks back and forth, her breath shattered and panicked.

“I… I still can't believe it,” she whispers into her quivering hands. “What's happening? Is this real?”

You cross over to the crate and kneel. Look up at her, touch her knee gently to refocus her. It's an old routine, second nature to you. She so often needed grounding when she went elsewhere and couldn't drag herself back to the present. Her breathing slows ever so slightly in response to your touch.

“It's real,” you murmur. “I'm real, and so are you. Look at me, darling, please.”

She does. She draws her hands away from her face and looks you dead in the eye. You jolt.

“What…?” you start to form a question, and hastily stop yourself. But Aideen has seen the shock on your face, and stares down at you quizzically.

Up close, and with your vision now free of tears, you can see her with clarity. Things have lost that dreamlike, wispy edge. That something that was wrong, missing; you've finally noticed it. And now you can't stop noticing, more details emerging the longer you look.

Aideen's face is too smooth, astonishingly youthful. She no longer has that spill of freckles over her nose and cheeks. At first, you had dismissed the stark pallor of her face as a result of shock, but she is still hauntingly pale, like unblemished porcelain. Even her teeth are straighter, as though corrected by cosmetic means. She is absolutely perfect, without flaw. Unnaturally, perversely perfect. At first glance, you had thought her just as beautiful as you remembered. But no; she's more beautiful than you remember.

And within you a great sense of loss begins to creep up. All of those little imperfections are gone. You'll never again see the tiny, almost imperceptible chip in her left front tooth. The way her freckles darkened in the summer.

Your blood runs cold as the full force of what this means hurtles into you. This isn't Aideen as you knew her; she has changed, or has been changed.

This realisation is met with a wave of something like revulsion. You've felt this before. That atavistic fear when you first came face to face with the countess, the lycan, Mother Miranda. But this is unspeakably worse, because you're looking at your wife.

“What's the matter?” she asks, reaching out to touch your face. You flinch, repelled by her, by the feel of her skin.

How can her touch be repellent, of all things? It used to console you. Small touches here and there; whispery kisses, fingertips pressed to yours in the small hours when neither of you could find sleep. She was always warm. Now her hands are ice-cold, and you realise with a start that your hand is still on her knee, where her skin is just as cool to the touch.

She watches you watching her, and you try to rearrange your expression. Think logically. She's cold because it is cold, and as for her face… well, perhaps your memory is misleading you. Did she ever have freckles? Was it someone else you knew with a chip on their tooth?

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Nothing, I'm just… God, Aideen, I don't know what to say. What on Earth have you been doing here for three years?”

By way of explanation, she simply says, “I thought you'd have given up by now.”

“You must think very little of me, then,” you mutter, unable to hide the hurt in your voice. “I'd never give up on you, never. People thought you were dead, told me to take that and move on. I knew better. I've… been through a lot to find you.”

At this, Aideen comes over with a strange look on her face. Vacant, glazed over. Her eyes drift out of focus; empty as the windows of an abandoned house, still as a stagnant pool. She is slipping away again, but not in a way that's familiar to you. Your first instinct is to be angry. Does she not care how close you've come to death, the danger you've walked into, all for her sake? No, it's not that. This is different, somehow. You just can't put your finger on it.

“Aideen… what did Mother Miranda mean, ‘the fifth Lord’?” you ask slowly, searching for some spark of life in her eyes. She comes back sluggishly, and gives herself a small shake.

“I… I shouldn't, ah, I mean…” Aideen stammers, loses her footing over the words. “Why don't you ask her?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, fighting against your frustration. She's quite clearly addled, evasive, a mixture of both. This is Miranda's doing. You have a brief and bloody fantasy of murdering the woman, and shoo it away. There is something more important to focus on.

“Okay,” you sigh. “We need to go, my love. Right now.”

Wincing, you clamber to your feet and dust off where your knees met the dirty ground.

“Go? Go where?”

“Home. I'm getting you out of here. We can deal with… whatever it is that’s happened when we're safe,” you say, offering a hand down to her. She doesn't take it. You fear she's about to turn vacant again, but her eyes are sharper than you've yet seen them.

“That isn't a good idea,” she says quietly. “I have some… things I need to do. You go, and I'll be right along. Join you as soon as I can.”

“What are you talking about?” you demand, leaning down to grasp her by the shoulders. “You're coming home with me, Aideen. You can't stay here with these… these people. With her.”

She whispers something too low for you to hear. She can’t look at you, stares determinedly at her knees. This feels awfully like she is about to say something that will tip your idealistic little plan on its head. You know it’s fanciful without having to be told. But you have to try.

“What was that?”

“I said,” she snaps suddenly, raising furious eyes to meet yours. “I won’t go. You… you don't know what's at stake.”

“So tell me! For God's sake, you're not making any sense!” You find yourself shouting, now, digging your fingertips into her shoulders. “I'm your wife. And you're telling me you don't want to come home with me? What’s the matter with you? Does our marriage-”

“Stop it,” Aideen hisses, and throws off your hands in a startling show of strength, weak as she appears. Her eyes flash, and an edge of cruelty enters her voice. “You shouldn't be here. You should have never come in the first place. I don't want you here.”

Startled, you take one step backwards, then another. Aideen's face is no longer blank and unreachable. It's contorted in a way that is barely human. Amidst the shock of seeing her like this, your heart drops and judders. There is something sickeningly inevitable about this. Strange thoughts pass through your mind in quick succession. Is she still Aideen at all, or is this someone else entirely? Have your worst fears materialised?

You decide, now, as much as it pains you, that she absolutely cannot be trusted. Not in this altered state, and perhaps never again.

“Time's up.”

The door is shoved open, and you whip around to see Bela’s face staring in at you. She looks once at Aideen, who has risen from the crate and wiped her face clean of the rage that was there only moments ago. Back again is that sweet, perplexed expression. You don't recognise your wife's face now any more than you did when it was monstrous.

“You're wanted back in the dining hall. Both of you. Now.”

All that's left to do is follow Bela, and try not to look at Aideen. I don't want you here. Those words reverberate around your skull as you tread the way back, numb and shell-shocked. All of this, everything you've endured, and for what? This isn't your Aideen. Something has changed, there's something fundamentally wrong with her, and all of it points to Miranda. Bile forces its way up your throat as you draw closer to where she is waiting. You want more than anything to make her pay for this, tear her to pieces as you’d imagined. Then you remember the ease with which she tossed you aside, the agony that came after. Your ribs still twinge as you walk. Not only feeble, but cowardly, as you always have been. The fact you've been unwilling to face, and it comes with its own wave of shame. You hang your head.

“Get in,” Bela orders at the door. You file in ahead of Aideen, and stare dully at all those present. They have returned to their seats, and Lady Dimitrescu is gripping the table again, her mouth taut. Without waiting for any acknowledgement, you go straight for Mother Miranda. Just out of arm's reach, you stop and look up at her. She smiles nastily back, and cocks her head to one side.

“You… I don't have words for what you are,” you tell her weakly; your voice is that of a completely broken person, empty as Aideen's eyes. “You did this just to dangle her in front of my face. To show me what you've done to her. My wife…”

Your voice fails you entirely, and you turn away with tears stinging your eyes. Aideen is watching, her lips slightly parted. She looks between you and Miranda with something close to concern crossing her face, but it's more bewilderment than anything. A very distant sadness in her eyes as she considers what she sees, and ultimately does nothing. You should hold her, because this feels like the last time you will ever get to, and your first instinct is to comfort her. But you can’t bear it, so you settle for giving her a slight nod. As if to say goodbye. You are powerless to do anything more.

Mother Miranda clears her throat, and speaks with mock sympathy. “It has been rather emotional for all tonight. We will take our leave, for now,” she says simply, beckoning Aideen to her side. She goes with her eyes downcast, rubbing compulsively at her bruised wrists. You never got to ask where those bruises came from.

The doors close before you can take one last look at your wife. She is gone again. You slump over to your seat, dragging the entrails of your marriage behind. No-one speaks, or even looks your way. The room could cave in, and it would make very little difference to you. Maybe it would be better if it all collapsed, smothering everything. You reach blindly for a bottle of wine, and don't come up from it until you feel its warmth pooling in your stomach. Vaguely you register that this isn't the same wine fed to you by the countess, but a much lighter blend.

“So,” you say into the dreadful silence. “Did I miss much?”

Five sets of eyes blink at you. Lady Beneviento inhales sharply, but says nothing. You lift your head and see that, across the table, Heisenberg is squinting at you curiously. His mouth twitches. Then he starts to guffaw, and pours himself a generous measure of wine.

“You're nuts,” he reminds you. “You and her, what's-her-name? Aideen? Brr. Nice, frosty reunion, was it? Everything you hoped for?”

“Something like that.”

“I'm so sorry,” Lady Beneviento murmurs. “She… she looked different. Compared to when we last saw her, that is. This has been, well… a shock. To all of us, I think.” She ends on an uncertain note, shifting her weight uneasily.

“What does it mean?” you ask no-one in particular. “She's a… Lord? Like the four of you? I don't understand. I don't suppose anyone will be so kind as to enlighten me, either…”

You swig more wine to wash out the bitterness. It's difficult to hate everyone at this table, but right now, you so desperately need something to hate. The real target of your anger has left the castle with your wife in tow, and you did absolutely nothing to stop it. Miranda is one thing; cruel, cold and powerful. But she is anything but pitiful, as you are. You feel like the lowest, most wretched life form on Earth.

“I will tell you everything.”

Lady Beneviento's soft, melodic voice breaks through the murk of your inward loathing. At first, you can only stare at her, sluggish and perplexed. You open your mouth, wondering if you've misheard, but someone cuts across before you can.

“Donna, she's not ready for it. Look at her,” warns Heisenberg.

“Yes, look at her,” Lady Beneviento snaps, the closest to anger you've seen her yet. “I'm sorry, Karl, but this has gone far enough. No more half-truths, no omissions. She will know everything.”

Strange, to be spoken about as though you're not here. Heisenberg nods his head slowly after a moment, and leans back in his seat. No argument. You begin to come up from the fog of self-pity and misery, a little spark of curiosity nudging in. Yes; cling onto it. Better to have something to focus on that isn’t the bottom of a bottle, or how you wish you could slip away into non-existence. A sense of purpose.

“Alcina? Salvatore?” Lady Beneviento addresses the other two, who haven't breathed a word since Miranda's departure. “I hope you understand, but I won't hear any more objections. This should have been done much sooner.”

Moreau mumbles his assent, staring wide-eyed down at the table. He can't quite comprehend the scene that just unfolded, and there is no-one equipped or willing to make it easier for him. For all his earlier gibbering about Miranda, he has been listless and confused ever since her arrival, even more so now she is gone.

“None at all, Donna,” Lady Dimitrescu says in a flat, hollow voice. She is staring out of the window unseeingly, letting a cigarette burn itself out between her long fingers.

“Very well. Come…” Lady Beneviento says. “We will speak privately. Angie, will you…?”

“Yeah, whatever.” The doll rolls her eyes, and hops from Lady Beneviento's lap. “Go on. Leave me with these freaks.”

You trail after Lady Beneviento, leaving this strange scene behind. Perhaps into further strangeness; you don’t know, couldn't possibly guess. But, if she is to believed, you will know everything. There will be no going back, no return to ignorance. You steel yourself.

***

It takes three cups of coffee to assure Lady Beneviento that you are adequately sober. Now wide-eyed and feeling somewhat jittery, but preferable to the uncomfortable slosh of wine in your stomach. She dismisses the maid who prepared the drinks, and laces her fine hands together on top of the kitchen table. The fireplace has been stoked into full flame, lending the space a comforting feel. As comfortable as it could be right now, at least.

You drain the last of the coffee and clear your throat when she shows no sign of breaking the silence. “Lady Beneviento-”

“Donna,” she interrupts. “Please, call me Donna. I think we're past formalities, at this point, don't you?”

“Yes, I suppose we are. Donna it is, then. What's going on?”

She stays quiet, and stares down at her interlocked fingers.

“I'm not sure where to begin,” she says after a while. “Perhaps with what you already know. Aideen is a Lord, and Mother Miranda has made her that way. Have you figured out what that means?”

Somehow, you feel like a schoolchild grasping for an answer, faced with a particularly patient teacher. Donna does not rush you, or make you feel small. She merely waits for you to put two and two together.

A memory surfaces. “Salvatore told me a little bit, when we read Aideen's notes. Something about the Cadou. It's what the four… well, five of you have in common, isn't it?”

Donna nods, seemingly pleased with your response. Or perhaps relieved that she doesn't have to spell it out.

“Yes. Aideen has been implanted with the Cadou, like myself, like the others. When we last saw her, that hadn't yet happened,” she adds. “But the change is quite evident. It's… well, it's easier to see the effect it has on some. Take Alcina, for example, or Salvatore.”

Thinking back, you remember what Moreau became. A larger, much more monstrous version of himself. As for the countess, you had assumed to have seen the full extent of her abnormalities; her height, those huge claws, a thirst for blood. As you open your mouth to question further, Donna shakes her head.

“Where Alcina is concerned… I'm not the one who ought to tell you about that, you understand. She has another form, but she keeps it well guarded.”

“Okay. But what is the Cadou, then?”

Donna heaves a deep sigh. “I've said before that it would take a very long time to explain in full. The same is true now, and we don't have the luxury of time on our side. But, if you can live with the abridged version, I will try my best.”

So you nod, sit back, and listen.

When she is finished, you have little more understanding than when she began; the science goes much deeper than your limited knowledge. But you glean enough to understand that what has been done to Aideen is irreparable, and that there is likely a side to her you have not yet seen. It could be a mutation, or a power of some sort. The differences in her appearance were quite subtle, comparatively, but it's more than probable that her mental state has been altered, too. Whether as a result of the Cadou or by more psychological means employed by Miranda, Aideen may not have much of herself left.

By the time Donna stops speaking, you feel sicker than you did with a belly full of red wine. Yet your mind is strangely blank, despite the reaction of your body. Perhaps it's Donna's lilting voice delivering the information, or merely the fact that one more blow hardly makes any difference. It will hit you later, of that you're certain. For now, everything only registers dully, as though from very far away.

“There's something you're not telling me,” you point out, with no annoyance, or accusation. It's just the truth. All Donna can do is nod sadly, and wait for you to ask.

And so you do, as plainly as you can. “There are five of you now, and the fact that Aideen is a Lord didn't seem to go down so well. So, there must be something else. Something Miranda is up to that didn’t sit right with any of you. And my guess is that… Aideen is helping her with that?”

“That is what I think, yes,” Donna whispers, and her voice wavers before she clears her throat. “Mother Miranda had a daughter who passed away… Eva. A long time ago. And she’s been trying to find a way to bring her back, using the Cadou. What you see here, in all five of us… we are the result of those experiments. Failed ones, to be precise. But we responded better than others - you'll have seen the less successful results in the lycans, and the moroaicǎ. She hasn't yet managed to bring Eva back.”

Aideen, a failed experiment, turned to helping the one who made her this way. That is how she has been lost to you once again; to a mad, grieving woman who has some kind of hold over her. “You don't know what's at stake,” she had said. Now you know; she meant not what was at stake for herself, but for Miranda. And that she feels powerfully enough about this to abandon her old life. Her life with you.

There is a tiny, almost inaudible pattering noise over the crackle of the fire. Tears, spattering onto the table from beneath Donna's veil.

“You knew already,” you say softly, recalling Donna's unease earlier in the evening.

“I had a feeling, just an inkling, so…” She trails off to sniffle for a moment. “I wasn’t altogether surprised. But I had no solid basis for my suspicions, so I didn't share them with the others. Or you. I realise my mistake. I'm sorry.”

What can you possibly say? That it's okay, that you forgive her? It would be so easy to be angry; in fact, it would be welcome. But you're too numb to muster anything resembling anger. The worst of it has faded, and none of it is directed at the woman across from you. Left in its wake is a bleak, suffocating hopelessness. Like losing Aideen all over again. Perhaps she is better off this way, as she is now.

As if in response to your thoughts, Donna reaches out a hand and rests it lightly on your arm. She trembles, but speaks clearly, with a gravity that demands you pay full attention.

“Please, listen. The Cadou is no gift, no matter what you hear from Salvatore or Alcina. It has made me lonelier than I ever was in life. This is half a life, a pale imitation. Look at me.”

Her breath catches as she removes her hand and draws it back, up to her veil. And slowly, haltingly, she lifts it from her face. You remain motionless in your seat, taking her in.

She is as beautiful as her voice and demeanour suggest. Even more so, in fact. One dark, sad eye searches your face for any hint of revulsion. Where the other should be, there is a mass of something that looks vaguely alive, stretching over much of the right side of her face.

“You're lovely,” you murmur, almost involuntarily. “So very lovely.”

Donna's remaining eye shines in the firelight, something like relief swimming behind her tears. It seems she cannot bear to be uncovered for this long, as she drops her veil back into place, and takes a moment to smooth it.

“You're very kind,” she says, once she's gathered herself. “And very unusual. But… do you see? The others, they seem to think this makes us special, this gift. Especially Alcina. Karl, he… he hates Miranda, and everything she has done in pursuit of her goal. But he, too, feels superior on account of the Cadou, though he'd never say as much.”

“I wonder how Aideen feels about it.”

“That… I could not begin to guess,” Donna whispers, and falls back into silence.

Where does this leave you? You suppose that you'll have to mourn all over again. Except, this time, you know with certainty that Aideen is alive. Half a life, Donna called it. A life helping Mother Miranda bring back a long-dead girl. A thousand questions batter the inside of your skull, too many to single out just one, none with satisfactory answers. Perhaps you ought not to know. Such knowledge might change you, or shatter the last of your sanity. You shake your head to get away from this disquieting line of thought.

“Are you going to go home?” Donna asks. “Now that…” She doesn't finish; she doesn't need to.

Home. Without Aideen, is it any home at all? You swore to yourself you wouldn't return without her, but what choice is there now? The thought of going back empty-handed is unthinkable. The possibility of staying put is laughable. You don't belong here, and you are not welcome, barely tolerated.

“I don't know,” is all you can say.

Donna produces a small pocket watch, and sighs upon seeing the time.

“I have to go,” she tells you regretfully. “I'm not sure what else to say except that I'm sorry, and…” There is a pause in which she seems to consider something. “Please call on me if you need. My home is open to you, should you wish to see me, as long as you send word ahead of time.”

“Thank you.”

You don't look up as she leaves. Only when the fire has burned itself out do you realise with a start that you've been sitting alone for a long while. There is a stillness to the air that suggests a late hour, the castle once again returning to that dormant state. Until the next darkness passes its doors.

The hours spent sitting on a hard chair have stiffened your limbs. You stretch them as you get up from the table, each movement eliciting a feeble groan. Where to now? Suppose you crawl back into bed, will you find sleep? Probably not. Strangely, you find yourself wishing for company. Anyone would do, even if it were just to sit in companionable silence. You set off through the castle, listening for signs of life.

It doesn't take long. In fact, you wind up where you began the evening, back in the gleaming dining hall. The doors are flung wide open, and you are left squinting after the dimly lit walk here. An unmistakable figure on the far side of the table, who does not notice your presence as you stand motionless in the doorway.

“Ah. Hello…”

Lady Dimitrescu looks up at you, startled. She is sitting in the same place as earlier, clutching a gilt cigarette case. Her eyes are luminous beneath the light of the chandelier, an almost catlike, reflective quality to them. She seems to look right through you, dazed.

“Ran out of the damned things,” the countess mutters, and gives the cigarette case a shake. The non-sequitur makes you frown; you've never seen her quite like this. But, undeterred, you take a few steps forward, and try to muster what you hope is a smile of sympathy. In spite of everything, you do feel for her. She looks every bit as lost as you must.

This appears to bring the countess back in some way. She tilts her head, returns your smile, and crooks a finger at the seat opposite.

“Come, sit.”

You draw out a chair, and settle into it with another weak groan. All of the aches in your body are returning bit by bit, demanding attention. But at least you're safe; or as safe as you can be sitting across from this woman who, hours earlier, looked set to tear someone apart. You feel no danger from her in this moment. Not calm, either, just a sense that you can exist in her space without worry. Besides, she looks too exhausted to do anything more than sit there and lament her lack of cigarettes.

“So, little mouse. It's been quite an evening.” She smiles faintly. “Donna speaks very highly of you. Respects you, even. You're quite a strange thing, aren’t you?”

There is no insult lodged in her words, merely observation. And it's not untrue, you suppose. It felt as though Donna saw you clearly tonight, and that the countess is inclined to consider her opinion more than she would anyone else.

“No stranger than you, I would say, from what little I know,” you point out, and Lady Dimitrescu's grin widens. She upends the remaining wine into her glass, and drinks thoughtfully.

“Well. Perhaps we should start again. I feel as though I know nothing about you,” she muses, eyeing you with mild interest. “Tell me a little of yourself, and I might be inclined to do the same.”

You've been listening intently for any indication that this is another one of her games, or a motive not yet apparent. As far as you can tell, she is being genuine. And for the first time, you get the sense that you're on equal footing. You both want something simple. A light conversation between two people; it could even be normal, were it not for the circumstances. Right now, you are in need of the same thing; company, perhaps even comfort. To forget, just for a little while.

So you look across at her, this grand and enigmatic countess, see the honesty in her eyes. And you decide that, whilst you remain in her castle, you will try to trust her.

“Alright,” you say, with a shrug and a half-smile. “What would you like to know?”

“The night is young, so…” Lady Dimitrescu leans back in her chair, her eyes twinkling. “Anything and everything. Entertain me, God knows I need it. Who knows? You might yet hold my interest.”

Anything and everything. Well, why not? It will pass the time, and you have nowhere else to be. She wishes to be entertained; you may as well indulge her as best you can.

And, what's more, already the night's events feel further away, before you've even begun. The comfort you sought is right here, in the most unlikely of places. Not knowing if you’ll be afforded such a luxury again, you grasp onto the feeling.

And so you start at the beginning; Oxford, almost thirty years ago. The countess listens with a small, curious smile on her face.

Notes:

it's been a min! and that was a LOT....

and though we only saw Aideen briefly, she'll be back in a bit! but first, we have to spend a bit more time with lovely Lady D for a lil while... some fun to be had in chapter 10! thanks so much for reading!

Chapter 10: Blunt Instruments

“You're lying.”

Setting down your palette, you grin across at the countess. “I'm being quite serious, my Lady.”

She huffs, but she's smiling right back. “You were not born on a canal boat. I simply won't have it. The practicalities…”

Another evening in the atelier, another bottle of wine shared. The routine is nightly, for the most part. Others, the Lady of the House has business to attend to, or an errant daughter to rein in. Tonight, she is all yours, so to speak. Half an hour stretches easily to ninety minutes, which inevitably rolls over to three or four hours. You've had to sleep through to the afternoon to accommodate these late meetings.

“Hand on heart. My parents were quite unusual, to put it mildly. Free thinkers. Mother still swears that having me on the water was the best thing she ever did.”

“Really?” Lady Dimitrescu quirks an eyebrow. “And what qualities is that supposed to grant, exactly?”

“Oh, I don't know. I can barely even swim. Did I mention she's always been a bit dotty?”

Deep, rich laughter echoes off the high ceiling, and you fight to keep a straight face. All of it is true, which doesn't stop the story being utterly ridiculous. The countess delights in these tales; that much is clear. And equally, you revel in telling them. An embellishment here and there doesn't hurt, merely serving to bring about the musical sound of the countess’ laughter. Never have you been a comedian, exactly, but she finds great amusement in the ‘quaint’ anecdotes you've taken to sharing. Your studies, little snatches of your life when things were simpler. She listens to it all with rapt attention, always with a knowing glint in those clever golden eyes.

You roll your aching wrist around, considering a particularly vexing line that you've already erased five or six times. After a couple of false starts, the little portrait is beginning to come together. The addition of watercolour breathes life into the previously flat sketch, and the countess has proven to be an admirable model. She acquiesces with all of your requests, moving this way and that to find the best lighting, fixing her gaze on a certain spot. Even going so far as to wear the same style and colour of gowns for your convenience.

By your reckoning, it is nearing completion. Perhaps one or two more sessions would do it. What you won't admit is that you've been deliberately slowing the process, dragging out your time together, but you don't need to tell Lady Dimitrescu this. She is content to allow it, and does not resist in the slightest. Accommodating, the Duke had called her. You have to begrudgingly accept that he was right.

“Getting tired, little mouse?”

As you begin to answer in denial, an inopportune yawn bursts out of you, and the countess rolls her eyes good-naturedly. You try to conceal your face behind the easel.

“Go on, go to bed.”

The imperative signals that she, too, is craving rest. Reluctantly you pack away your things into a fine antique briefcase, dug from a corner of the guest wing. With the countess’ blessing, you've begun to build your wardrobe back up with odds and ends found in long-abandoned chests and cupboards. And they are beautiful clothes, truly. Their age and quality lend them a scholarly, sophisticated air.

“Thank you, my Lady. Please do send for me when it's most appropriate for you.”

It always ends with the same words, the brief thanks and a touch of deference. Since that evening of unrest when Mother Miranda and Aideen crossed the threshold, she has been nothing short of charming, unfailingly kind to you. The change was, at first, quite startling, and your first instinct was one of suspicion. You keep wondering if this is only a temporary reprieve, or a ploy of sorts, but you can find nothing but sincerity in the countess’ actions. Something shifted that night, and she seems drawn to you just as you are to her. An unfamiliar feeling of importance swells in you with each kindness displayed, her genuine interest in what you have to say. But, without fail, you round off these evenings by making your gratitude and respect known.

Tonight, it is Lady Dimitrescu who changes the script. As you start to leave, she beckons you over, her eyes crinkled. Lovely. Why did you not think to draw her smiling?

“My Lady?”

She looks you up and down, tilts her head to one side.

“Indulge me for a moment, please,” she says mildly. “I've taken to wearing a new perfume, you see, and I can't quite decide if I like it. The girls have been no help at all. I'd care for your opinion, if you would.”

You nod, trying not to look too eager, and look expectantly down at her wrist. From here, you can't quite catch the scent. But the countess instead taps the side of her neck, just a fraction below her earlobe. You'll have to lean in very close. For only a moment you hesitate, then brush it off. A harmless request. You bow your head to the spot she pointed at, still a couple of inches short, and inhale. Only a very faint scent of something floral reaches you.

“I can't quite…” you begin, then backtrack, embarrassed. “Very nice indeed. Lovely.”

Lady Dimitrescu tuts. “Oh, behave, I know you can't smell it from there. Come closer,” she demands, and tilts her head up further. Your nose makes contact with her skin, and a powdery note emerges. It is lovely, but the scent is quite irrelevant. The countess’ hand finds the back of your head, threads her fingers through your hair. Gently she turns your face inward, and presses her lips to your temple. A tender gesture, perhaps something more hovering at the edge. And, before you can do more than blush furiously, she lets you go.

“Yes, I got it that time,” you mutter, keeping your eyes low. “It's beautiful. Suits you very well.”

An indulgent smile spreads over her face. “Thank you. I'll be sure to order some more, then, if it pleases you. Off you go, now. Get some rest.”

“Goodnight, my Lady.”

Once back in the solitude of your room, the exhaustion you’ve been fighting returns with a vengeance. You collapse into bed, expecting a swift drop into sleep. But the smell of the countess’ perfume yet lingers, the pressure of her lips on your skin. There was something touchingly innocent about the gesture. Tender and safe. Much the same way as the embrace of an old friend evokes warmth, sends an implicit message of love and compassion. Does she care for you? Is she a friend? Such a strange thought. Where is the distinction drawn between whatever you two have, and friendship?

Moreau is your friend. Lady Beneviento, most definitely. And even Geoff, back in Oxford, though he feels a lifetime away. But Lady Dimitrescu? You enjoy one another's company, that much is true. You share things about yourselves. Actually, no. The countess hasn't exactly been forthcoming about herself, or offered stories of her own. She is content to listen to you, but gives little in return. Surely, if you were friends, such confidences would be a prerequisite to that state. As for yourself, you suppose much of what you've told her is carefully selected; usually not to include Aideen, or to skirt around her in the abstract. Your terror at what she has become makes you dread the mention of her name alone. You've closed off that part of your mind she once occupied, but it's a fragile binding.

Cursing, you sit upright and swing your legs off the bed. You've managed to think yourself out of sleep, thinking in circles that don’t go anywhere. As you drop your aching head into your hands, something catches on your brow. You wince and lower your hand, watch your wedding ring catch the dim lamplight. It's easy to forget that you ever put it back on, that you're still wearing it. Absentmindedly you twist it in circles on your finger, noting that it's become looser. Perhaps from the cold, or that you haven't been eating enough.

Best to take it off, you think, before it slips off and gets misplaced. So you drop it into the bedside drawer, and instantly feel lighter for its absence. The old imprint on your finger has almost faded. Funny, you think, that Aideen wasn't wearing hers. The last time you saw her before her disappearance, it was most certainly on her finger. But her hands were bare when she came to the castle. Likely lost somewhere during these past three years, you imagine. This snags in your mind, but if there's any more meaning hidden between the lines, you fail to grasp onto it. Perhaps it doesn't matter all that much in the grand scheme of things. You rest, absorbed in strange and senseless dreams that dissipate upon waking, like sand spilling through your fingers.

***

Blood spatters from the already saturated cloth in your hands. With a grimace you wring it out, queasy from the sensation of watery blood dripping through your fist. It's all over your shirtsleeves, and your hands are stained a sickly shade of pink.

“Having fun yet?”

Cassandra smirks at you, and watches you clean her weapons, some so caked with dried blood that the metal beneath is obscured. You made the mistake of voicing a feeling of uselessness over breakfast, and your loose tongue has earned you this stomach-churning exercise. Cassandra suggested that you meet her in the armoury, that she could do with some help, though she wouldn't divulge the exact nature of the task. Three buckets of soapy water and several hours later, you can only hope that she will dismiss you soon. There is no telling when, or even if, she will be satisfied, and you've already cleaned more blades than you care to handle in a lifetime.

“You know, when you ask someone for help, that usually means you'll be doing something, too,” you snipe bitterly. “This is vile…”

“Oh, just you wait,” she grins, but doesn't elaborate. “Mother tells me that you're funny. Why don’t you crack a joke or two? I'm bored of watching you.”

Don't rise to it, you tell yourself. Finish this quickly, then you'll be on your way. And you'll never again complain about not having enough to do. One of these days, you will learn to keep your lips sealed. Cassandra eyes her sickle protectively as you run a dry cloth down the length. She made it explicitly clear that she won’t let you stop until she can see herself reflected in it.

“You could tell me the story about the haunted pub, or…” Cassandra ponders aloud. “The one about you being born on a boat… sounds made up to me. We were born in a laboratory. Much more normal.”

You scoff, and continue ignoring her otherwise. Even though you are a little curious about how Cassandra and her sisters came about, your current displeasure muscles aside everything else. The stench in your nostrils is eye-watering. Will you ever be able to wash it out of your clothes, smell anything properly ever again? You carry on wiping the blade miserably.

That is, until twin clouds of flies come careening into the room, rendering it invisible for a brief moment.

“Cass, where've you been?”

Daniela is the first to take form, and you blanch at the sight of her. From her lips to her chin, she is dripping with fresh blood. It spatters from her fingertips and the deadly-sharp curved knife in her hand.

“Good hunt?” asks Cassandra, a tinge of jealousy in the question.

“Very.”

You groan inwardly as Bela appears, just as gory as her sister. There are deep red splotches all the way up to her hairline, bleeding into wisps of blonde. She flicks blood dispassionately from her blade onto the ground, then drops it into your bucket.

“Oh, aren’t you good!” Daniela croons. “Here, mine's filthy.”

“Thanks…” you mutter, staring down at your once-clear bucket of water, refilled not ten minutes ago. The two weapons turn it red in a matter of seconds, and you set to work cleaning them. The sisters chat over your head like three gossipping friends out for a coffee. You grit your teeth and try to tune it out. They have taken to treating you more or less like a piece of furniture, or a particularly uninteresting pet, save for Bela, who ignores you altogether. That is, until they grow bored; you're not sure which you prefer. Boredom is a precarious state in Castle Dimitrescu when it comes to the countess’ darling daughters.

“He screamed like a piglet,” Daniela cackles. “Big oaf, he was. I wanted to cut his stupid face off and bring it home, but Bela here-”

“It was getting cold,” says Bela, with finality. “Want to die out there because you can't help playing with your food? Be my guest.”

They bicker as though you're not there, up to your elbows in the evidence of their violence. The remark about it being cold piques your interest, but you decide not to pipe up. Still, you lodge it in your mind, intending to find out more when the opportunity arises.

“All done, ladies,” you say loudly over the clamour, and loop the bucket's handle on your wrist. “You could eat your breakfast off these. Enjoy.”

The sisters break off the conversation to retrieve their weapons, good as new. Daniela pinches your cheek, and you flinch away with a scowl.

“Oh, don't look so glum. Mother said she wants to see you before supper,” she assures you. “Go and put on something nice for her… easily removable, mind.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. Does she…? God, no. She's just playing. You're an easy target, and Daniela has an uncanny knack for pressing all the right buttons. It will simply be another evening spent working on the countess’ likeness. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Right…” you sigh. “Bye, then.”

By the time you've finished speaking, all three women have burst into swarms again, drowning out your words. The last fly straggles out through the open doorway, and you are alone. With one last, despairing look at the bloody bucket slung over your arm, you follow. It's been a long afternoon and, if Daniela is to be believed, it's about to be a very long night.

As it happens, you don't need to seek out Lady Dimitrescu at all. She catches you on the way back to your room, and you almost fail to hear her calling out. Your mind is focused squarely on getting washed up after your gory, miserable afternoon, so much so that you very nearly pass her by.

A low voice snaps you from your thoughts. “Excuse me…”

“Oh! My apologies,” you say, craning to look up at the countess. You're a little embarrassed to see her, especially in your current state of disarray. “I was miles away. Daniela said you wished to speak with me?”

There is a pronounced crease in her brow, a troubled expression, and she doesn't even seem to register the blood all over your clothes. “Yes, that's right. I'm afraid there's an unexpected matter requiring my attention tonight. I do so hate to postpone with you, but…”

“That's quite alright, my Lady. Tomorrow?” you ask hopefully.

“Tomorrow,” she agrees, then takes a thoughtful pause. “Actually, I thought you might like a change of scenery, and I've been keeping you up far too late. If you're amenable to an early rise, my quarters are north-facing, so…”

As she trails off, your mouth twitches into a hesitant smile. “Good lighting?”

“The best in the castle.”

“Excellent. Well, I'll let you carry on, then…”

She bids you goodbye, turns away to descend the stairs. A look over her shoulder; is that bashfulness? Gone too quickly for you to ascertain what, exactly, crossed her expression. Whatever it was, she seems lightened by the agreement to meet in the morning. Your stomach flutters faintly, and you still haven't erased the smile from your face. You realise you must look quite strange, smiling idiotically at where the countess stood, but there's no-one else around to see. Reflexively you go to fidget with your wedding band, and find that it's not there. For a moment, panic; have you lost it? No, that's right. You removed it not too long ago to keep it safe. Relieved, you head back to your room, thinking wistfully of a scalding hot bath and a decent meal.

An evening to yourself sprawls in front of you, a novel luxury. As you scrub yourself clean of ‘helping’ Cassandra, your mind wanders to what matters must be so pressing as to require the countess’ immediate attention. She seemed genuinely regretful that she had to abandon the routine you've both settled into. Though you'd never say as much, you were quite dismayed. Such a silly little thing to be put out over; you'll see her in the morning, after all. And all this unexpected free time at your disposal is mildly cheering. What to do with it?

Once clean and fed, you think to stretch your legs around the castle, perhaps even the grounds. Once or twice you've poked your head out of one of the doors but, faced with biting winds and treacherous, icy surfaces, quickly changed your mind. What's more, anything could be lurking out there. While the castle is not exactly safe by any stretch of the imagination, what lies outside could be worse. The unknown, in all its forms, keeps you holed up inside. The notion of leaving has not been brought up in quite some time.

A knock at your door, almost as if your thoughts have been heard, rouses you from your circular musings. The young maid on the other side offers a tentative, almost conciliatory smile.

“Evening, Antonia,” you say, a little colder than you’d meant to.

“Been avoiding me?” she asks brightly. “I see you're feeling better.”

“No, I'm not avoiding you,” you lie. “And yes, I am feeling better, thank you. Is there something you needed?”

“A walk. You've been cooped up for goodness knows how long. Come on.”

You remain unmoved, avoiding her eyes. Truthfully, you have been making yourself scarce whenever she happens to be around. The image of her on top of the countess, writhing in pleasure and pain, flashes unbidden across your thoughts. At night, too, when sleep seems miles away, that scene comes creeping back into your mind's eye. Antonia, either to her credit or ignorance, does not mention what you saw. Perhaps she really doesn't know. And she's probably right; you haven't tasted fresh air for a long while. She waits, drumming her fingers on the doorframe.

“Alright,” you concede, forcing yourself to forget, just for now.

Antonia leads you out through the kitchens, and into the courtyard. The air is still bitingly cold, but much of the ice underfoot has turned to slush. You squint into the fading sunlight, waiting for your eyes to adjust. It really is quite lovely out here. For a while you walk in silence, hands buried in your pockets, appreciating the brisk air on your face.

“You've gotten close with the mistress.”

It isn't a question, or an accusation. You stop and stare at Antonia, who looks back at you mildly. She motions over to a carved stone bench, sits, and waits for you to join her.

Sighing, you brush some dead leaves off the stone and set yourself down beside her. “Not as close as you are.”

Antonia scoffs. “Oh, come on now. Did you really think she doesn't have her way with the help? That she's all chaste and lovely, pining for you?”

“Shut up,” you snap, as an angry flush creeps up your face. “It's not like that. I'm drawing her, nothing more.”

She rolls her eyes. “Right. That explains the empty wine bottles, the fact you creep back to your room at two o'clock in the morning…”

You silence her with a glare. “Drop it, Antonia. It's not your place.”

Antonia reels away, taken aback by your tone and posture. Only now do you realise how coiled up you are, hands clenched tightly on top of your knees. You ease off, letting your shoulders drop. The last thing you want to do is frighten the girl.

“Alright,” she says quietly. “I take your point. But it's not quite how you think it is. We're just convenient, you know? She takes from us, and we get a little something in return, if we're that way inclined. She always asks.”

She’s blushing now, too, looking off at some point across the courtyard. Nothing about what you saw between Antonia and Lady Dimitrescu hinted at any sort of transaction, but it doesn't surprise you to hear of it. After all, the countess needs to feed, and she has at her disposal an impressive cohort of staff with ample sustenance running through their veins. That ‘little something’ in return is what has your stomach twisted up, but you're determined not to allow it any more room in your thoughts. Antonia worries at her lower lip, still with her eyes unfocused. She doesn't deserve your coldness for things that aren't any of your business.

“I’m sorry. I know how I sound, probably like a jealous little so-and-so,” you tell her. “I promise you, I’m not.” The lie passes by unnoticed, and you move on quickly. “It's just that I can't figure her, not one bit. She's just… so nice all of a sudden. I thought she hated me.”

Out of nowhere, she starts up laughing. A note of derision in it, or pity; you can't quite tell. There is much you still don't know about this castle and its inhabitants, all of those unseen things just out of reach. So much you aren't privy to, which Antonia doesn't see fit to share. A little disheartening, but not entirely unexpected. Secrecy seems to be currency in this place, passed from lips to ears and guarded jealously each step of the way. Right now, however, you find yourself rather more interested in what she has to say about the countess.

“Oh, God bless you. No, she doesn’t hate you. You'd know about it if she did.”

There's a bitter edge to her laughter and voice, something darker than the words themselves. When you ask her if she's alright, she shakes herself, and plasters on an unconvincing smile. Whatever crossed her mind, she puts away with haste, and your better instincts tell you not to probe.

“Well, at least I got you outside for a bit.” She gets up and stretches. “You were starting to look like a dying plant, you know.”

“Oh, thank you. That's a new one.”

“Come on, then. It's getting dark. No more photosynthesis for you out here.”

True enough, the sun has set while you've been talking. Enough light seeps from inside the castle to guide your way back, glinting off the melting frost and giving the courtyard a sparkling, slightly surreal look. Antonia leaves you in the kitchens; she's late for some duty or other, and rushes off with hardly a goodbye.

As you wind your way through the castle, down the familiar twists and turns, a thought springs up that has you kicking yourself. Antonia has been here a long while, it seems, and it's clear enough that she is both observant and perceptive. She must have met, or at least seen Aideen, surely. You could have asked about her, should have asked, but didn't think to. A twinge of guilt needles through your chest. You wince at the empty space on your finger where your wedding ring ought to be.

Just as your wife has slipped away from you, the reverse is also true. What of your marriage, the promises you both made? You realise, now, the extent to which you have failed one another. What are you doing here, really? Trotting around after Lady Dimitrescu, just as Aideen trots after Mother Miranda. A pair of lapdogs, wrenched further apart than ever before, and with only yourself to blame. Shame and anger drive through your gut in equal measure, and the question you've been avoiding lands squarely in the centre of your thoughts.

What if you stay, what then? It spells giving up on Aideen, and making the decision that has become more pressing by the day.

Going home alone is not an option; part of you knew that before you set foot in the village. It was either find Aideen and bring her back, or die somewhere along the way. But a new choice has entered the equation.

Stay with the countess, and try to forget why you came here in the first place. By God, it's tempting. Play the role you've been given, that of a mildly interesting stranger possessed by a fascination for the Lady of the House. It would please her, of that you're quite certain. Not an unpleasant existence by any means.

That leaves you with one other possibility, by far the most frightening, and the one most likely to break you.

You still love Aideen, or at least what she used to be, and perhaps she once loved you. Three years ago, that might have been enough. Now, you're not so sure. A lifetime seems to have passed since the day you found your house gapingly empty and cold. She doesn't want to be found or brought home, but it can't possibly end like this. There was still a flicker of who she used to be behind those vacant eyes. If there's a chance for you, for your marriage, shouldn’t you take it? Do you owe her that much? While you remain here, you'll never know the answers. These castle walls hold many things, some of which frighten and thrill you in equal measure. Perhaps that isn’t reason enough to stay.

Without realising, you’ve been walking in blind circles for what could be an hour, perhaps more. Dawn will sweep through the castle in a matter of hours, and you are still no closer to any semblance of clarity, a final decision.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself. Tomorrow you'll make the choice. First, you have one last appointment with the countess to keep.

***

True to her remark the previous afternoon, the light that floods the countess’ chambers is nothing short of glorious. Perfect, in fact, for drawing. You sit with your back to the window, watching the way the daylight plays off her beautiful dark curls, throwing bright spots from her pendant. Save for a few quick pleasantries, the last hour has been spent in near-silence as you work. Lady Dimitrescu sits proud in her cream gown, smoking, observing you just as you're watching her. There's a rare, welcome warmth about the winter morning, enough that you can sit comfortably in shirtsleeves and trousers.

“Hm…” you mutter to yourself, tilting your head this way and that before the page. “Nearly, but…”

“But what?”

“Sorry?”

The countess smiles patiently.

“You didn't finish your sentence. Nearly, but what?” she asks, shifting her weight in the armchair. “Do you mean to say we're almost done?”

You consider this, flitting your eyes from the drawing to her face, and back again. Is it really finished? No, not quite. Again you pick up your brush, then your pencil, frowning at the page with mounting frustration.

“You're fussing, aren't you?” Lady Dimitrescu says, all while an amused smirk plays at her mouth.

“Well, I'm bound to. It has to be right, doesn't it? You said so yourself.”

The bite, the hint of impatience in your voice does nothing to deter the countess’ smile. If anything, it broadens as you tap your pencil distractedly on the easel. Another spell of quiet falls, but it doesn't last very long.

“She's a beautiful woman, your wife, isn't she?”

“Do you think so?” you mutter. What an odd question, seemingly out of nowhere. Last you recall, she regarded Aideen with nothing but venom and disgust. And, truthfully, you're a touch deflated at the mention of her. Beautiful, she says. She never saw the animal, twisted look that clouded Aideen's face when you challenged her.

“Of course,” Lady Dimitrescu muses in a surprisingly innocent way, oblivious to your agitation. “You're very different from one another. But, yes… quite beautiful to look at. You have a good eye for beauty.”

Ah. An invitation, presented lightly enough so as to seem innocuous. There's an opening here, clear and tempting. But she has also left a little room for subtlety, that you don't have to reveal too much. A small relief to be steering gently away from the topic of your wife.

By way of stalling for time, you blink away the bright spots in your vision and peer over the bestiary. Two golden eyes look back, glinting with some kind of possibility not yet broached; thin as a membrane, only the tiniest provocation needed to break through. Your breath catches, but you keep searching, examining.

And then it hits. What you've been missing, what this entire piece has been missing. You could almost kick yourself. All while you've been dutifully reproducing every detail of the countess, you've failed to replicate what is right before your eyes, what has been there this whole time.

Her inspection of you, the way she's been watching you during these hours spent together. It's subtle, but undeniable now that you've seen it. Triumph at having found this last, maddening piece of the puzzle quickly turns to finding a solution. How to replicate such a minute, intangible detail? Tricky, but not impossible. For several minutes you leave the countess' last words hanging in the air, and focus on her likeness. Just the littlest shift in her pupils, the light reflecting from them. Deceptively simple, but the effect is immediate when you lift your pencil from the page. You draw back from your work, and release a prolonged, thoughtful sigh. The countess lifts her chin as if in anticipation.

“Finished,” you say, scarcely daring to believe it, and not quite wanting to.

Lady Dimitrescu's eyebrows shoot up, and she sounds as close to enthused as you've ever heard her. “Oh, really? Well, then… may I see?”

You nod wordlessly and she rises, still controlled in spite of herself. Your nerves mount as she takes two strides your way, steps round to the back of your stool. You feel her at your back, hear the tiny rustle of her gown as she bends at the waist to peer down at the bestiary.

“I…” she begins, and falters. “Goodness…” she breathes. Words seem to fail her, the eloquence she wields so well evaporating in an instant. Without needing confirmation, you know this is a good reaction. The smile that spreads over your face is one not only of relief, but a minuscule touch of pride. She's pleased, and this pleases you immeasurably in turn.

The countess’ leather-clad hand lands on your shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze. You place your own over it, and allow your tension to unravel. So worried that your work would disappoint her, you had failed to consider the reverse. She lets out a small, almost disbelieving laugh right by your ear, and you can't help but join in.

“Come, come and look closer,” you invite her, and pull the bestiary from the easel to give her a better view. With remarkable grace she lowers herself to one knee, then both, and leans over your shoulder as you lift the book up to her eyeline. You turn your head to watch her, delighting in the way her eyes glint as she takes in each detail. And then they meet yours over the top of the book, something more than wonder flashing across them. Trembling, you lower your hand; the bestiary thuds onto the floor. Her face is close, so very close, and has taken on a strange, unreadable look.

Her gaze drops to your lips for the briefest of seconds, and you're about to make a feeble joke, something to break this moment, when she kisses you.

It's hesitant, almost clumsy. And you very nearly flinch away, but she's so steady, so present at your back that instead, you fall against her. She breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, long enough for a tiny gasp to escape her. Not long enough for you to think about what you're doing. You close the gap, only millimetres, to meet her lips again. Sensation overwhelms you; the softness of her mouth on yours, that floral, powdery perfume. Her gloved hand glides from your shoulder to your neck, coming to rest at your jaw. Shaking lightly as she holds you in place, her kisses gentle and curious.

Three years since you were last kissed, a kiss you don't even remember. It's stirring a wild hunger in you, one you can no longer suppress. You reach blindly backwards. Are you allowed to touch? The countess makes a small noise in her throat as your fingers find her curls, drawing her closer. In turn, she kisses you more fervently, a hint of tongue swiping over your lip. Your stomach clenches. Is this wrong? How could something that feels like this possibly be wrong? All at once the kiss feeds and devastates you; another woman, another mouth on yours. She turns you around in one fluid movement so that you are pressed against her, holding fast onto your jaw. Deftly she tilts your head, breaking the kiss, and her mouth trails down your cheek, onto your neck.

“Countess…” you gasp, somewhere between warning and encouragement, as your hands find purchase in her curls again. A soft sort of growl leaves her. With the hand not holding your face, she has a fistful of your shirt as she tastes your skin; frenzied, losing control. And just as you, too, are succumbing to whatever this is, you feel something against the side of your throat.

The slightest press of unnaturally sharp teeth hovering over your pulse. Lady Dimitrescu stiffens, breathing hard. Her grip on your jaw slackens.

“You can…” The words spill out of you, unbidden. “It's alright, I mean...”

“No, I…” She clears her throat, draws her mouth away from you. “I don't want to hurt you.” She seems faintly embarrassed by the admission.

“But, the others-”

What are you doing? What are you saying?

The countess cuts across you. “I feed from them, yes, and I take their pleasure, if they so desire. But I don't ever… kiss them.”

So, it is purely transactional between her and those she feeds from. What is this, then? As you grapple with this, your cheek pressed against the countess’ temple, a little kick of alarm stirs in your stomach. You begin to disengage, but she keeps a firm grasp on your shirt. It'll soon tear if she doesn't let go.

“Just… stay like this, please?”

The request, with a note of plea nestled somewhere in it, stops you trying to pull away. You listen to her quiet breathing, feel the smoothness of leather on your jawline. You're both trembling.

“You're leaving, aren't you?” asks Lady Dimitrescu softly.

“Only for a little while, I… I can come back. I'd like to come back.”

“Yes, of course,” she murmurs, and finally draws back to look at you. Her golden eyes are wide, almost startled, her lipstick smudged. A few of her curls are in disarray from running your hands through them. “I'll have Bela see you off, when you're ready.”

Regaining herself, she lets go of you and rises back to her feet, stooping to pick up the bestiary. After one last, long look at the open page, she deposits it back onto the easel. You're still sitting dishevelled on the hard floor, trying to regain control your breathing, to think of something more to say. Something gentle, warm, fitting of all that she is to you. But, before you can, she's gone. What would you have even said? That you would stay, forget everything, all for more moments like this?

If leaving the castle is what is right, it feels awfully like the wrong thing to do.

***

Bela marches several steps ahead, scowling over her shoulder frequently at your slowness. You're winded from trying to keep up with her, the hefty briefcase in your hand feeling as though it's full of lead. The path that leads away from the castle is uneven, and still icy in places.

“You're on your own if you don't hurry up,” she snaps. “Thanks, Mother…” The last part is a muttered aside under her breath.

“What do you want me to do, sprint?” you shoot back, panting. “If I was that fast, I wouldn't be here. I'd be farming Olympic gold medals.”

“Oh, shut up, mouse.”

There's the barest hint of a suppressed smile in her voice. Well, that's a first. Still she strides ahead at the same pace, and you resign yourself to jogging a short way behind.

“Is… was she alright, your mother?” you ask, once you're almost level with her. “Sorry, I shouldn’t… I just haven't seen her since, erm, yesterday-”

“I know what happened,” Bela cuts across you impatiently. “And she's fine, idiot, just busy. She told me to give you her best, and some other things I didn't really listen to.”

So, the countess told Bela what happened yesterday morning in her quarters. There's little point being embarrassed, and you're disinclined to believe that Lady Dimitrescu failed to bid you goodbye on account of being ‘busy’. Was she thinking of it, too? You've thought of nothing else since, sleepless in the small hours as you turned it over in your mind. Somewhere in that kiss lay your decision, the catalyst for your leaving the castle. She knew, too, perhaps even before it happened. Something shifted in her, a quiet acceptance that brings an ache to your chest, a fresh and cutting guilt.

“Right…” you manage, after a pause laden with discomfort. “Thank you, Bela.”

At the gates, she turns on her heel and blocks your way, arms folded across her chest. The glare she gives you makes you quail and hang back a few feet.

“You better have meant it when you said you'd come back, or there'll be Hell to pay,” Bela warns quietly. “If you've been dishonest with Mother, I'll cut your tongue out before it can tell another lie. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” you confirm, failing to conceal the tremor in your voice.

“And…” She scowls, seemingly at herself. “Don't do anything stupid. If you do come back, she'll want you in one piece. Now, go. Get out of my sight.”

You don't need telling twice. As soon as she steps aside, you dart through the gate with your head low. When you dare to look back, all that remains of Bela is a tiny burst of flies, loitering as though to ward you off. The urge to try the gate, to turn tail, is near impossible to resist. Fleeing back to relative comfort and safety would be simple, easy. But that which is comfortable won't bring any measure of peace.

So you turn your back on the castle, and all it has given you. The village lies below, shrouded in a light morning fog, its crumbling spires breaking through the mist. From up here, it looks quite remarkable set against grey-black mountains; undisturbed in its sleep, yet oddly alive. You breathe in, and the air has just a hint of spring in it, but with none of the hope that spring usually holds.

And so you begin the descent. Towards what, exactly, you couldn't say. The path stretches before you, inscrutable and unchanged. A single crow passes overhead as it flies in opposition to you, heading straight for the castle.

Notes:

father forgive me for they have SNOGGED

hooo boy who knew a kiss would be harder to write than nasty style smut

anyway!! I had lots of fun and hope you all did too <3 thanks as always for reading!

Chapter 11: Wolf At the Door

Notes:

Heads up for a violence-heavy chapter ahead!

Is this really the same village you left not so long ago? It seems no different, yet totally unfamiliar, as though a giant celestial hand has transplanted an identical place where it once lay, a trick of impossible proportions. Perhaps it is you that has changed, because nothing looks the same anymore. Your strange new eyes sweep over the square, still frosted over and deserted. This early, you know you won't see a soul. There is but one chimney from which smoke curls upwards, a lone plume dissipating into the fog. The inn, a singularly grim beacon; where all of this began, what feels like aeons ago. Another version of you must be the one who once sought shelter there. You trudge towards it down the uneven street, eyes downcast.

There's a figure shrouded in mist outside, a hulking shape that distends and warps in the saturated air. As you draw closer, the form becomes familiar. Cristian. He is peering through the window with a pipe clamped between his teeth, huffing streams of smoke into the frigid air. Slung over his back is that huge gun of his, at his belt a serrated knife.

“Cristian?” you call out, having stopped a few metres shy of where he stands. He doesn't register your presence straight away, but slowly, as though waking from a dream.

His voice sounds much too loud in the stillness. “You're… alive?”

“I think so, yes.”

After a long, quizzical look, he returns to his intense examination of the inn's front window. You approach with a gentle tread; his behaviour, though not outwardly threatening, sets alarm bells ringing. As you get within a few feet, his twitches and mumblings become apparent. Wary of the weapons on his person, you hang back, hesitant. A barely intelligible string of words comes in staccato mutterings.

“Stupid woman… they're my girls, stupid woman… can't do this to me…”

“Cristian,” you say again, louder. “Can we talk?”

With what seems like great difficulty, he wrenches his attention away from the window. His eyes are unfocused, and only now do you see the pinkish scratches on his stubbly cheeks. They look self-inflicted.

“She’s taken my girls. Tell her, please. She can't do this to me.”

Your eyes follow his, but you can't see into the inn, and, apparently, nor can he. All of the lights are turned off, the occupants most likely asleep.

“I'll try,” you lie. “But we must sit and talk, please, Cristian. I could do with a warm drink. I've walked a long way.”

Somehow, bizarrely, this seems to bring him back. He nods once, hitches the gun more securely onto his shoulder, and plods the few steps across to his own front door.

“She won't listen. They're after me, I'm telling you, I'm telling her. You believe me, don't you?”

At the threshold he rounds on you, eyes now hardened and almost in focus.

“Yes, of course I believe you. Come, let's sit down, have a proper chat,” you say evenly, nodding at the hallway beyond. Cristian grunts and leads the way through to the kitchen, passing the living area on the way. It's starkly lifeless without the two young girls and their bright, curious eyes, so much like Cristian’s. The curtains are drawn, letting no light enter.

He drops himself into a kitchen chair, still with the gun strapped to him, but sets the knife down on the table. You busy yourself with an old steel kettle, and succeed in finding a few teabags to throw in. After a few false starts the stove gives flame, and you set the kettle down with shaking hands. Something is quite wrong here, though you're in the dark about the exact nature of the problem. Cristian scratches idly at the marks on his face, turned vacant once again. You're reminded of Aideen. The kettle boils, the tea steeps, and you decant it into two chipped mugs.

“So, how've you, erm, been?”

Cristian takes the proffered mug of black tea, staring into space. It takes a while for him to answer.

“You think I'm mad,” he says hollowly. “But it's all true. They've been coming by night, scratching at the fucking doors. I can't sleep. Mira won't let me see the girls. I try, but she gets the big lads to throw me out.”

Too much information to take in, and none of it particularly coherent. You look across at him, take a sip of bitter tea to mask your startled expression. Something tells you to proceed with care, and extract the details bit by bit. Simple questions, with hopefully simple answers.

“First off…” you begin cautiously. “Who's ‘they’, Cristian? Someone's got a grudge with you?”

“Lycans. Bastards.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He nods, and you think you detect a faint hint of clarity in his voice and expression. “By night, I told you. Ever since you left, come to think of it. Rapping on my windows, tap tap tap. You'll see,” he concludes mysteriously.

A funereal silence falls, and with it, the sinking feeling that you should have never left Castle Dimitrescu. You'd take grappling with your feelings for the countess over this, given the choice. As it stands, you've embroiled yourself in something as bizarre as it is disquieting. Has he gone mad, you wonder? Or is it the truth? The former would be nice to believe. But Cristian has suffered greatly at the hands of lycans, and though twitchy and distracted, you don't think he's plagued by hallucinations or genuine madness. Rather, this seems the result of stress and sleeplessness, a state you know only too well. Those first nights after Aideen’s disappearance you didn't sleep a wink, clawed at your own face and hands until they bled. This is familiar ground, a fact that doesn't make it any less alarming.

The pieces form a somewhat coherent picture in your mind. Mira, faced with this erratic behaviour, has sequestered Cristian's daughters in the confines of the inn. Whether or not she believes him about the lycans is inconsequential; the absence of his children only worsens the strain he's under.

“I believe you,” you whisper, passing a shaking hand over your eyes. “We should leave, then, shouldn't we? If they're after you, they know where you are, so we aren't safe here-”

“No,” Cristian snaps, roused into lucidity by your suggestion. Flecks of spit fly from his mouth. “I'll stand my damn ground. And my girls are over there. If the bastards go for the inn, and I'm not there to protect them…”

“Okay, okay.” You hold up your hands to mollify him. “Not running, got it. Then we'll… we'll stay put, for now. I'll stay the night and go to Mira in the morning, how's that?”

He eyes you probingly, and you wash down the lie with more tea. You've no intention of appealing to Mira on this; he suspects as much, you're sure. You keep your face professionally neutral, the same way you so often did as a professor. It worked on your undergraduates, but Cristian is another matter entirely.

“Alright,” he huffs after a while. “Gods above, you're going to bring me more trouble, aren't you?”

A glimpse of the old Cristian emerges and, with it, some measure of relief. The rest of the morning comes and goes, with you filling the silence, talking almost without pause. You speak vaguely of your time at the castle, omitting much of the truth in favour of detached descriptions. Frame it as an academic venture more than anything, skirt around details of the castle's occupants, your run-in with Aideen and Mother Miranda. Through it all Cristian drains shot after shot of whiskey from a seemingly inexhaustible supply, while you drink tea. By mid-afternoon, he's both steaming drunk and tired of your droning. He turns weepy, cries a while to himself as though you're not there, then barely makes it to the tiny bedroom off the living room. His snores reverberate through the house.

Alone, the gravity of the situation is seeping in. You've chosen perhaps the worst place to seek shelter, with lycans apparently circling the place by night. You can’t leave Cristian to his own devices, not while he’s falling apart. The debt you owe him is too great. So, although your instincts tell you to march back the way you came, you resolve to stay put. Eventually you tune out the rumbling snores from the next room, and set yourself in front of a pile of notes, and the bestiary.

On one side, your drawing of the countess. It really is quite a remarkable piece, perhaps your best yet. Her eyes scrutinise you from the page, erudite and amused, and a shard of doubt begins to take root in you. Questions you still have no clear answers for. Why you left, and why you're here now. What began as a one-sided fascination has warped and changed beyond recognition, ending in the kiss that drove you away. If you concentrate, you can still conjure how her lips felt on yours, the way your heart seemed to stop as her teeth met your skin. You would have let her drink; you wanted her to drink. And yet, she held herself back.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

A shiver rolls down your spine, and you hastily turn your attention to the scattered notes. Aideen's records; her slipshod handwriting, the collection of grotesque drawings. The latter, you ignore for now. Instead you hold the notes up to the weak lamplight. Now that you know a little more about the nature of what is described, your revulsion is all the more powerful, but so too is your curiosity. Miranda's search for a way to bring her daughter back, evidenced in the pages in your hands. Something awful and dark festers at the very heart of all this.

These notes, the Lords; five failed experiments, and countless more living wretched lives. The lycans, the moroaicǎ, God knows what else, all crawling this village with fractured minds and feral bloodlust. You remember the lycan’s slavering jaws, its soulless eyes as it attacked you at Moreau's reservoir. The both of you only narrowly escaped with your lives. What are you doing here, waiting for another attack? Unarmed and with a half-mad Cristian in a drunken sleep, you're a sitting duck. Bravery doesn't come into it; you're simply too frightened to take action.

In spite of it all, you're starting to doze off. Your mind resists all attempts to keep yourself awake, perhaps too overwhelmed to do much of anything. A haze of exhaustion begins to take hold as you pack away the notes and the bestiary, and drift into a dead sleep on the sofa within minutes.

***

A dream of death and confusion, a sea of blood tossing a skeletal ship. Blurred faces swim up through the crimson water, friends and lovers and those lost to you. It's almost a relief to wake from it, to realise it was just that, a dream. Strong hands grip you by the shoulders, shaking roughly. You flinch in response; your eyes fly open, your breathing quickens as you try to push yourself upright.

“Shh! Easy, woman, easy. Stay down. They're here.”

Cristian's face, ghostly in the dim light, hovers over you. It must be late, sometime between night and dawn; the air has that telltale thinness about it. Something smooth and wooden is pushed into your hand, and your fingers struggle to wrap around it. In your half-asleep state you're docile, disoriented.

“Who's here?” you whisper blearily, then register what you've been made to hold onto. Cristian's knife, its handle warming in your grip, and its nasty toothed edge glinting. He shushes you again, cocking an ear towards the window. He has the air of a hunting hound that has scented a trail, no trace of his previous drunkenness left.

“Hear that?” he murmurs. “Listen close… I'll get the cunts this time…”

“Cristian-”

“Shh!”

You open your mouth to try again, then you hear it too. A scrabbling, huffing noise right outside the little window. Not from one source, either, but two distinct qualities to the sounds. A soft whine from one, a growl from another. Two of them.

“Cristian, please,” you hiss. “Is there another way out? You can't take them both on.”

He growls, not unlike the lycans themselves, and tightens his grip on the gun. He looks from the window to you, his eyes repeating the motion several times. Finally he curses under his breath, and jerks his head at the open kitchen door.

“The alley at the back…” he says. “Stay low, tread softly. You get out that way, and I'll-”

Tears of anger and terror prick your eyes. “No! Come with me. If they come round and cut me off… and you're not there...”

Your voice rises as you plead desperately, then his big hand is covering your mouth. Some of your tears roll into his palm, and it's all you can do not to devolve into hysteria.

“Shh! Quieten down. Shit…” he growls. The scrabbling at the window and door has grown louder while you've argued. “Come on, before they fucking hear you. Come!”

In a half-crouch he sets off and you follow closely behind, slinging the strap of the briefcase across your shoulder and clutching the knife. Through the kitchen and towards the screened back door, it seems your movements have gone unnoticed; the lycan’s snuffling and growling continues, fading behind as you move away from the front of the house. Wincing at the noise, Cristian eases open the creaking door and creeps through, into a sickly pre-dawn light. There is a tiny patch of yard with the remnants of failed attempts to grow vegetables, an abandoned trowel and two small pairs of gloves.

“The gate,” whispers Cristian, moving his finger to the gun's trigger in anticipation. “Unlock it.”

You obey and slide the latch, and the gate swings inwards of its own volition. Cristian straightens up to his full height and puffs out his chest, then pokes the barrel of the gun through the gate and disappears through it. Paralysed, you wait. Half of you expects to hear gunshots and lycan's roars, to smell blood and death. Instead, a whisper reaches you.

“Clear. Come out.”

After a deep lungful of air, you stand upright and step through into the shadowed alleyway. Cristian is some six feet away, swivelling his head this way and that, on high alert. You hold the knife across yourself defensively and tiptoe up beside him.

“Where to?” you ask quietly, scarcely daring to breathe. There are two ways out, left and right, and you're none the wiser as to where they lead.

“Hm,” Cristian grunts. “I don't think they've followed. Left, then. Takes us round the back streets. We can lose them there, maybe.”

At first, you're a moment from agreeing, the response about to leave you. But the hairs on your neck and arms begin to prickle, a sudden intuition. Don't go left. Where the thought comes from, you couldn't say. But you're certain of it, as certain as you've ever been about anything.

“No, wait…” you murmur, as Cristian makes to set off that way. “Let's go right.”

He frowns deeply over his shoulder. You implore him with your eyes, but it's ineffectual. With a shake of his head, he starts towards the left.

“No-”

Your words are cut off by a growl, a great scuffling noise from the left exit of the alley. Two muscular, hairy bodies barrel into one another in their haste to cover the distance, and that split second is all you need to start running in the opposite direction. There's a good twenty metres between you and them, and your only thought is to make that distance much greater. Over your own panting breaths and footfalls, a roar. But not one of the lycans; a human roar, anguish and rage laced through the guttural scream. You stop dead, gasping for breath, and chance a look over your shoulder.

Cristian opens fire on the lycans as they charge at him. The gunshots make your ears ring, and bright red blood blossoms on their bodies. Both creatures stagger, deep wounds opened up by Cristian's bullets, but they don't stop or retreat. You know well enough that they won't. An entire chamber of your own bullets didn't stop one lycan, so Cristian's gun has little hope of felling two. He's a good shot and quick to reload, but the lycans are quicker. Still he fires, and screams, and doesn't run. Two halves of your mind try to drag you in opposing directions: one to safety at the other end of the alley, and one to Cristian's side to help him. In the end, neither wins. You stay frozen.

“Cristian!” you bellow. “Stop - come on - they'll kill you!”

His enraged shouting turns triumphant as a lycan falls, dead, some six metres away. The other stumbles over its companion’s corpse, baying woefully as its wounds pump out a sickening amount of blood. Smoke issues from the barrel of the gun. He raises it once more to dispatch the remaining lycan.

What happens next seems to come in disjointed, jerking images.

Cristian squeezes the trigger. The gun clicks once, twice. Empty, and nothing left to feed it with. He reaches for the knife at his belt, still not panicked, unhurried. His fingers grasp at nothing, and he turns his head to you. The knife is in your hand. He opens his mouth, perhaps to call for the weapon, perhaps not. You'll never know. What you do know, what you will remember is the last glimmer of kindness in his eyes, his steadfastness in protecting you.

The lycan recovers, slowly at first, then all at once. It lunges, finding strength from somewhere enough to take a great leap at Cristian, whose head is still turned your way. He reacts, shifting his grip on the gun to beat the beast back, but it's no use. It is already upon him, jaws tearing at his face and throat. The sounds of ripping flesh, of human and animal yelps and cries, fill the air.

Cristian is dead in moments, his final screams lingering long after the breath has left his lungs. Bathed in gore, the lycan hurls aside Cristian’s broken body. It sniffs the air, sights you, and staggers upright. The bullet holes in its flesh gape open, its bare chest heaves as it struggles to right itself. But it still has enough fight left to finish the job, to kill you. And you find that, faced with the naked reality of this, you have no fight left at all. Not this time. So you tuck the knife into your coat, and wait for the lumbering creature to get this over with. As it nears, you close your eyes and choose your final thought, the one that will see you into oblivion.

The countess’ touch; her bright, clever eyes, the gravity of her presence. At least you'll die knowing how it felt to be near her.

Hot breath washes over your face, and with it an awful stench. A tentative, almost tender touch of a rough hand on your cheek, a soft snarl. The hand withdraws; then, almost immediately, a blow to your face, full of claws. You feel the flesh of your cheek give way, the sickening crack of bone, and you crash to the ground. Automatically your arms move up to protect your face from further trauma, your legs kick out instinctively, but the lycan knocks them away with ease. It drops on top of you, immobilising you from the waist down. Another swipe at your face; its claws catch on your eyebrow and cheekbone, deepening the lacerations made seconds before. Your chest is next, opened up like a gift; more blood, more burning pain. You stop fighting. Let the beast have its meal. You're half blinded by your own blood pouring out from your brow. Better not to see at all. Your other senses come alive in the absence of vision; the sensation of your flesh opened up, the foul smell coming off the lycan. Faintly, your ears pick up a whistling noise. The wind, perhaps, or maybe this is the noise that death makes. You don't know; your mind is fracturing along with your body.

“Hoy, wolfie! Here, boy!”

That voice. Are you dead already? You don't have time to come to an answer before a thunderous gunshot rings out, far louder and more powerful than that of Cristian's shotgun. The weight of the lycan shifts, rolling halfway off you. No, you're not dead; not yet, at least. You open your eyes to find the lycan with a hole in its head, inches from your own face, and an acrid smoke all around. The smell of gunpowder and blood mix vilely in the air.

“Goodness, dear friend, this is quite the mess…” the voice says, unusually grave. “Can you hear me?”

You groan in response, all you can do before you succumb, and a world of blood and agony engulfs you.

***

Many things and faces come to you, halfway between life and death. Your mother's kind eyes, your father's smile hidden behind his beard. They speak to you in a language you no longer understand, softly, the way they did when you were very small. Their love warms you gently from the inside.

They disappear, as you knew they would. Their voices evaporate into a whisper, a hiss. You feel no pain, a pleasant weightlessness. More figures drift across, grey and blurred like television static. Sometimes they resolve into someone recognisable, others remain obscure. You seem to be moving, or rather something is moving you along with it. A steady rumbling beneath you, the odd jolt, and a rhythmic tapping sound. Pain is bleeding back in dully; you must be alive, then. You open your eyes, and you seem to be curled up in a cramped little space, some kind of rough rug underneath you.

“Ah, there she is, joined us at last! Good morning, dear girl.”

“Mr… Duke…” you mumble. The inside of your mouth tastes of blood.

“Yes, yes, quite right. Your old friend here. You've done yourself quite a mischief, I must say,” says the Duke jovially. Your vision clears a bit, his large form coming into view. He sits cross-legged, almost touching you in the tight confines of the carriage. In his left hand he holds a bloodied cloth, in his right a needle full of green liquid.

“Where… urgh… where are we?”

“Settle, now.” He shuffles forwards on his bottom. “You need some of this. Just a painkiller, my friend. Hold still.”

Your brain is too sluggish to react, so when he slips the needle into the crook of your arm, you don't resist. The effect is near instantaneous when the liquid enters your veins. You sigh as the pain melts away into an ache, leaving you slow and hazy. Cristian is dead; you know this, but you can't seem to feel much of anything at all.

“Well done,” the Duke hums, returning to his original position. “That's the ticket. Made this formula myself, you know. Better than any pharmacy could give you.”

“Where are we?” you mumble again, grimacing. Though the pain has abated, you can still feel the nauseating throb of your wounds, your face inflamed and burning hot. The fragrant, vaguely spicy air inside the carriage is unpleasant on your exposed flesh.

“Ah, ah. Don't try and move, you'll open them up again. I've just stopped the bleeding,” the Duke scolds as you try to wriggle upright, to no avail. “In answer to your question, we're very nearly at the factory. On our way to see the good Lord Heisenberg himself.”

“No… not him. Take… take me to Lady Beneviento.”

The carriage slows to a halt.

“Would that I could, my dear, but we've already arrived,” the Duke beams. “Stay right there, I'll fetch the good man.”

He heaves himself to the little doors of the carriage and his head disappears for a moment. A ringing noise follows, like a large bell of some kind. You hover on the edge of unconsciousness, time and space suspending and starting up again each time you open your eyes. Some time seems to have passed when you hear someone speaking nearby.

“...don’t need this shit, fat man. Turn your damn carriage around and take that crazy bitch with you.”

The gravelly, unmistakable bark of Heisenberg's voice comes from right outside the carriage. The Duke’s horse huffs as though in response.

“My good man, I come to you in earnest. I simply can't keep her, it's out of the question,” the Duke replies evenly. “And… your charming sister wouldn't like to hear of such negligence on your part, would she? As I understand it, she's developed quite an affinity for the… crazy bitch, as you so crudely put it.”

Even in your woeful state, the icy threat in his voice is apparent. And, it seems, enough to sway Heisenberg to his will.

“You're a piece of fucking work. Help me get her on the horse.”

Hands grab and pull at you, out of the carriage and into the brisk late morning air. You're limp, almost unresponsive as the two men - mostly Heisenberg - manoeuvre you onto the back of a horse. You slump onto its thick, warm neck, barely keeping yourself awake, let alone upright.

“Move,” Heisenberg grunts, shifting you backwards bodily so that he can climb up in front of you. “Hold onto me. Or don't. I won’t pick you up if you fall off.”

With great effort you fold your arms around his waist, bury your bloody face into the back of his leather jacket. It smells of liquor and woodsmoke.

“This is goodbye for now, then!” the Duke calls out amiably. “Until next time, good people.”

“Shut the fuck up…” Heisenberg mutters under his breath.

“Thank you, Mr Duke,” you groan into Heisenberg’s back, just as he sets the horse into a canter, then a gallop. The Duke's painkiller must have contained some kind of sedative, because you can hardly cling onto consciousness. You're aware of being moved, carried indoors, but not much else. The welcome blackness drags you under again.

When you next wake, it's with a sense of being watched intently. The room you find yourself in is dingy and stinks of smoke, the only source of light a naked, dimming bulb overhead. You squint against it, then little by little your surroundings become clearer; it's some weak imitation of a sitting-room, sparse and unwelcoming, as though its designer had never seen a sitting-room before. Everything hurts; your face feels swollen and mask-like. The sofa beneath you has stuffing leaking out of various rips and gashes, its cushions hardly more than deflated pieces of leather. You groan and reach a hand up to your face.

“I wouldn't, if I were you. The stitches are fresh.”

With a start, you lift your head slightly to see Heisenberg staring at you coldly from the doorway. Without his dark glasses and grubby jacket, he looks something close to normal, though his expression is full of disdain. The taut feeling in your face must be the stitches. Did he do this himself? You blink at him idiotically, swimming through the fog in your brain.

“Thank you.”

He rolls his eyes and lopes over to the sofa, shoves your feet aside carelessly, and sets himself down. Scowling, he lights up a thick cigar and rummages in the cushions for a moment, coming up with a bottle of whiskey. For a while he drinks and smokes in silence, while you take stock of all the new aches and pains. Your face, of course, but also your chest, which bears ugly black stitches under your tattered, bloody shirt. Memories surface as you lie there with your legs curled awkwardly. Cristian's death, the lycan’s subsequent attack on you. The Duke's timely intervention, and now Heisenberg playing nursemaid. It's too strange for words. You ought to have died, yet here you are, apparently still clinging onto life.

A thread from one thought to another forms tenuously in your mind. The attack, again, but you now have just enough clarity of mind to look beyond it, to put some of the pieces together.

“Is it true?”

Heisenberg's question interrupts your train of thought. You'd almost forgotten he was sitting there.

“Is what true?”

He squints at you disdainfully. “Does Bigfoot really have a thing for you, or was the Duke blowing smoke up my ass? You don't seem her type.”

“I don't know…” you say honestly. “She might. But I have a question for you, actually.”

“Shoot, Frankenstein.”

Better to come right out with it, you reason. You've nothing left to lose.

“Why did you send the lycans? Why were they after Cristian in the first place?” you ask, studying his face for any hint of deceit, any emotion at all.

“That’s two questions.”

“Just answer me, for God's sake. I almost fucking died, and your nasty little hounds-”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Heisenberg growls. “You've got no idea what you're talking about.”

“My friend is dead because of you!” you shout. “He's left behind two daughters, you bastard! So don't sit there and act like a big man-”

“It wasn't me, you mad bitch!” he roars, getting to his feet with alarming speed. He's shaking, teeth bared as he leans over you. “I don't know shit about the attack, I don’t know who the fuck you're talking about.”

You swallow, shrinking back. His eyes, so much like Lady Dimitrescu's in their intensity, shine madly as he breathes hard through his nose. Whether or not this is genuine outrage, you need to dial it back. This man is dangerous.

“I thought they were under your control,” you say quietly, after a few moments. “I thought, after what happened at the reservoir…”

His furious eyes keep burning into you, but he seems to be winding back down slowly. He steadies his breathing, gives a dismissive huff, and flops back down onto the couch. When he next speaks, his tone is surprisingly measured.

“They were under my control,” he says with an edge of bitterness. “Until recently. I had a few… go rogue, you could say. Some I can't track down or call back. Seems like your two buddies might be the ones I'm looking for.”

“Well, they're both dead.”

“Who was the guy?” he asks. “The one they killed, I mean. Friend of yours?”

Your anger is seeping away in favour of grief, a tightness forming in your throat. Without being asked, Heisenberg pushes the bottle of whiskey into your hands. You take a few sips and pass it back.

“Cristian. He and his sister-in-law, they run the inn,” you say thickly. “And, yes, he was my friend.”

Heisenberg shifts uneasily. “I think I know the guy. From when I used to drink in the village, when I first…” He sighs. “When Miranda gave me the Cadou, I found it a little hard to adjust. So I used to hit the inn and drink. Years back, mind you. He was a decent guy. Didn't know he had kids.”

There's nothing you can say to this, so you fall silent and let yourself feel the pain of your loss. More than anything, the faces of Cristian's daughters flicker behind your eyes. They've lost their father in the exact same manner as they lost their mother, orphaned in the most violent and unspeakable way. Cristian's mangled body is probably still lying in the alleyway behind the house. You swallow the urge to be sick, and scramble for something else to think about.

“Is my briefcase here?” you murmur, casting around for it. Heisenberg nods and reaches over the back of the sofa. Though a bit muddy, your briefcase is otherwise unscathed, and still latched firmly shut. Heisenberg watches disinterestedly as you open it, and pull out the bestiary. It's a comforting thing to hold onto, the thing that drew Cristian's attention to you on that first morning in the village.

“Heisenberg…”

He grunts from within a fug of cigar smoke.

“What you said about the Cadou, not coping with it well at first,” you say, feeling out the words uncertainly. “It got me thinking. Could you tell me a bit more about that?”

“Well, for starters, it fucking hurt,” he grumbles, then takes another swig of whiskey. “First few months, felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my head. But, mentally… not fucking easy, let me tell you. Like you're going crazy in silence, like your head's a cage you can't bust your way out of. Everything is, I don’t know, sharper somehow. You see more, feel more. Can't get a minute of peace when you can hear every bug that's crawling in the walls, you know?”

You don't know; you can't even imagine. But you know someone who maybe can.

“It's about that wife of yours, right?” asks Heisenberg, following the train of your thoughts. “Even for someone newly implanted, she's a complete whack job. We all went a little nuts to some extent, but she takes the cake.” He scratches at his beard thoughtfully. “Makes me wonder what Miranda's doing, what she's really after. Can't see old Aideen there being of much use to her.”

The influx of information makes your already sore head throb harder. More questions, when all you want to do is sleep, or better yet, to sink back into that wonderful darkness that preceded your almost-death. One thing is clear, at least: Heisenberg isn't responsible for the rogue lycans, or Cristian's death. If he was, you're quite certain he'd be unabashedly honest about it. So, who did send them? Mother Miranda, quite possibly. Or perhaps they were simply out of control, as Heisenberg said, hounding Cristian for some other reason. There's nothing that can be done about it now, except to mourn and heal.

Bitterness needles at you as, once again, you sit with a sense of uselessness, of complete and utter failure. Your decision to leave the castle led to disaster and death, yielded no answers. Except, that is, for Heisenberg’s cold assessment of Aideen, his pondering of Miranda's true intentions. What if you could find out for yourself, what then? How would you even find out in the first place? You can't, at least not without help. Your gaze slides over to Heisenberg, who has become fixated on picking under his fingernails with the point of a knife.

“Help me find Aideen.”

With theatrical slowness, his eyebrows rise towards his hairline. He sets the knife down on the arm of the sofa and turns to you, an amused smirk ready on his lips.

“You what, kid?”

“I mean…” you sigh, frustrated. “I don't mean to kidnap her, or maybe I do, I don't know. But I do need to talk to her. Get me half an hour with her, by any means possible.”

His grin grows until a laugh rumbles up his throat, and he loses it entirely. You stare at him crossly until his laughter subsides, and he’s left wiping tears from his eyes. The urge to slap him is almost irresistible, if only you were capable of slapping anyone right now.

“Good one, you almost had me. Go the fuck to sleep; you're starting to grate on me. Here, have some more of this.”

With a scowl you bat away the bottle of whiskey he tries to thrust at you.

“I'm being serious. We could draw Miranda away from her, I don't know how, then Aideen and I could talk-”

“Now I'm being serious,” he interrupts. “And the answer is no. Maybe you've taken a good hard knock to the head, whatever, but you're talking crazy shit right now. You're in no fit state, and I'm not getting dragged into any stupid schemes.”

You sit there and fume quietly. Now you're starting to understand why the countess can't stand the sight of this man. But you can't let this go so easily now that the idea has begun to take shape. And after what you've been through today, a feverish and, yes, slightly crazed sense of purpose has taken hold.

“Please,” you try, and it hurts to arrange your face into an expression intended to elicit sympathy. “All I ask is that you take me to wherever Miranda is, and get her out of there for a little while. Just long enough that I can talk to Aideen.”

“You say it like it's easy,” he growls, not looking at you. “And you haven't told me what's in it for me, either. So, like I say, answer's no.”

“It'd help if I knew what you wanted.”

He grumbles to himself for a while, puffing out his cheeks and flitting his eyes about the room. Finally, he looks you dead in the eye, with none of his previous amusement.

“That part, you can't give me. But fucking with Miranda is something of a pastime of mine, and she’s being mighty secretive right now. I've got my suspicions. So…” He holds up a hand, seeing the way you're perking up. “I'll think about it. No promises, you hear me?”

Nodding as best you can, you meet his gaze and feel some of your feverishness ebb away with his concession. It's something.

“First off…” Heisenberg sighs, getting to his feet and stretching. His joints pop and crack in protest. “I need to make a call to your oversized girlfriend.”

“What, why?” you frown. “Also, she's not my girlfriend, thank you.”

He ignores your last remark. “Cause you're not staying here, and she'll fucking have my neck if I don't tell her what's happened. In all likelihood, she'll want you back in her arms before dinnertime. So be ready to go.”

“Okay. And…” you say hesitantly. “Our arrangement? What about that? I mean, are we going to come up with some kind of plan?”

Already making his way to the door, he lets out a derisive snort. “I told you, no promises on that front. Leave the thinking to me, sunshine. As it stands, you're a mess. Let Bigfoot make a fuss of you and tell her to expect me soon; we're overdue a talk as it is. Now, if you'd be so kind as to shut up and let me use the phone.”

On his way out he slams the door emphatically. You wait until his footsteps recede, and sink back onto the deflated cushions with another weak groan. This is it; you've finally gone mad. A plan to get Aideen from right under Miranda's nose, and all your faith placed in Heisenberg to make it happen. If that wasn't enough, you have to face Lady Dimitrescu next. Will she be incensed by what you've done, the state that you're in? Even as a part of you dreads her reaction, a small glimmer of hope sneaks in. You've survived long enough to see her again. Surely, that has to mean something.

“Right,” Heisenberg barks as he barges back in, making you jump. “Her Majesty's been forewarned of your arrival. Grab your shit, Stitches, time to go. Can you walk?”

You grab your briefcase and swing your legs off the sofa, then gasp as your newly sewn up wounds sting in retaliation. Sweating and trembling, you heave yourself upright and stand there with your legs wobbling beneath you. Heisenberg looks on dispassionately, then scowls again. He walks over and, without any warning, scoops you up into his arms.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters to himself as he carries you through a tangle of dark corridors. The clatter of machinery behind the walls is a strange soundtrack to this equally strange place. “A man can't just have a quiet life, no, there's always something…”

Outside, he helps you up onto the back of the same horse that brought you here, instructs you how to hold on properly. The beast is solid and warm beneath you, and the cool air chills the sweat on your face. You can only hope that your body holds out long enough to complete this journey.

“He knows where to go,” says Heisenberg, patting the horse's neck fondly. “Don't you, boy?” He addresses you. “I'll be seeing you. Don't know when, and don't ask me. Go easy on those stitches, by the way, I'm no doctor. And don't die before you get to the castle, else she’ll rip my fucking balls off.”

With that, he gives the horse a tap on the hindquarters, and it sets off at a good pace away from the factory. You glance over your shoulder to see that Heisenberg has already disappeared back inside. Comforted by the horse's steadiness, its easy pace, you watch the darkening sky, breathe in the cool air. Your wounds pulse, less intensely than before. You're oddly thankful to be here in this moment, alive to experience the pain at all. Cristian is dead, and you're not. It should have been the other way round, if the world was a fair place. But just one lapse of judgement spelled the end of him. The thought is sobering.

Night has fallen fully by the time the castle comes into view, and you find that the gates are already open to permit you entry. The horse takes you dutifully all the way up the doors which, unlike the gates, are shut. You cast around for something to help you dismount, but there's nothing. All you can do is sit on this horse as your exhaustion returns tenfold, and you find yourself fighting sleep again.

The doors open, yellow light floods out. Your vision begins to flicker and falter.

“Little mouse…”

Her voice, though weighed down with suppressed emotion, is the loveliest sound you've heard all day. You muster up half a smile for her.

“My Lady,” you mutter, and feel yourself sliding off the horse's flank. Strong arms catch hold of you before you hit the ground, and hold you close. Her gentle murmurings continue as she carries you inside, a kiss on the forehead. The doors close, and the warmth of the castle is such a wonderful thing.

“Thank you for coming back to me,” Lady Dimitrescu says softly. “You're all right now.”

“Glad to be back… missed you…” you mumble vaguely, feeling that familiar haze beginning to sink back in. Before it does, you open your eyes to look at her, reach out your still-bloodstained hand to touch her face. She smiles sadly down at you, the last thing you see before everything goes dark once more.

Notes:

Apologies for the longer than usual wait on this one! As I said in the notes of my last work, life done got me good this month but things have settled considerably! Hope this (not very) fun-filled chapter makes up for the wait a bit. As always, thanks so much for reading, this story is probably the most fun I've ever had working on a fic 🩷 cheers!

Chapter 12: The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit

“You're all right now.”

Through a red mist you sense a flurry of activity in the castle. Voices, faces blurred through your half-closed eyes. The countess carries you at pace, making comforting noises between barking orders and shooing stray staff out of her way. The strength of her arms holding you aloft soothes you, and you think confusedly of home, though you're so very far away from home.

“The wounds… they've reopened. Get Antonia, now.”

Warm blood trickles down your face into your open mouth; a sharp, metallic tang. The smell must drive the countess mad, surely, but she doesn't appear at all affected. She merely wipes it away delicately, her lovely hands stained with your blood. You know she has carried you into her chambers for the scent of tobacco and perfume that floods your senses.

“That's it…” Lady Dimitrescu murmurs, entirely calm. “Lie still.”

She places you onto the soft mattress, and her footsteps recede for only a second before the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. You squint through the haze, and she's right by your side, perched on top of what must be a stool at the bedside.

“Antonia will be along. You're losing blood,” she explains. “And I suspect you've lost rather a lot already.”

“Mm.”

“You're not going to die.”

“Mmmh…”

You force one eye open and reach out your hand. The countess almost manages a smile, and laces her bloodstained fingers through your own. In and out you drift, relieved each time you regain consciousness to find her still by your side. She doesn't move a muscle except to stroke the back of your hand with her thumb; if not for that, she might be mistaken for a statue. Her eyes never leave your face. The two of you exchange no more words; you don't need to.

A tap at the open door, followed by a voice barely managing to make itself heard. “Mistress…”

“Antonia.” The countess grips your hand tighter. “Thank goodness. If you could clean the wounds, and as for the stitches… well, you can see for yourself.” The note she ends on is edged with irritation.

A weight depresses the bed by your hip, and still Lady Dimitrescu keeps an almost painful hold on your hand. You haven't the strength to tell her to loosen it, but there's no need. She takes it away and gets to her feet, allowing Antonia space to assess you.

“These are, erm…” Antonia stammers, fluttering her hands over your face nervously, scared to touch. “Well, they're not very good.”

“Heisenberg. Ham-fisted dullard,” the countess hisses, at last roused to emotion. “Like he was sewing up a Christmas turkey. Just fix them, girl.”

“He saved me…”

Your barely intelligible mumble is waved away by the countess, who looks meaningfully to her maid.

Antonia gulps audibly, takes a few deep breaths. Then she sets to work. Cleaning your face and hands with a light touch, warm damp towels that she wrings out repeatedly. Once satisfied, she takes your right arm in her small, shaking hands and positions a needle in the crook of your elbow. Her tremors worsen.

“Steady,” Lady Dimitrescu soothes her from where she has settled some three feet away. “Breathe, girl.”

She finds a vein, and the painkiller takes hold rapidly. There is no sedative in the mixture, though, and bit by bit you muddle through the fog and into a vague lucidity. By the time your eyes can almost focus, she has in her hands some metal implements, a needle and thread. It's a grotesque task to be charged with, to be sure. But she makes no complaint as her deft hands work at unpicking and repairing Heisenberg’s haphazard stitches. The sensation of your skin being pulled, manipulated, is distantly fascinating. You are being put back together, properly this time.

Antonia cuts the thread and clears her throat. She has reached for the buttons of your ripped shirt, but hesitates upon undoing them. “Mistress…”

The countess sighs impatiently. “Get on with it, there’s nothing you haven't seen before.”

Off comes the dirty, bloodied shirt, and Antonia's hand flies to her mouth. You can't see what has her so aghast, so you make an interrogative noise, which is ignored. Lady Dimitrescu rises quickly and bends to look at your bare chest, then closes her eyes, her mouth set into a grim line.

“What is it?” you croak. “Can I see?”

“No,” the countess and the maid snap in unison. Lady Dimitrescu continues, her voice wavering ever so slightly. “Don't move, little mouse, and don't panic.”

“That’s not helping,” you say, rising in pitch and staring hard into her golden eyes. “Is it not fixable? Or am I just hideous?”

She passes a hand over her face, seeming to wipe away her panic.

“You need larger stitches, possibly even staples,” she says matter-of-factly. “We can see one of your ribs. And you're at considerable risk of infection. You need to be properly anaesthetised and operated on. I have a lab beneath the castle, and I can have a real doctor here within the hour.”

Your head whirls, muddled by the barrage of information, delivered with such practised detachment. All you can do is nod, and quite suddenly a twinge of sadness rears up in your chest. Your tattered, ill-repaired chest. How much trouble you've managed to cause, are still managing to cause. Ought you to have survived at all, if this is the result? The countess reads this new expression on your face, and signals subtly for Antonia to leave. The girl bows, once, and shuts the door.

“You're scared?” Lady Dimitrescu offers up, setting herself down beside you on the mattress. Her hand finds yours again, and she rubs rhythmic circles into your palm. She startles you with how gentle she's been, her very capacity for tenderness a surprise in itself.

“No,” you say honestly. “I'm just sorry, my Lady. For everything.”

At this, her lovely face twitches into the smallest of frowns. She studies you, a flash of understanding passes behind her eyes. But it seems she has no response, no comforting words ready. So you lapse into silence once again, and try to be grateful that you're here at all to sit with the countess, to look at her. And she, in turn, can't seem to tear her gaze away from you. She keeps finding ways to touch you; smoothing strands of hair from your face, stroking your knuckles. As if she, too, can't quite believe that you're solid and real, still stubbornly breathing.

After a while, she clears her throat. “I'm going to call Antonia back, and she'll give you a sedative. I should imagine I won't get to speak with you again until the doctor is finished with you, so…”

You dredge up a sad excuse for a smile. “Are you asking me if I have any last words, or something?”

She tuts. “I wouldn't have put it so morbidly. But, yes, in a word. Not that you're going to die, mind; I don't believe you're in any great danger.”

You start to shake your head, to tell her there's nothing more you need to say, until something else occurs to you.

“Actually, I'd like to ask a favour,” you say, turning your face away in the wake of a fresh stab of guilt. “A man died in the fight with the lycans. His name was Cristian, and he has a sister-in-law, Mira, and two small children. If it isn't too much to ask, could you see what can be done for them?”

“Of course,” Lady Dimitrescu says. “I’ll look into it as soon as I'm able.”

“Thank you, my Lady.”

She kisses the back of your hand, barely a brush of her lips that seems to impart more than she can permit herself to express. Then she's all business again, and leaves to make a call to the doctor. Antonia returns with a cup of strong-smelling liquid, and orders that you’re to drink the lot. She stays by your side as the drug kicks in, though she says nothing, only looks on with sad, tired eyes. You're back under before you can think of a way to break the pressing silence.

***

From a dreamless sleep you come up slowly, calmly. You're still in the countess’ chambers, though you know you must have been moved elsewhere and back again, as a new day has broken. There is no pain in your body, only a pleasant heaviness. Someone has dressed you in brushed-cotton pyjamas, and set a glass of water by the bed.

“Oh, thank the gods…”

You startle; you had thought you were alone. Lifting your heavy head, you’re flooded with something like fondness as Lady Dimitrescu pulls her chair up to the bedside. Her face is drawn, lines made deeper by tiredness and concern.

“Good morning, my Lady,” you try to smile, but the new stitches in your face make smiling all but impossible. You settle for just staring at the countess as she hovers her hands over you, but doesn’t touch.

“It doesn't hurt at all,” you assure her, watching as she blinks rapidly. Is she holding back tears? She composes herself before you can look too closely. She has a remarkable and enviable ability to restrain almost all emotion; it's almost frightening, and somewhat maddening. You can't begin to guess at what lies behind that imperious, inscrutable face. What would it take to make her crumble? She defies all attempts to decode her.

“We will deal with those scars, once you're healed,” she says, in a hasty change of topic. “You'd never know they were there.”

Your heart sinks. “Is it so bad? Let me see, please.”

But she's shaking her head, shushing you like one might soothe a worked-up child. A flush of annoyance warms your face and neck. And you find, amidst all your weaknesses, a desire to be bold in the face of this reticence.

“It's my face. I ought to see it.”

You're almost glad to see her eyes narrowing in a momentary reaction to your defiance. But she acquiesces, her expression turning faintly sad again as she hands you a little compact mirror, backed in solid silver.

The face that looks back at you seems composed of two separate pieces. Shuttling between fascination and revulsion, you turn your head this way and that. Antonia's stitches are very deftly done, but there is no mistaking that these ugly, red wounds will become equally ugly scars. One cuts through your left eyebrow jaggedly, vertically down your cheekbone, where a second row of stitches runs almost parallel to the first. The wound trails off just short of your chin, bruises a sickly shade of yellow blossoming at the edges. And still, it's your face; at one time totally unremarkable, now marred forever. There are purplish half-moons of exhaustion beneath your bloodshot eyes.

You clumsily work open the top buttons of the pyjama shirt, and find row upon row of shiny, metal staples embedded in your chest. You prod at one gingerly, and find tender, tight skin around it. With some intrigue you touch each staple; the longest of the wounds on your chest is a good eight inches or so, ending in the middle of your sternum.

“As I was saying…” the countess murmurs. “There are ways in which we can minimise the scarring-”

“No,” you interrupt. “Let them scar. Leave them be, please.”

Her brow creases, and you look at her imploringly. Some part of her seems to understand; she nods once, and decides not to press the issue. You take one last look at your new face before handing back the mirror.

“You're still lovely, you know,” she says, and there's an undisguised note of affection in her voice. “That won't change, little mouse. And… I'm glad you're alive, for what it's worth.”

You take her hand and kiss her knuckles, watching with delight as her face turns bashful. They are such beautiful hands; unblemished and soft, like yours, only much larger. Scholar's hands, you think.

“Oh, I don't know. I'll cause you no end of trouble - you do know that, don't you?”

Her grin is razor-sharp, and a laugh rumbles up her chest. She seems proud, strangely.

“Yes, well. I'll just have to keep a close eye on you, hm?”

And so she does. She is attentive to the point that she scarcely leaves your side, and only does so out of absolute necessity. By day, she occupies you with books and, increasingly, conversation. For the first time, you find her willing to divulge more of herself. You drink it all in greedily; she tells you of her love for music, hints at a past life in which she performed as a singer. Her stories are rich and vibrant, a life very nearly forgotten, though she seems almost to distance herself from who she once was. You wring out small, banal details from these tales, clinging onto each scrap of information and hoarding them like treasures. The countess dutifully pours more into your waiting ears.

When night falls, she sits quietly at your side and reads, but with one hand always touching some part of you. Playing idly with your hair, or straightening your collar knocked askew. These touches turn more intimate as the days wear on. She merely holds your hand at first, but, seemingly dissatisfied with this alone, ends up enfolding you in her arms each night as you fall asleep. As your body repairs itself, you find that, in the countess’ embrace, a gossamer-thin web of trust is beginning to stretch between you. You're viscerally aware of its frailty. But there is something more than trust stirring, too. Desire finally takes hold on the third night, when it seems neither of you can hold back any longer. The overspill comes as no surprise; it was always going to happen.

You're not sure who initiated the kiss, exactly, but her mouth finds your jaw in the darkness, a darkness that seems to cloak what it is that you both want. There is an almost innocent curiosity to her kisses; you, conversely, are drowning in a fathomless hunger. But the kiss remains just that, a mere kiss, broken by the countess; she draws you closer and says nothing of it. You lie awake, fighting with yourself. Why is she doing this? Is she bored, just playing with you? Does she pity you? The answers are not forthcoming. But she offers up more kisses again in the morning, and your frustrations evaporate in the taste of her lips. In truth, you're quite amazed she still wants to kiss you at all. What little you've seen of your own face since the attack is a grim sight. Yet she looks at you no differently than before. If anything, there is yet more hunger in her eyes now, though she seems reluctant to give in to it completely.

When the countess is unavoidably detained with other business, you wind up mostly alone. Antonia checks on you twice daily, but she has retreated into herself ever since your return, and all your attempts to draw her out are staunchly resisted. She's so young, you think, and gifted with a self-possession that defies her age. Perhaps she learned it from the countess herself. She treats you coolly, and says very little.

Daniela is your only other visitor. To begin with, she just noses into the room with the air of an inquisitive cat, and doesn't stay to talk. In time, she can't help herself from jabbering about this or that, asking inane questions. You welcome her whirlwind intrusions into your solitude; she takes almost nothing seriously, and invariably leaves you more cheerful after each visit. She's especially intrigued by your clash with the lycans, and your wounds, which are tender and slow to heal.

“You look all roguish and tough now,” she giggles one afternoon, prodding at your chest and making you yelp. “Poor Mother’s all a-flutter over you.”

“Hey! Hands off,” you chide her. “I'm not roguish; I'm a professor. And I doubt your mother is a-flutter over anyone.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Sure, little mouse. Keep telling yourself that. Anyway,” she chirps, changing tack. “Uncle Karl's coming soon. I might try to singe his beard off again.”

You groan inwardly, having all but forgotten about Heisenberg’s promise to visit. He's late, unsurprisingly, and Lady Dimitrescu has made no mention of him, at least not to you. What does she know of the plan you made, lying half-dead on Heisenberg's couch? The madness of it is almost enough to make you laugh; maybe you really did take too hard a blow to the head. Perhaps, you wonder with a nauseating throb of shame, you don't truly wish to see Aideen at all. She seems so very far away, but still achingly present at the core of you, in the very make-up of your being. Even insulated in the bubble created for you in the castle, enveloped in the countess’ tenderness, the ghost of your marriage lingers like an obstinate stain.

Doubts continue to gnaw away at your insides. Lady Dimitrescu holds you into the night, and you receive her kisses and caresses without protest. If anything, you're only too willing. If you blank your mind enough, you can almost convince yourself that this is normal, natural. You let this game play out with a sense of having gone too far. A line has long since been crossed, and the idea of what lies beyond has your stomach in knots.

On the eighth night, Heisenberg arrives on horseback, the very same horse that brought you here. You hear all of this from the dining room, a clamour as he crosses the threshold. Daniela and Cassandra's voices, high with excitement, filter in through the open door. Heisenberg's barking laughter sounds strangely canned, ceasing abruptly when the countess’ voice rings out.

“Don't you dare track dirt on my tiles, boy.”

You heave yourself out of your chair and limp through to the atrium. Several sets of yellow eyes land on you, and an uneasiness crosses the countess’ face for the briefest of seconds.

“Ah, Stitches herself. Feeling better?” Heisenberg booms. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you. Likewise,” you say, approaching him with your newly awkward gait; it seems to have become permanent, after so many injuries. He claps you on the shoulder so hard that your knees almost buckle.

“Heisenberg! Keep your filthy hands to yourself,” Lady Dimitrescu snarls, and five knives burst from her fingertips. You wince; at least she isn't wearing a pair of gloves this time, you think. She must have ruined countless pairs this way.

“Down, Bigfoot,” Heisenberg guffaws, though you can see his throat bobbing nervously. “Put your little kitty-cat claws away. We need to talk.”

After a mere moment's hesitation, Lady Dimitrescu bends at the waist, and plants a kiss on the crown of your head. You smile unconvincingly up at her; she seems about to say something, but gives only the tiniest shake of her head before turning away. Heisenberg lopes along after her, and you're left alone with Cassandra and Daniela, who are squabbling over something or other off to one side. They seem to have forgotten about you.

As you make your way back to the dining room, where a fresh tray of tea has been laid out, your thoughts drift uncomfortably to what you've set in motion. For better or worse, the countess is about to learn of your intentions; it feels oddly like a betrayal. She will not take the news gladly. But will she understand, in some way, the choices you've made? It's quite impossible to predict, and the guesswork makes your head hurt. You force yourself to shelve these questions and sit quietly, alone. The silence presses in on you, all your uncertainty a suffocating weight on your chest.

“Ah, the pensive professor awakens,” a dry voice sounds from the doorway. Bela. You'd been so absorbed in yourself that her presence at your back went unnoticed. You turn with a wry smile, unsurprised to see her here.

“Good evening, Bela. I trust you've been keeping well?”

Since your return, you haven't caught so much as a glimpse of her. Her face is as disdainful as ever as she shoves out a chair a few places along from you, and drops into it.

“So, you're dragging Karl into your little harebrained schemes,” she says, without preamble. “And you came back here halfway dead, even after I warned you. It took both my sisters to stop me finishing you off, you know. Mother practically had to set up a perimeter.”

She says all of this so casually; at one time, it would have made your blood run cold. But coming so close to death has had a transformative effect, not only physically. There's very little that can frighten you anymore, now that you've touched and tasted oblivion, only to come back and yet live.

“I'm sorry, Bela. I don't wish to hurt anyone.”

“You don't wish to,” she says coldly, “and yet you do. Time and time again. A man died protecting you, his children were orphaned. Mother barely rests, having to keep watch over you. And now you might just get Karl killed, as well.”

“Bela, I-”

“I'm talking,” Bela growls. “And you'd do well to listen. Let me ask you one thing: why won't you just leave? What could possibly be keeping you here? Your wife is lost to you, and my mother is no replacement - make no mistake.”

“Aideen isn't-”

“Shut up! I'm not finished.”

You swallow drily, wipe your clammy palms on your trousers. What was that about not fearing things anymore?

“Mother is no replacement, because you don't deserve a moment of her time, her energy. But that choice is hers to make. Worthless as you are, I can't stop her making the wrong decision,” says Bela, calm and icy again.

“Why are you like this with me?” you ask quietly, daringly. “You're punishing me for wrongdoing I haven't yet done, or may not even do. I wouldn't hurt your mother, at least not knowingly.”

“They all say that,” she half-whispers, and you jolt at the look on her face: sad, drawn, suddenly much older. “When Mother Miranda casts her aside, or one of her lovers leaves, dies even, what then? Who do you think picks up the pieces?”

She falls into uneasy silence. The burden she bears as the daughter of the countess is palpable. And yet, she is so dignified. Those who dwell in this castle all seem to carry a little of its mistress within themselves. You've no intention of hurting her; no, in truth, she has filled a space in you that had been empty for years. She has revived parts of you that died long ago. You know that she won't ask you to make impossible choices, or try to force your hand. Her pride is so great, and yet so fragile. You catch a glimpse of this in her eldest daughter, the way she holds herself; a poise that betrays its own instability in moments like these.

“Anyway,” Bela scowls, looking irritated at herself. “I've said my piece. It's up to you to do the right thing, whatever that is. I don't want to have to kill you, but I'll do what I must to protect this family. That's all.”

Her final words vanish with her, into a swarm that buzzes out through the doorway. You're left staring at your own hands quivering on the table. Could she be right? Would your departure make things easier for all concerned? She can't possibly be right about that. No - you'll find your way back to the countess, one way or another, after settling matters with Aideen. But then, what are you really hoping to achieve by seeking her out? Closure, perhaps; but there remains a small, obstinate sliver of you that refuses to entertain the idea of closing the door on your marriage. You feel torn in two, a tightrope walker halfway across the wire, faced with a stomach-wrenching choice. Turn back, or press on, knowing that your next step might be the one that sends you hurtling into space.

***

Hours tick by, marked by the deep thunk of the grandfather clock’s pendulum. You half-doze in the rigid chair, your head slumping forwards only to snap up with a jolt each time. Heisenberg and the countess must be deep in a very involved conversation, for it to be going on this long. They can't stand one another, after all.

Just as it seems you might give up waiting and retire to bed, Heisenberg's familiar rasp sounds from the atrium, followed by a yelp.

“Put that damn lighter away, you little shit. Do you know how long it took me to get this beard back after last time?”

Daniela titters in response, and you smile to yourself. There are more scuffling sounds, presumably of Cassandra and Daniela terrorising their uncle. He seems to be fending them off playfully, then orders them to knock it off. His footsteps stamp up to the doorway, and the smell of burnt hair trails in with him.

“What are you grinning at, Frankenstein?”

He leans against the doorframe, frowning down at you. He has, you suspect, deliberately arranged his expression before looking in on you, into one of bored amusement.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, erasing your smile. “I take it you spoke with the countess, then?”

“That I did. But I’m exhausted, kid. I'm staying here tonight,” he tells you. “So I'll speak to you tomorrow. Don't ask me any questions right now, ‘cause I'm dead on my feet.”

“Alright. So, I'll see you in the morning?”

Heisenberg yawns hugely. “Morning, afternoon, whatever. I'll be in the stables, either way.”

There's an evasiveness about him that sets your nerves jangling. Not even one scrap of information offered up, leaving you on tenterhooks. Hours lie between you and what you so badly need to know. You have to suppress a jab of irritation, thinking it better not to rile him up. After all, you're reliant on him, his planning and cleverness, to get to where you need to be.

“My sister wants to see you, by the way,” he says disinterestedly. “She's gone to bed, but you might still catch her.”

Your heart judders painfully as you stammer out a response. “Right. Yes. Okay, well…”

He snorts and grins nastily down at you. “Your face is a fucking picture right now. Get up there, stallion. Show her what you're made of.”

“Heisenberg,” you hiss, feeling your face grow red-hot. “Don't be so vile, it's not… it's nothing…”

With another clap on your shoulder, hard enough to make you wince, he saunters off, still laughing that ribald laugh to himself. You scowl at the back of his head as you rub at your shoulder. He's a singularly unpleasant man, but you do still need his help, even if he does take far too much delight in your discomfort.

You can't delay any longer. You'll have to go and face the countess.

The walk to her chambers gives you no time to collect yourself. A thousand possibilities hurtle through your thoughts, fear beginning to set in. The beautiful white door is right in front of you and, behind it, something you can't refuse. Or perhaps Heisenberg was just trying to get under your skin; perhaps you're actually about to walk into a hurricane of rage and ruination. She must know of your plans by now. Your pulse quickens as you knock.

“Come in.”

God. Her voice is soft, a little bit breathy. There won't be a hurricane tonight. You enter, and find a sight that makes your stomach tighten another notch. There is the countess, at ease on the bed, the bed you've been sharing with her these past nights. She has swapped her gown for a silken, burgundy robe that grazes her ankles. She is almost entirely covered, but there is a new level of intimacy about this attire; your heart won't stop hammering. Innumerable unsaid things stretch over the space between you.

“I hope you don't think me presumptuous,” she says simply, not a hint of guile or seduction about her. She is letting you decide, and you're not sure how you ought to feel about that.

“Not at all,” you murmur, unable to speak above a whisper. You step further into the room and shut the door, shut out your reservations. Past the midpoint of the tightrope with no turnaround now, no way back. The countess bites her lip, sizing you up. She seems newly coy, even somewhat shy. With a breath that feels like your very first, you cross the room and stand before her, waiting. Your choice is made; you're handing the reins to her.

“You are such a peculiar thing,” she says, with a sardonic smile. “To think I would have killed you…”

“I'm still not wholly convinced that you won't,” you quip, and she laughs, reaching up a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. Her laughter is so lovely, but it's edged with something else. She continues to chew her lip thoughtfully.

“I'd have to be careful with you,” she muses. “You do know what happens when I lose control, don't you?”

You nod. Of course you know. The darker parts of you want her to give in to her baser urges. But she's shaking her head, running her fingertips delicately over your scarred face, your lips. Her touch is a strange combination of analytical and tender. She seems utterly fascinated by what she finds. You're growing impatient, shifting your weight and breathing shallowly. Again, that feeling of ceasing to fear that which you ought to. Perhaps you have a deathwish; perhaps you're about to pitch willingly off the tightrope into space unknown.

“Patience,” says the countess with another taunting little smile. “I'm still wondering what to do with you.”

Amongst your desire, you find a morsel of daring. You give her a look that you hope will impart what it is that you want. “Why don't you kiss me while you figure it out?”

Her hand on your face stills, and across her expression flits a mixture of arrogance and amusement. “You'd like that, would you?”

“Yes… mistress.”

At this, her eyes flutter almost imperceptibly. Ah. That address seems to have stirred something in her. Boldly, with your heart in your throat, you climb astride her lap. She takes your waist in her hands, still giving you that penetrating, cautiously desirous look. There is something appallingly erotic about that look. You kiss her; the dam has crumbled, the overspill filling both of you up. She emits the faintest sounds of pleasure, and her hold on you is strong enough to leave bruises. You don't care; her touch is bringing out of you something you had long buried.

How things have changed, you think, as her hot mouth clashes with your own. That night in the atelier when she had first decided to play with you, purely for her own amusement, seems a lifetime ago. You had protested without any real conviction, thinking of your marriage. All of that has been lost to the inexorable pull of desire. A low, distantly shameful pressure is building in your core, clamouring to be sated. You kiss her harder, involuntarily rolling your hips into the heat of her thighs. She shudders beneath you.

“You're making this difficult…” she murmurs against your lips, the first hint that her composure is not so infallible. “Are you going to be difficult, little mouse?”

“That depends…” you say, with a touch of arrogance, because you want to see how far you can push her. She responds exactly as you'd hoped, flipping you onto your back with alarming strength and speed. You gasp a little, half surprised and half thrilled at the dark glint in her eyes as she bears down on you. Her nostrils flare and she pauses, pursing her lips.

“You're making this difficult,” she says again, but there's a note in her voice that's more than just playful. “I have warned you.”

“I don't want you to be careful with me.”

She inhales sharply, closes her eyes. You sense the need to give her a moment to gather herself. When she looks at you again, it's with an intensity that has your insides squirming. She's so beautiful, so poised; and yet, she could very well tear you apart. You would let her.

“Very well.”

With her skilled hands she’s unbuttoning your shirt, passing each button through its hole with all the indulgence of unwrapping a particularly lovely gift. She seems almost dismayed, but performatively so, to find an undershirt beneath. This, she tears off you as easily as if it were made of paper. Exposed like this, you find yourself embarrassed; with the staples in your chest removed some days ago, the healing scar is an eyesore.

And yet she looks at you so beatifically, in all your fragility and woeful humanness, and finds nothing ugly. Rather, she is in reverence of you as she runs careful fingers down the scars, then she's encapsulating both your breasts in those magnificent hands. You can't take any more; you catch her by the jaw and pull her mouth to yours, whimpering meekly. Her touch sends electricity careening through your nerves.

Once again, a reckless daring seizes you. Still kissing her hungrily, you slip one hand through the front of her robe. At the feeling of her large breast against your palm, a quickly stiffening nipple, your arousal flares more powerfully still.

“Ah, ah.”

She breaks the kiss and, with that inhuman speed, has both your hands held above your head in one of her own. The smile she wears is almost predatory, and unmistakably you are her prey.

“Another time, perhaps,” the countess says mildly, sweetly. God, let there be another time, so that you might please her. Your core clenches at the thought. She has other ideas, unclasping your trousers with just the smallest quickening of her breath. Impatiently she peels them off, throws them to one side, follows suit with your underwear. Now you are fully bared to her, and embarrassment gives way to uninhibited lust as she takes you in, her lips parted.

Delicately she brushes her fingers between your legs; your hips spasm, and you screw your eyes shut. The countess sighs as if in relief, then her clever fingers are stroking you in tight circles.

“Look at me.”

You open your eyes, taking shallow little breaths, and hold her gaze. Her face is creased with concentration, continuing to restrain herself. Your body arcs towards her in a silent plea for more. She seems on the cusp of losing this private little battle with herself. Almost idly, she's still stroking you; you let slip a moan, and something snaps. Her eyes flash, reflective like a wildcat's.

You could almost cry with relief as she slips a finger inside you roughly, her lips curling at the sight of you writhing beneath her. Her thumb grazes where you're sensitive, her finger pushes deeper inside until she feels resistance. Your nerves are on fire, pulled in opposing directions by pain and pleasure. On the cusp of oblivion, you lose all rational thought, reduced only to what this beautiful, dangerous creature can extract from you.

“That's it…” she hushes you. “Let go, now.”

“God,” you groan through clenched teeth, then it hits. A pitiful sound leaves your throat as the world upends, pitching you into darkness, only to right itself again under the countess’ touch. You're spasming around her finger as you return to yourself, mute and panting and quivering all over.

She kisses you again with a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “You did beautifully, little mouse. Thank you.”

You try to respond, but nothing comes out. She keeps on whispering, praising you, as she takes her finger from you and enfolds you in her arms. Your brain is mired in a heady fog as pleasure recedes, leaving you oddly empty and numb. This isn’t how it ought to feel, surely. The countess seems not to notice your unease; rather, she's caught up in thoughts of her own, chewing her lip again. You seize on her distraction to get away from your own.

“Are you alright?”

She starts to nod, but doesn’t complete the gesture. “Yes, I… I'm fine. I was just wondering if you might reconsider leaving, this time.”

Straight to the point. You suppose it's one of the things you quite like about her.

“I have to go and see,” you whisper, searching her eyes for some glimpse of understanding. “So that I can stop going mad, wondering. And then once I know for certain, I'll find my way back to you. I promise.”

“Don't,” says the countess sharply. “Please, don't make promises. I accept your decision, but… I'm selfish, you see. I live in hope that you won't find what you seek, in reaching your wife.”

You try to swallow an acidic surge of guilt, but it keeps coming back up your throat, burning a hole in your chest.

“Be that as it may, I won't know until I see for myself,” you say evasively. Her admission has taken you aback. This new level of intimacy seems to come with its own set of rules, ones you haven’t quite grasped onto yet. Her honesty, in truth, frightens you more than any amount of obfuscation could.

“Very well,” she murmurs, and her face has reset itself into detachment. You're oddly relieved to see this, even as a wave of unease ripples through you. She's turning cold again, shifting away from you on the mattress to light a cigarette.

You wonder if you've succeeded in doing the one thing you swore not to. You wonder if you've hurt her. But you say nothing, do nothing. And, for the first time since you returned to her, she leaves you to sleep alone.

Notes:

well then....the slowburn has been burning but here we are, shoutout to you patient readers lmao! probably the most difficult smut I've ever had to write and hoo boy I need a smoke now. but of course, because it's me, had to round it off with a lil angst 🤧

thanks as always for reading and as always, feel free to lmk what you thought! until next time!

Chapter 13: Firebird

Astride a pretty grey mare, you stare up at the castle. The midday sun is beating overhead and you're out in the courtyard, waiting for Heisenberg to stop fussing with his own horse so that you can be on your way. He has seemed reluctant to set off, and hasn't yet divulged his plan to you. He'd sent for you some hours ago, when you'd woken up in a cold and empty bed. Lady Dimitrescu must have gotten up some time during the night while you slept. You saw nothing of her after that most uncomfortable exchange last night, and you've been caught between longing and shame ever since. As you stare fixedly at the walls that house her, you try to reach instead for the bliss that preceded the hurt. Leaving just feels like having your chest ripped open anew; the wounds tingle as if in response.

“Good boy, Titus,” Heisenberg chatters at the stallion. “That's a pretty girl over there, ain't she?” He addresses you for the first time since you came down to meet him. “What's her name?”

“Kallisto,” you tell him, recalling the plaque in the stables above the mare. One of the countess' staff had led you there, having prepared a horse for you to make the journey. To where, you still don't know. Heisenberg hasn't been at all forthcoming, and you're growing impatient. You return your attention to the castle, searching for any movement, a sign of life.

And as though your thoughts have somehow filtered through the stone like a spectre, she appears. Out onto a balcony steps the countess, lighting up a cigarette. Spring has finally, reluctantly begun to roll in, and the air is close to pleasant. The lightest of breezes disturbs her curls; she raises a hand to pat them down.

You stare at her, taking advantage of the fact she hasn't spotted you just yet. What might she be thinking about? She is turned to one side to gaze out onto the mountains, her face only visible in profile. There's a tightness in your throat as you watch; you daren't breathe for fear of disturbing the moment.

Kallisto shifts and snorts beneath you. Lady Dimitrescu turns her head to the sound, then you're looking right into her eyes. A moment stretches thin between you, her face betraying nothing. Should you smile, or acknowledge her in some way? You don't get to decide before she disappears back inside, all the things you should have done vanishing with her.

“Hey, Earth to Frankenstein,” barks Heisenberg, giving you a start. “You ready or what?”

“Erm, yes,” you mumble, wrenching your eyes away from the balcony. “Are you going to tell me the plan, then?”

He climbs astride his horse and nudges his flanks. The two of you set off at a slow pace. Heisenberg says nothing until you're clear of the castle gates.

“I spent the last week scoping out Miranda's hidey-holes, and I think I've found the right one,” he tells you. “That's where we're headed. With any luck, your crazy wife'll be there and you can have a nice, cosy chat while I snoop through Miranda's shit.”

Frowning, you give him a quizzical look. “And if Miranda's there, too?”

There's a long pause before he speaks, scratching at his beard shiftily. “This is the part you're not gonna like.”

“Go on.”

He grumbles under his breath for a second. “Right, here goes. I've strong-armed the fishy freak into drawing her away for a bit. Took some doing, but he couldn't say no, not when I said it was to help you.”

“Oh, God, Heisenberg…” you hiss. “Are you serious? What sort of a plan is that? She'll-”

“No, she won't,” he interrupts gruffly. “Who's gonna stoop to killing a pathetic lump like that? We've given her no reason to suspect. But we won't have long; once we're in, you'll have to be quick.”

This is madness. If, and even if this somehow works, you dread what will become of Salvatore when Miranda returns to Aideen and learns the truth. He'll flounder and fumble if he's caught out in a lie. And whatever happens to him will be entirely your fault. The plan is not only cruel, but utterly mad. You stare ahead unseeingly, half-paralysed with fear and misgivings.

“So,” Heisenberg says after a short while of uneasy silence. “You've been drawing all the village weirdos in that little book? When's it my turn? This face deserves a picture, I reckon.”

You frown at him. “Why would I draw you? You're, well… not normal, exactly, but…”

He scoffs. “Oh, I get it. Not freakish enough for you, huh?”

“That's not-”

“Like I care about your shitty book, anyway,” he snorts dismissively, but there's a bite of indignation beneath. “Whatever…”

The two of you ride down the slope to the village, which seems to have tentatively come back to life in your absence. A few hopeful merchants have set up in the square - the Duke conspicuously absent - and people browse their wares disinterestedly. They eye you and Heisenberg with a mixture of fear and distaste on their faces. They must know of him, and your heavily scarred face seems to only heighten their mistrust.

As you pass the mouth of the street where the inn is, a figure grasping the hands of two young girls comes striding up the cobbles. With a sickening jolt of surprise and guilt, you recognise the woman's face; Mira. She slows down at a tug from one of the children, who points gleefully up at the horses. Mira eyes Kallisto blandly, then shifts her gaze up to you. Panic rears up as you glance at Heisenberg pulling ahead, unaware that he's leaving you behind.

After what feels like an eternity, she looks away. No recognition, no hint that she remotely knows who you are. The two girls look back wistfully at Kallisto, then they're disappearing into the stream of bodies heading for the makeshift market.

“Come on,” growls Heisenberg from a short distance ahead. “What d’you think you're doing? Get a move on.”

Shaken and slightly dazed, you nudge Kallisto and she sets off again. You're not sure how relieved you ought to be that Mira didn't recognise you. These new scars are something of a blessing, it seems. You can’t help but wonder how she has dealt with Cristian's death; it's been barely more than a week. The girls’ eyes were perhaps a touch sadder, from what little you could make out. But it wasn't the look of a family completely broken and downtrodden. That gives you a glimpse of hope, albeit a fragile one. Maybe the countess made good on her promise to extend help to the bereaved family.

Heisenberg leads you a short way beyond the main thoroughfare, to a part you don't recognise. His grumbling has given way to quiet alertness, his eyes wide and his posture stiff. He brings his horse to a halt close to a small, nondescript dwelling, and sniffs the air a couple of times. Your own senses are on high alert for any sign of something wrong. Of course, everything is wrong. There's a tremor in your hands you can't control, Kallisto pawing the ground in sympathy for your nerves.

“Don't think she's here,” he mutters. “On your guard now, kid. Get down and stay behind me.”

You obey with a nod as you dismount and land on the hard-packed earth beneath. Heisenberg leads the horses a little distance away and ties them to a half-rotten wooden post. He draws a knife from his jacket and approaches the scratched and worn door.

“I'd usually say ladies first, but…” he says wryly. “Fuck it. If we die, we die. Let's go.”

This almost gets a laugh from you, but it gets caught somewhere in your throat on its way out. He pushes on the door with one finger and it gives, opening a crack. His face is utterly focused as he holds up a hand, a signal for you to keep back, and opens the door fully with a shove.

“Ha!”

The exclamation makes you jump, then he's beckoning you inside with a satisfied grin.

“All clear. Knew it'd be,” he says, worryingly pleased with himself. “Come on in, make yourself at home.”

The interior is little more than a shack, a single room with mossy brick walls, sparsely furnished but for a large desk in the middle. A damp smell sits thickly in the air, and the bricks holding up the structure shine with moisture. There is no light switch; no electricity at all, it seems. The far wall and the corners are steeped in almost absolute darkness.

“I can't see a thing…” you whisper, tiptoeing further into the space. “Aideen? Are you there?”

Heisenberg busies himself immediately with ransacking the desk, and you’re left to fumble around with only the thin light coming from outside. You skirt the perimeter of the room, squinting into the shadows. You begin to wonder if Heisenberg really has really found the right place, the one in which Aideen is being kept - or has he come here purely for his own purposes? He's completely absorbed in the contents of the desk drawers, as though you're not there.

And just as you're thinking how to phrase the accusation, gearing up for conflict, something shifts and rattles in the corner.

“Heisenberg,” you say as quietly as you can. “Give me a light.”

He sighs reluctantly but strides over and shoves a petrol lighter at you. A couple of strikes later and it's aflame, lighting your way as you near the corner, the source of the noise.

“Oh, God…”

Aideen is sitting with her back to the wall, her head lolling onto her chest. Her wrists are encircled in manacles and chained to metal rings embedded in the floor. A dizzying combination of rage and panic surges up, and you almost drop to your knees beside her before a single, awful thought halts you. Is it wise to be so close? Has she been chained up like this for her own safety, or everyone else's?

You settle for saying her name loudly a few times, remaining a metre or so away, but she doesn't stir. The sight of her half-conscious and held like a prisoner is eroding your sense of self-preservation. All you want to do is sweep her away to safety, but how?

“What's the hold-up?” Heisenberg has sidled up behind you, gruff and impatient as he tucks a wad of folded paper into his jacket. “Aren't you supposed to be putting the world to rights?”

“She's in no fit state,” you snap. “I can't wake her and I've no way of undoing these chains, either.”

He frowns deeply, glancing over his shoulder towards the desk. “Hang on.”

Your eyes flit between him and Aideen as he starts rummaging again. He picks up something you can't make out and crosses to you with a small, dark object in his hand. A steely grey key, matching the shade of Aideen's restraints. You snatch it from him impatiently and, silencing the voice of protest in your head, fit the key in the lock binding Aideen's wrists. They fall away, revealing the same thin, dark bruising you saw back at the castle.

“Wait…” Heisenberg says slowly, suspiciously. “Wait a minute, kid.”

“Hold on,” you say, crouching down to shake Aideen's shoulder. Still, she doesn't react. Her skin is cold to the touch; she's clothed only in a simple black dress again, and there is no source of warmth in the room. There is something more to this than mere tiredness, that much is clear. She won’t be able to move unaided. Your mind works quickly to tackle the mountain of questions piling up. How you'll get her seated safely Kallisto's back and away from this place, where you could possibly take her.

“I said wait,” he says again, with more urgency in his voice than before. “This isn't right. Wasn't supposed to be a damn jailbreak, just a talk.”

“What?” you hiss. “She's keeping her chained up like a dog. Nothing about this is right. We're taking her.”

“Tell me something,” he says, visibly grinding his teeth. “Does this not seem strange to you at all? A bit too easy?”

“Who cares?!”

“I fucking do! This is a trap. I'm telling you, it’s too damn easy. I'll have no part in this.”

You stare at him incredulously, and his face doesn't budge from its stony expression. For a solid minute you remain locked in this bizarre standoff. It soon becomes clear that he isn't going to concede, and you'd only be wasting your breath arguing. You sigh and break eye contact.

“Alright, then. Do as you please. But help me get her on the horse, at the very least. Will you do that?”

“She'll kill you,” he warns. “When Miranda finds you - and she will - she'll make mincemeat of you.”

“Fine by me.”

He swears and rubs his face hard, resigned. “You're fucking crazy. Fine, if it'll shut you up. Take an arm and get lifting.”

He crouches at Aideen's other side and helps you lift her by the upper arms. She's near enough a dead weight at first, but steadies the longer you hold her upright, though she still isn't anywhere near lucid. Every step is a struggle as you walk her towards the door, her feet dragging as she tries and fails to take the steps independently. There's a disturbing slackness to her features, like a mask that has been worn too many times.

“Fuck's sake,” Heisenberg groans as the three of you hobble along. “How does someone so small weigh a bastard ton? Has Miranda been feeding her bricks?”

Outside the dwelling, the horses munch on some dry grass growing from underneath a fence, completely serene. With a lot of huffing and manoeuvring, the two of you manage to get Aideen seated on Kallisto's back, where she remains mercifully upright, albeit only just. Heisenberg leans up against the fence, panting and eyeing you with a troubled look.

“Hey,” he says, while you hoist yourself up in front of Aideen, wincing at the fresh ache of your wounds. “I found something else when I was looking for the key. Think it might belong to your batshit wife.”

He holds up a small book, and you lean down to take it. Handmade, by the look of it, with a roughly cut cloth cover. Turning it over in your hands, you find some crudely burned lettering across the front, and a cold sadness spreads through your body.

Liber Bestiarium.

In a clumsy imitation of your bestiary, Aideen must have made one for herself. But, unlike yours, its pages are completely empty. Your throat constricts painfully, exacerbated by the feeling of her listless presence at your back. A part of you feels ill just to hold the book, wishing it could have been left behind and remained unknown to you.

“What is it?” Heisenberg asks. He's settled back on his own horse, already gripping the reins and ready to leave.

You shove the book inside your overcoat. “Nothing. Thanks for helping me.”

“Whatever,” he says with a shrug. “Where are you headed?”

“That's, erm…” you mutter. “I hadn't… I don't actually know where to go. I wasn't exactly expecting to have anyone tagging along.”

“Great,” Heisenberg scoffs. “Sharp as ever, aren’t you?”

“Not helpful, Heisenberg. Do you have any bright ideas before you leave me in the lurch?”

He rolls his eyes and gives his beard a tug. “Well, castle's not an option, is it? My sister’ll go apoplectic. Nah, you’re best off riding up to Donna's. She's the least likely to kill you, I suppose.”

“And where might that be?”

He gives you brief and rather vague directions, but you get the gist. If anything, you're banking on Kallisto having made the journey before, that she's as clever as Heisenberg’s steed.

“Be seeing you, kid. Or not, seeing as you're doing… whatever it is you're doing. Watch yourself.”

Without a backwards glance he sets his horse into a canter, then a gallop, and you lose sight of him when he rounds a bend in the road. The dirt track you're on is otherwise deserted, and you half-wish that it wasn't. You feel vulnerable, much too exposed here.

And it strikes you, with a squirm in your gut, that this is the first time you've been alone with your wife since three years prior, before her departure upended your existence. But she isn't truly present, and the gravity of what you've just done threatens to make you sick.

Miranda will try and find you, to retrieve Aideen, and the idea of surviving such an encounter is laughable. You've stolen back that which was stolen from you, and the consequences are sure to be grisly. But you couldn't bear to leave her there; you had to do something. Now you have to get her to safety, or some semblance of it, at least. This new purpose bolsters you into terrified, dazed action.

You swallow a few times and nudge Kallisto's flanks. She starts up an easy, brisk walk.

“Hold onto me, love,” you murmur over your shoulder. Aideen mumbles something, still half-adrift in consciousness, and puts her arms loosely around your waist. The track takes you around the outskirts of the village and, at a certain point, Kallisto appears to know what is being asked of her. She trots faster, leading you a different route than the one Heisenberg had laid out. You can only hope it's the right one.

On a vertiginous and narrow slope lined with shrubbery, you ease the pace with a tug of the reins. Over the tops of sparsely dressed trees you see the tip of a chimney, the shingles of a roof. It looks to be a manor-sized dwelling, much smaller than the castle and markedly less grand. But it does look very much like somewhere Donna would live and seclude herself from the world.

The path opens up to reveal the manor in its entirety. A sad and pretty place seated precariously on the edge of a sheer drop, its windows empty and dark. You give Kallisto a grateful pat as she comes to a halt by the gates, where she starts snuffling happily in a patch of bluebells.

“Right…” you mutter to yourself, casting your eyes around for any sign of life, and finding none. The gates are shut tight, and there's not a soul around. Your first concern is how on Earth you're going to get Aideen off this horse and up to the manor, if you can even alert Donna to your presence. You slide off Kallisto's back, leaving Aideen slumped against her warm neck. She has barely reacted to any of this, which you suppose is a small mercy. Had she been more lucid, she might have resisted. As it is, she's sleepy and compliant, the best you can hope for in the circumstances.

“Hello?” you call out timidly, feeling foolish for even trying. There's no-one around to hear you. Approaching the gates, you put a hand out and feel the cold iron, giving one of the bars a cautious shake. The gate gives a little, rattling, but certainly won't open without being unlocked. As you trawl through your options with increasing desperation, the slightest shift in the air behind you registers; a second too late, you whip around.

“Don't move.”

The gleaming tip of a crossbow bolt is the first thing you see, pointed right at the bridge of your nose. Behind it, a tall and broad figure holds the weapon aloft, staring right at you with frightening intensity. They are half-obscured in shadow; you make out a tumble of dark hair, a single gleaming brown eye. The fear for your own life is muted only by the fact that Aideen is nearby, defenceless and unaware of the danger you're both in.

“State your business,” the woman says with a snarl in her voice. “Give me one good reason not to put this between your eyes.”

You gulp drily. Better to lead with honesty, considering you're inches away from a loaded weapon. “I'm a friend of Lady Beneviento. I come seeking refuge, if you'd just let me speak with her…” Your voice peters out into a pitiful whimper.

“Who's the woman on the horse?” the woman demands, unmoved.

“My wife, Aideen Byrne,” you stammer. “She's a… a Lord. Another one, I mean. She's in a bad way.”

At this, the crossbow lowers a fraction, though still set to send the bolt into your skull with one wrong move. You daren't speak another word as you wait for the woman to consider.

“Perhaps we should confirm your little story,” she muses. “Put your hands up and walk to the gate. If you do otherwise, you die. Are we quite clear?”

Unwilling to turn your back, you nod and raise your hands, backing up until you collide with the iron gate. The woman steps forwards into the dappled sunlight, revealing what looks like hunter's gear, and a large sword resting at her hip. Her arms are thick with corded muscle and peppered with scars. Vaguely you wonder what such a person has to do with Donna, but you're in no position to pose such a question.

She slings the crossbow over her shoulder and, with the strength of just one arm, gently lifts Aideen onto the other. You must be gawping at this show of physical prowess; she catches sight of your face and smirks slightly before sidling up to the gate.

“The key is in my pocket. Do you mind?” she asks, gesturing to her right leg. From her trouser pocket you fish out a key with shaking fingers and fit it into the locked gate. The woman jerks her head towards the manor and you start up the path, dread sitting heavy on your gut. She could be anyone, could be here to slaughter you and everyone concerned. But how, then, would she come to possess the key? All signs point to this being a trap, but you're powerless to do anything about it.

“Get in,” she orders as you reach the door. “It should be unlocked.”

If Donna is inside, then maybe…

“I said get in.”

You stumble through at a rough shove from behind, and find yourself in a dimly lit foyer. Ahead is a staircase, and several doors leading to other parts of the house. There's little time to take in your surroundings before the woman stamps in after you, still holding Aideen like a sack of flour.

“I'm home,” she calls out cheerily, much more relaxed than she was just a moment ago. “And I've brought company.”

One of the right-hand doors opens tentatively, a single dark eye peering through. Then, in quick succession, a gasp, a clatter and an indignant yelp.

“I'm so sorry, Angie…” Donna's voice, unmistakably, followed by Angie's shrill one.

“You dropped me! Seriously?!”

They come into view in the doorway just as Donna scoops up Angie from the hard flooring. The doll's face is contorted with something like anger, or embarrassment; it's difficult to distinguish what her features convey.

“Prudence,” Donna quavers, once Angie is settled back in her arms. “What on Earth is going on?”

Your eyes flit between the women, not quite believing what you see. This tall, gruff woman appears to be on rather friendly terms with Donna, judging by the way they're looking at one another. In fact, the way her eyes don't leave Donna's for even a second moves you, in an odd way. You're struck with a sense that to Prudence, nothing matters more than the will of the woman before her. She would jump in front of a runaway train to keep her safe. You recognise this with a twinge of shame, knowing you couldn't possibly claim to possess the same sort of courage.

“I picked up these two at the gates,” she says mildly. “This one claims to be your friend, and that one is apparently her wife, Lord Aideen something or other.”

“Prudence, she is my friend,” Donna says in a newly firm voice. “And that, well… I mean, yes, it's all true. Thank you for bringing them to me.”

Prudence bows her head, satisfied with the confirmation. Donna looks you over anxiously, and only now do you note that her face is actually uncovered. In her own home, with this strange woman, she's remarkably at ease. You've never seen her quite like this before, and certainly didn't expect to land in such a baffling scene. But at least the threat to your life has, for now, been subdued.

“Could you please take Aideen down to the workshop?” Donna directs the question to Prudence, though her gaze remains fixed on you. “Angie, if you could go with them…”

She lowers her carefully to the floor and glances expectantly at Prudence, who hesitates only a moment before heading for another door leading off the foyer. Angie scurries at her heels, taking swipes at her ankles until they both disappear.

Donna releases a prolonged exhale and rushes to you, taking your face in her soft hands. She is barely holding back tears.

“Alcina told me what happened,” she whispers, thumbing one of your scars. “Are you alright?”

You nod and swallow painfully. “Yes, I… I survived, at least. But I've gotten us into trouble again, I'm afraid.”

Her expression shifts into one of fear, briefly, before turning neutral. She seems to draw strength from somewhere within herself, and takes in a deep breath.

“Tell me what happened, and don't leave anything out.”

As you stumble through the events of the last few hours, horrified at your own insane actions, Donna listens intently. When you arrive at the point where Prudence apprehended you, she holds up a hand to stop you.

“I must apologise for that,” she says. “She can be very protective. And she's the reason I told you to always send word before you came here.”

“Who is she, exactly?”

At this, the smallest of smiles pulls at her lips. “I'm not sure myself, actually. I found her sheltering in one of my greenhouses during a snowstorm and, well… she's been here ever since. Helping out, I mean,” she adds quickly, a slight tinge of pink colouring her cheeks.

One of your eyebrows jumps, and Donna's blush deepens. But then you smile, and relief crosses her face.

“That's good to know, even if I did nearly wind up with a hole in my head,” you say, shrugging. “No hard feelings; I understand she was only protecting you.”

Donna nods gratefully and glances at the cellar door. “I think I ought to go down there and see for myself. I doubt we have much time.”

Together you descend to the bowels of the house, where the air grows colder with every step. Into a wide, low-ceilinged room in which there is a startling amount of dolls and their various parts; rather than being eerie, it just strikes you as vaguely melancholic. And across a table in the centre lies Aideen, still suspended somewhere between sleeping and waking. Prudence is watching her with equal parts wariness and curiosity, but her eyes fill with warmth as she sees Donna approaching.

“No change,” she says, stepping back from the table. “Angie tried waking her… repeatedly. But it's no good; she's out like a light.”

“She was chained up,” you explain. “Seemed like she'd been sedated somehow. I don't think we'll get anything out of her like this.”

Donna is busy examining Aideen. She gently lifts her eyelids, then listens to her breathing. As her eyes fall to the bruises on her wrists, she sighs. There's a familiarity about the way she handles Aideen, an expression of profound sadness and sympathy. She looks pensive as she considers what she sees.

“I don't know why Miranda would have restrained her, unless…”

Prudence looks up sharply and meets your eyes. What you see in them makes you bristle.

“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“I didn't say anything,” says Prudence evenly. “But do you really think this is safe? What about when she wakes up and realises where she is, what then?”

“She's not an animal,” you snap back. “And we're not going to treat her like one-”

“We still don't know what Miranda has done with her. She could be anything.”

“Coming from someone who just nearly splattered my brains all over the shrubbery-”

“That's enough!”

The both of you whip around at Donna's raised voice; Prudence looks just as sheepish as you must. Donna's face isn't angry, merely stern and exasperated. You mumble an apology and Prudence follows suit, with an air of embarrassment.

“Shake hands and behave yourselves,” Donna orders. “I won't have that sort of behaviour under my roof, especially not right now.”

Prudence strides over and offers her large, scarred hand. You eye her warily, then see her lips twitching as you take her hand. And then, out of nowhere, she's laughing, shaking your hand so hard that your shoulder aches. You can't help but grin back, and start laughing awkwardly at yourself. Squabbling won't get you anywhere, and Donna's uncharacteristic display of sternness seems to have broken the tension.

“Okay, we won't restrain her,” Prudence concedes, releasing her grip on your hand. “But we have to be ready for anything. Right, Donna?”

She nods, her shoulders dropping and her expression shifting to one of puzzlement. She's staring hard at Aideen's face, seeming to weigh something up. You hope silently that she has something, anything up her sleeve to bring Aideen back from the apparently unreachable depths of unconsciousness.

“Let me think for a moment.”

As she turns her back and starts rummaging in a small trunk, you step up to Prudence’s side to stay out of her way. She watches Donna's every move as she addresses you.

“So, you're the Oxford professor?”

“Yes, that's right. Well, not anymore. I gave it up a little while ago to come here, but I taught Classics for some time.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Sounds pompous to me. All tea and crumpets while you discuss lofty concepts like it matters.”

“It is a lot of pomp and circumstance,” you admit. “But I don't really like all of that. Or Oxford, for that matter. Too many self-important old scholars and their lofty concepts.”

Prudence grins and shakes her head, then falls silent again to watch Donna. From the trunk she has pulled out two vials, both full of innocuous-looking clear liquids. There's an intensity in her eyes, a grim resolve that sucks all the mirth from the room. She approaches Aideen on the table and reaches out a hand to tenderly smooth the hair from her face.

“This one should wake her,” she says quietly, holding up one vial with a label you can't make out. “And the other, in theory, will… loosen her tongue, so to speak. I won't do anything without your permission; the choice is yours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, sizing up your extremely limited options. Not exactly the most ethical way of going about things, but what choice do you have? Soon enough, Miranda will come looking, and she will find you. There isn’t much time to get answers, much less figure out a plan if this all goes awry.

“Alright. Go ahead.”

Donna gives you the smallest grimace of a smile and, after a long and steadying breath, sets to work. She takes a pipette and delicately draws liquid from the first vial, inserts the end into Aideen's slack mouth and squeezes the liquid out. She repeats the action with the second vial; just as she withdraws it, Aideen's eyelids begin to flutter.

“Love…” you mutter, rushing to her side. “I'm here.”

Donna backs off to stand by Prudence as you take Aideen's face in your hands. She's coming up slowly, sluggishly, her lips moving without sound. Her eyes open; you stifle a gasp and whip your hands away. They're no longer fully green, nor have they changed all that drastically. But running through her irises are bright gold flecks, reflecting the dim lamplight; not the eyes you remember, not anymore. They land on you, much more alert than you’d expected. And yet, there’s barely a glimpse of recognition in them. Looking at her now doesn't feel much like looking at the woman you married, and it pains you to even conjure up this thought.

“Love?” you whisper again, swallowing your fear with some difficulty. “Aideen? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she says in a startlingly clear, strong voice. “Where am I?”

“Somewhere safe,” you tell her, taken aback by this sudden show of lucidity brought on by whatever Donna administered. “I brought you here. You were chained up and sedated. Why is that?”

“The transformation can be very difficult. The restraints and the sedative are a precaution.”

You blink rapidly. Transformation?

Donna is the next to speak, moving tentatively towards Aideen, who raises her head curiously to look at her. You see Prudence shift her weight in your peripheral vision, her eyes sharp and narrowed. One of her hands rests at her hip, where the hilt of her sword sits.

“Tell us more, please,” says Donna. “You're referring to a transformation as a result of the Cadou?”

Aideen coughs and shivers, but her words keep spilling out in that same flat tone. “Yes. It's very painful, but beautiful. Soon you'll see.”

Your eyes lift to meet Donna's, and your own alarm is reflected in hers.

“And you…” Aideen continues, and you have to fight not to shrink from her gaze. “You were warned about meddling. But you didn't listen, did you?”

“I saved you,” you choke out, taking an unsteady step backwards. “I won't let her… you're not…”

She grins horribly and closes her eyes again. “Oh, my love. Saved me? From what, exactly? You're no hero, darling. You're terrified. Weak. Everything I hated you for, that I still hate you for,” she sneers.

Tears drop freely down your face. This isn't your wife, this can't be her. It must be whatever was in that vial making her like this. You look to Donna questioningly, but she's shaking her head mutely, her own face wet with tears.

“No, Aideen…” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’ve done so much to find you, I… I…”

Awful, hollow laughter drowns out your words. Aideen laughs and laughs herself into hoarseness, until she's coughing again. She trains those inhumanly bright eyes on you in full focus, and her sneer falls back into a sweet, beatific smile. Her hands have begun to tremble on the wooden table top; her legs shake too, in strange and jerky movements.

“It's time,” she says simply, and her voice has grown deeper, more resonant. “Now you'll see. Bear witness to what I am, what I've become. I'm… I…” Her words are lost to a guttural, gurgling noise in the back of her throat. Her eyes widen, then roll back until only the whites are visible. Her body shakes harder and more erratically.

You stand rooted to the spot. Prudence draws her sword, Donna clinging to her side and holding Angie close. Aideen's limbs begin to contort in sickening ways. The crack of bone and tearing of flesh giving way to a body that seems to be fighting the confines of its own skin. Her clothing tears as she flips on the table, new bones forcing their way through her back. Bones like wings, gleaming bright white as they start to coat themselves in muscle and sinew.

Tiny bursts of flame erupt from her body like solar flares, and when they disappear, red and yellow feathers sprout in their wake. Her face is darkening, metamorphosing before your very eyes. You can't stop looking. Bear witness to what I am.

She is a burning, powerful, terrible bird; a phoenix.

New feathers burst through her skin, even brighter than the first, shedding the old as her body replaces them. The air fills with them, obscuring your vision. The flash of Prudence's sword slashing uselessly at the feathery cloud, a glimpse of Donna's petrified white face. You are separated from them by the table and the beast on top of it, defenceless.

Aideen turns to you. Where her nose should be, a deadly-sharp beak has grown in its place; above it, her eyes are devoid of humanity, utterly monstrous. Her beak opens, and her cry is so haunting and mournful that you could cry along with her. It works its way into you and burrows into the spaces between your bones, reverberating in all those hollow places inside you.

The cloud around you thickens, and amongst the red and yellow, something darker is mixed in. Black feathers swirling, surrounding you, and a hiss at your ear. Miranda.

“Beautiful, isn't she?” her voice breathes, a ghostly whisper, then is gone as quickly as it came.

She has come to retrieve that which you took from her; the thief taking from the thief. You realise this very distantly, still mesmerised by your wife's vile form writhing atop the table. She cuts off her piercing shriek and launches her body at the brick wall, which gives with an awful crunch as she sinks her talons into it. She is tearing the very walls apart.

A great force is pushing at your back, pushing you towards the hole that Aideen is already forcing her warped body through. The black feathers bear you along with them, and you could swear that above Prudence's shouts and Aideen’s cries, there is soft, cold laughter. You don't resist as you are completely engulfed, being swept away. You're terrified. Weak. Everything I hated you for.

The force of the god and her creation are carrying you with them. The last thing you see is one huge, green-gold eye meeting yours through the dark mass of feathers before they take you into the open air.

Notes:

tragically, they could not work it out on the remix 💔

A bit of a longer wait on this one as it took some figuring out! I really enjoyed working in Prudence's cameo and have always had a little soft spot for the idea of her & Donna together. If you haven't yet read A Lady & Her Huntress, strongly recommend hopping over there, it's an absolutely wonderful fic! Massive thanks to Vionette_In_The_Dark for letting me borrow your lovely OC 🩷 and thanks for reading as always!

also! I should probably mention we are sliding into what I'd call the final act of this fic, not sure as of right now how many chapters left but I'll update the count accordingly when I know!

Chapter 14: Once More, Before I Go

“Do you love me?” Aideen murmurs. “Still? Even now?”

The answer chokes you just as her clawed foot lands on your throat. She bears down on you, large green eyes trained on your own. Like decomposing leaves, like the death of summer. They swirl inside, liquid, until their irises bleed into molten gold. Her face stretches and warps grotesquely, a cruel black beak forcing its way through her pale skin.

“Well? Do you?”

The pressure on your throat eases, granting you just enough breath with which to speak.

“Yes,” you say, in a rasping voice that doesn't quite sound like your own. “Of course I do.”

Aideen hisses and digs your claws into your stomach. Strange; why doesn't it hurt? You feel your guts move around in her grasp, but feel no pain. Even as you recognise that you must be dreaming, there is no way out. It is as real as anything.

“Liar. Try again.”

“I'm not… not so sure anymore,” you choke out. “You've changed.”

She laughs cruelly, the sound reverberates inside your skull.

“Have I?” she muses. “Or is it you that has changed, hm?”

As she speaks, she is ferreting inside your stomach with her scaly hand. You wonder what it is she's searching for. A shred of honesty, perhaps. You owe her that much, at least.

“I did love you,” you whisper, holding her cold gaze. “That much I know. I did, once. So very much.”

At this, her features begin to mould and change again, back into some semblance of the woman you loved for so long. Her eyes grow softer and less wild. She raises her bloodied hand - a hand again, no longer a claw - to touch your cheek.

“Wake up,” she says softly. “You must wake up, my love. Be safe. I'll see you soon.”

***

“Wake up, Mrs Byrne.”

You come up clutching your abdomen, gasping on a cold stone floor. The light is harsh, near-blinding as you blink hard to clear your vision. Every part of your body aches as though you've taken a barrage of punches. Worst of all, your head throbs and pounds, like your brain is being thrown about on a rough sea. You feel sick and weak as a starving stray dog.

As you take stock of all these new sensations, battling waves of nausea, you squint up into the light. A figure resolves itself the longer you look, a slight frame seeming to emit its own soft glow. Miranda, cloaked not in her dark robes, but a clean white shirt and an equally spotless lab coat. She looks almost normal, perversely, without that shining golden mask and feathers at her back. She could pass for any ordinary doctor, an ordinary woman; she seems somehow smaller, but this does nothing to diminish the dread the sight of her stirs up.

“It's you…” you mumble, grogginess turning to panic. “Get away from me.”

Miranda smirks and turns away, starting to pace around the room. Everything is starkly white, clinical, something akin to a lab. She fidgets with strange-looking implements as you try to stand, but your feet are weighed down with something heavy. Gleaming steel shackles around both your ankles, chained to a peg driven deep into the stone floor. They don't give when you pull at them and try to wrench the peg upwards. You grunt as you wrestle with the chain; Miranda looks on with detached amusement.

“That seems to be a colossal waste of your energy, Mrs Byrne.”

“Where's Aideen?” you spit, panting from exertion. “Is she safe? Is she-”

“Resting,” Miranda says coolly. “You will see her in good time. For now, I'd like to speak with you. We haven't yet had the chance to get to know one another properly.”

She continues around the room, running her hands over the sterile worktops, checking gently bubbling vials and beakers. The contents of many of them are thick and dark, ranging from bright crimson to dirty, rusty red.

“I had thought the lycans would be the end of you, in all honesty. But I'm glad you did not meet your end there.”

Of course she sent them; you had surmised as much. What you hadn't expected was for her to so readily admit to it, even less that she would be thankful her plan didn't come off. You picture Heisenberg's outrage at the revelation, though you'll never get to see him again.

“I should have died then,” you mutter darkly. “Would have saved me a lot of bother.”

“Yes, most likely,” Miranda agrees, almost warmly. “But we're here now, are we not? Let us speak of something else. I couldn't help but notice you’ve grown quite close with Alcina, hm?”

As she speaks her name, you stiffen. That’s about the last thing you wish to discuss with this vile woman. But she turns to you and cocks her head, smiling like you might smile encouragingly at a shy child.

“Come, now,” she chides. “I can smell her all over you. It was plainly obvious that she was going to bed you at some point. Frankly, it's admirable you resisted her as long as you did. Not many can say the same.”

You stare venomously up at her, trying and failing to stop your cheeks burning. You won't let her get a rise out of you, won't give her the satisfaction of breaking you before she kills you.

“Aideen knows, of course,” she says with mock regret, sighing. “I wouldn’t have been able to keep it from her for long.”

“Oh, piss off,” you spit, and Miranda's eyes flash momentarily. “What of you and her, then? Don't you dare try to tell me you haven’t-”

“I have,” she interrupts sharply. “But, if you must know, it was not I who initiated the act. She came to me willingly. As she did with all else that I have done with her.”

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly, with a sinking feeling of not wanting to know the answer. “Surely not the Cadou? Who would ask for such a thing?”

Miranda smiles with a startling edge of sadness. “I tried to dissuade her. For nearly two years I stalled, made excuses not to proceed. But there came a point at which I could not deny her any longer, though it pained me to do so.”

Your sickness crawls back in with more intensity than before. Miranda catches sight of your paling face and strides over, her face creasing with something oddly like worry. She presses the back of her hand to your clammy forehead; you cringe away, as far as you can get with the constraints of the chains.

“Why?” you mumble as she backs off, sitting on her haunches. “Why didn't you want to give her the Cadou?”

She sighs again, and her translucent eyes swim with barely suppressed sorrow. “Because I love her, Mrs Byrne. I loved her from the very first moment I saw her. You yourself know how easy it is, the… the effect she has.”

You nod in agreement before you can stop yourself, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Miranda looks back, and there is no longer any derision or mockery in her gaze. For the briefest of moments, you share something with her. But then you recall Aideen's transformation, remind yourself that you're staring at the woman who has replaced your wife with something awful. And you look inwards, to yourself; the person who has failed Aideen more than anyone.

“Let me see her,” you whisper, locking eyes with Miranda and hoping to touch that part of her that feels something. “Please, just for a moment. That's all I ask.”

She closes her eyes, and you hear the faint sound of her breathing, seeming to ground herself. When she opens them, her face has resumed a blank, professional mask.

“Soon,” she says neutrally, rising back to her feet. “She really is resting. The transformation was particularly taxing this time. What did you think?”

You blink at the odd question, but the answer comes with surprising readiness. “She was horrible… beautiful. There was nothing of her left, I… I couldn’t look away.”

She nods emphatically, wearing a tiny smile of pride. “Yes, quite. I’ve never paid much mind to the… aesthetics of my creations, until now. I felt she deserved a beautiful form.”

“You're sick, Miranda.”

Laughter echoes off the walls, all of Miranda's teeth glinting as she grins and shakes her head. There's something in her eyes that sets your stomach churning again.

“Perhaps that's true, Mrs Byrne,” she muses. “Let's say for argument’s sake that I am. What might a sick person do with you, hm?”

“Oh, I don't know,” you sigh, resigned. “Sick things, I suppose. So long as you kill me in the end, I'm not all that fussed.”

At this, she looks genuinely surprised. “I had thought we’d established that I don't want to do that. I might yet have use for you.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. God, no. Being useful to Miranda is about the worst thing that you could possibly be. Better to be of no use at all, discarded and thrown aside. The latter promises less suffering.

“I've taken the liberty of drawing some of your blood,” she murmurs thoughtfully, gesturing to the worktops behind her. “The initial signs are promising. A chance for you to be part of something greater than yourself.”

“I'll kill myself,” you tell her. “Before I become an experiment. Believe me, I will.”

She scoffs, looking down her nose at you. “A fool and a coward. Believe me, you will not. I’m growing tired of your bleating, Mrs Byrne, not to mention your empty threats. If you wish to see Aideen again, you might want to watch how you speak to me.”

You press your lips together; Miranda holds your gaze, a glimpse of frustration in her disdain. Almost as though she's waiting for you to grasp onto something that is painfully obvious to her. You slump against the wall, shifting your eyes from hers. She draws herself up, sighing almost inaudibly as she watches you concede wordlessly. She's right - you won't kill yourself. The best you could hope for is to goad her into killing you; truly the coward everyone knows you to be.

“Very well. I shall leave you for now,” she says, and you hear her footfalls approaching. “Here. Take this.”

You flit your eyes up and find her inches away, holding out your battered and sorry-looking bestiary. When you don't take it from her, she places it gently by your feet and fishes a pencil from her lab coat, balancing it on the cover.

“Goodbye for now, Mrs Byrne.”

Her shoes click on the stone floor as she strides to the door; you open your mouth to say something, but nothing emerges. She's gone before you can think of anything. Typical; you speak when you oughtn't to, remain quiet when words might do good. Stupid, so very stupid. Too exhausted to cry, or even feel particularly sorry for yourself, you pick up the bestiary and flick through it dispassionately.

As you knew you would, you land on the page with the countess’ face staring back at you. All those hours spent with her, all the things you ought to have said. So many banal things exchanged, holding back out of fear. Both of you so afraid, but of what, exactly? Perhaps she was right to fear you. With some relief, you sit with the fact that you can't hurt her any more. She will live long enough to forget you once Miranda has either killed you or turned you into a mindless beast.

This thought is the one that soothes you enough to slip into a thin and dreamless sleep with the bestiary balanced atop your knees, and her golden eyes watching you from the page.

***

Through the night, or what could very well be day, the flicker of the harsh lights keep stirring you from sleep. You muse on the idea that this might be intentional, designed to make rest impossible and erode your sanity. There are no shadows, no life, nothing but stillness around you.

And still you see things that might not be there. Once or twice, you're certain a beaker of blood has overflowed and sent its contents trickling towards you. Instinctively you draw your knees up, away from the approaching stream of liquid. Just at the moment where it brushes your bare feet, the puddle disappears. Sleep comes again, and the mirage repeats itself like a looping TV programme.

With the futility of judging the passing of time, you soon give up trying. Perhaps it's been days; your hunger and thirst are worsening incrementally. Starving you to death would be too lacklustre an end for Miranda's tastes, surely. Your mouth grows dry, your lips crack the more you try to moisten them. A fog rolls through your brain, a low and sluggish headache. Weak but unable to rest for fear of not waking up, you hover in pain and semi-consciousness.

Another vision comes, this one the worst yet. The door clicks open, and there is Aideen padding cautiously towards you. Just as you remember her, down to the placement of the freckles across her cheeks. Her eyes are soft and green, full of concern. She holds a glass of water and a plate of food on a tray. How cruel your mind is to have summoned such an image. You can hardly hold your head up to absorb the sight, to revel in the awfulness of it all.

And quite suddenly you're pushing yourself upright, sitting up against the wall. No - it can't be. She is not a product of your fragmented mind. Aideen is crouching a foot from you, laying the tray at your feet. The freckles are gone, her eyes have resumed their odd green-gold hue. You gawp at her foolishly.

“Drink.”

With wildly trembling hands you pick up the glass of water, somehow managing not to send it sloshing everywhere. You choke on the first gulp, then sip more slowly. It's wonderful; room-temperature and slightly dusty, but wonderful nonetheless. Aideen watches as you drink half and set it down, mindful that you may not receive any more.

“Hi,” you croak as your head clears a little. “Thank you.”

She nods, seeming not to know what to say. Instead she gestures to the plate, on which are two slices of bread, thinly buttered. Your stomach churns at the thought of eating.

“Later,” you mutter. “I feel sick.”

With delicate movements she sits on the cold floor and crosses her legs, adjusting for several minutes, fussing with the hem of her dress. She seems unable to look at you directly, only around your shoulders and over your head.

“Say something, won't you?” you ask quietly, in a voice cracked from disuse. “You weren't always so laconic. Used to be days I couldn't get a word in edgeways.”

You expect at least a glimpse of a smile, but her face remains tired and sad. She parts her lips a few times, frowning as she tries to find the words. Finally, the silence gets the better of her.

“You really should eat something,” she says stiffly. “You’ve been down here for three days now.”

The soft lilt of her voice threatens to break you entirely. She doesn't sound like the Aideen you once knew, nor the beast who turned on you in Donna's cellar. Rather, she is somewhere in between, a shadow of the old mixed with the new. This is the first time you've seen her so lucid, so present. An opportunity you can't let slip away, not after all you've been through.

“Doubt it'll make much difference, whatever I do,” you tell her after a while. “It all ends the same way, does it not?”

“Not necessarily,” she mumbles. “There are ways we can… minimise the loss here. But you must keep your head. You'll be of no use if you go mad.”

You try to laugh, but manage only a strangled wheeze. “Go mad? What makes you think I'm not there already? I could be dreaming you up, for all I know-”

She darts a hand towards you and, before you can react, pinches your thigh hard between her forefinger and thumb.

“Ow,” you complain, rubbing the sore spot as she draws her hand away. “Point taken. No need to rub it in.”

At last, she breaks into a little smile; there for only a moment, but there nonetheless. She's so beautiful, you think sadly. More like the woman you loved than you care to admit. To appease her, you take a slice of bread and bite into it, raising your eyebrows. Her smile grows ever so slightly as she watches you chew and swallow with some difficulty.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Now, then, while we're here…” You clear your throat pointedly. “I've some questions for you. And I think you ought to answer them, before, you know…”

She starts to shake her head, but something in your subsequent glare stops her. Sighing, she runs a hand through her unruly hair and shrugs with the other shoulder.

“Fair enough,” she says wearily. “But you won't like what you hear, I imagine. Some things are best left well alone.”

“No, they're not,” you say with an edge of irritation. “I want to know everything, Aideen. Starting with how on Earth you came to be here. How you came to know her.”

She takes in a deep breath, closing her eyes. When she speaks after several excruciatingly long moments, her voice is flat and measured.

“I had been researching Romanian legends. There was a contact of mine based near here, and he told me the strangest things about what was going on. Described the creatures you've seen here in perfect detail. I was fascinated… not that you paid much mind.”

You look away guiltily. Aideen keeps her eyes shut tight and continues.

“He also told me of a priestess here, the locals’ object of worship. And I thought, well, why not try and make contact? I reasoned it wouldn't go anywhere,” she says. “So I drafted a letter and told my friend to try and deliver it to her. I was bored and frustrated, didn't expect anything back. Then, months later… I received a response.”

“You didn't tell me,” you interject through a growing lump in your throat. “I would have-”

“I tried to,” she snaps, opening her eyes to glare at you for a brief moment. “A few times, actually. But no, your studies, your work… I gave up trying. Anyway - she seemed just as interested in me as I was in her. We corresponded for some months before she posed the question.”

A burgeoning shame rises up in you, a memory surfacing. She had been chatting over coffee in the kitchen, something about some new research or other. The rest of the memory is hazy. Did you rebuff her harshly? Did you listen at all?

“She asked if I'd like to come and work with her. I was hesitant, naturally. I had intended to run it by you…” Her voice wavers slightly. “But then, that morning… when you didn't say goodbye. Hardly even looked at me. I'd had enough.”

“Aideen…” you whisper, reaching out a hand, but she whips hers away as though stung. “I'm sorry-”

“Please,” she says through her teeth. “Let me finish before the grovelling starts... I left that morning and came here. I don't remember much of the journey, only meeting Miranda and being so… so very frightened. But she calmed me, so I told her everything. She said she’d make everything better, that she would take care of me.”

In your mind's eye you picture the scene; Miranda, cloaked in black with her cold eyes, embracing Aideen, loving her from the very first moment. You try to recall if you felt the same, all those years ago at the train station. Aideen had looked at you first, smiled the most dazzling smile you'd ever seen. Laden with shopping bags, you had offered an awkward smile of your own; she laughed, approached you on the platform.

“Cold out, isn't it?”

Aideen grinned at your shocking opening line as you blushed and cringed at yourself, wishing your train would roll into the station and save you. As it happened, she boarded alongside you, filled the silence on the hour or so long journey. You were floored that she was sitting by your side willingly, laughing at your feeble jokes.

“Well, this is me,” you smiled weakly, gathering your bags as the train lurched to a halt. “Nice meeting you, Aideen.”

“Actually, I'm getting off here as well,” she chirped, right behind you at the doors. “Watch your step.”

“You live nearby?” you asked her, halfway down the street leading away from the station. She had been keeping up her steady chatter all the way, right up until you turned onto your road.

“Nope,” she said brightly. “But you're going to drop your bags at home and we'll carry this on in the pub, won't we?”

Two years to the day you were married, a small ceremony with your mother and father - still alive, back then - and no-one present on Aideen's side of the aisle. She had flowers in her hair and tears in her eyes as you promised to love her unwaveringly for the rest of your life. If you concentrate, she's still there in the woman sitting in front of you. But she disappears just as quickly in all the little differences; her eerie eyes, that inhumanly perfect skin.

“And now?” you ask hollowly. “You're a Lord now, Cadou and all. How did that happen?”

She sniffs and swipes at her eyes, brushing away the tears gathering there. Your own are falling freely down your face; you make no attempt to quell them.

“I learned of Eva… it broke my heart,” Aideen says. “She told me how she had been trying to get her back for so long. I offered to help any way I could. It was I who suggested the Cadou. I imagine she's already told you how she resisted.”

“She said she loved you too much to subject you to that.”

She winces at this. “Whether or not that's true, I couldn't say. But I persisted, thinking perhaps I might be the ideal vessel. As you know, that didn't go as planned. I felt like a failure, after all she had given me.”

As you sit across from her, it's quite difficult to connect her with the beast that broke through solid brick wall and swept you away. She looks small and nervous, picking at her fingertips and darting her eyes all around.

“You didn't want to come home to me?” you ask, striving for a gentle tone. “Not even in the beginning?”

“Of course I did,” she frowns. “But don't you understand? I had committed myself to either becoming Eva, or…” Her voice trails off and she gulps a few times.

“Please, my love,” you mutter. “Or what? Don't do this to me.”

“Or becoming a mother to Eva,” snaps Aideen, “when Miranda succeeds in bringing her back.”

You drop your head and clench your fists. Hate and revulsion surge up from a dark, neglected place inside you; hatred for Miranda, for Aideen, for yourself. To become a dead girl or become her mother, side by side with Miranda. Both thoughts are equally sickening.

“What the fuck…” is all you can say; you think you might well be sick if you dare open your mouth again. Aideen looks on, pressing her lips together. Her thin hands tremble on her knees, and she doesn't bother to wipe away her tears any longer.

“That's everything, in a nutshell. I mean, there's more, of course…”

“I don't want to hear it,” you groan, threading your hands through your hair. “There's something wrong with you, Aideen.”

She laughs humourlessly. “Just as much wrong with you, my love. We're the same, aren't we? Both sorry excuses for wives; we both broke our vows.”

You can't disagree. Your heart feels like it's trying to claw out of your chest.

“You should eat that bread before it goes hard,” she says, her voice softening. “Or before she takes it away. I won't be able to bring any more.”

Her fingers make contact with the scars on your cheek. You catch her hand and press it to your face, shaking with suppressed sobs. Only now does it truly strike you that this is her final visit; the last time you'll ever see her. All of the useless, stupid hope you'd been clinging onto is swept away on a tide of inevitability. She is no longer your wife, nor are you hers. This is where your marriage makes its last, futile stand.

“Aideen…” you murmur with your cheek pressed to her cold palm. “Can I ask of you one last thing?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation; she seems to know already what it is that you want.

“Kiss me one last time, please? Before…”

Her lips are on yours before you can finish your plea. She kisses your dry mouth softly; your tears roll past your lips as you touch her face with trembling fingers. The kiss feels nothing like it ought to. She doesn't taste the same way you remember. There is nothing but pity propelling her to do this for you.

“Thank you…” you say hoarsely, pulling away before your revulsion and shame consume you. “I… I'm all right now. Don't feel as though you have to stay.”

She nods, seeming grateful for the dismissal. And so you watch her leave with a gaping hole in your chest; no goodbyes, just like the last time you walked out of the door three years ago.

***

Hours - or perhaps minutes - bleed into what feel like more days, more nights, sitting stiffly in the same spot. You ration the bread until only rock-hard crusts remain. Best save those for something to chew on when you truly begin to starve. The water didn't last as long. Thirst brings back that low, deep ache in your skull. The bright white lab will be your tomb.

As you sit picking sluggishly at the chafing left by the shackles, you hear footsteps outside the door. There's something hesitant about them. You don't bother to look up as the door opens, and someone steps inside.

“Oh, good. I do apologise; I lost track of time.”

Miranda marches up to where you’re slumped against the wall, still fingering your bruises idly.

“Mrs Byrne?”

Lifting your head takes more effort than it should; it feels like a hefty weight on your shoulders. “Hmm?”

She looks down at you pityingly, and you struggle to meet her gaze with your unfocused eyes. She's wearing sterile gloves, holding a tray in one hand. You crane to look at the contents, thinking she might have brought more food and water to prolong your suffering. But instead, you lay eyes on a row of medical implements, glinting steel edges and points of needles catching the light.

“I've been studying your blood,” she says gently. “If I am right about you, then you may very well be a suitable vessel. But, equally… I could be mistaken. Soon we will know.”

“Please,” you whisper. “I won't be a good fit. Kill me instead. Look at me; I couldn't possibly be what you're looking for.”

Her lips twitch into a small, almost sad smile. “Mrs Byrne-”

“What would Aideen say?” you demand. “Do you think she'd forgive you-”

“Aideen wants Eva back almost as much as I do,” she says icily. “She will understand, I assure you. Please don't waste your breath begging. I will not be swayed.”

And, before you can react - the shackles fall away, your limbs freeze against your will. Even your mouth is clamped shut by some irrevocable force - seemingly emitting from Miranda herself - so that you can't protest any more. Your body begins to rise until you’re standing with your back against the wall. There is nothing you can do, no amount of fighting could break the spell.

“You'll be unconscious for most of the procedure,” Miranda says quietly, taking two strides towards you. “Just like falling asleep… though you will be in a great deal of pain when next you wake, I'm afraid.”

Your blood thickens in your veins, your eyes droop helplessly. The same force that pins you to the wall starts to pull you in the opposite direction; your feet drag across the floor as your body is drawn towards her.

“You are about to be part of something quite wonderful. Thank you in advance for your sacrifice, Mrs Byrne. Now, let us-”

THUD.

Miranda's mouth twists into a snarl as her head whips around towards the door.

“Aideen?” she barks. “What are you-”

THUD. THUD.

“What on Earth…?”

CRASH.

The door begins to splinter and crack, buckling under immense pressure. Your eyes are glued to it, your mind screaming in a silent plea. Let it be Aideen in her new form, come to slaughter Miranda and take you away… let it be the countess, furious and vengeful. Even a rogue lycan or some such creature would be welcome, to put you out of your misery before Miranda can turn you into one of them.

Miranda growls deep in her throat; her wings sprout, tearing through her immaculate lab coat. Something sharp splits the door; several sharp things ripping through the wood, tearing the entire thing down.

“Miranda! Let me in, you wretch-”

That voice. Surely not. Miranda's invisible hold on you slips; you crumple to the floor, gasping for breath. And just as you do, a familiar arm is pushing through the wrecked door. The rest of her follows; you watch in awe, wondering if you might just be dead already and seeing things again. She is frighteningly beautiful, cloaked in a fury that robs you of breath.

“Alcina…”

Miranda's face is a terrifying synthesis of rage and disbelief. The countess emerges fully into the lab, her eyes flicking between you and the priestess. Neither moves, locked in a cold standoff. You hold your breath and wait for the thread to snap; wonder who might come out alive when it does.

Notes:

scuse me while I sob and frow up #divorcecore #stresscore

As always, thank you for reading <3 we are within a few chapters of the end of this story, sad to be wrapping things up but hopefully these messy queens will come through it!

Chapter 15: Impermanence Inherent

“This is madness, Miranda,” Lady Dimitrescu snarls. “What have you done with her?!”

“Nothing, as of right now,” Miranda replies smoothly, though she shakes all over. “We were just about to begin before your… timely intervention.”

You watch as she struggles to regain poise; by the look on her face, she isn't far from losing control. It's at this moment you begin to fear not for your own safety, but that of the countess. She’s completely unafraid in her rage - rather, she looks set to lunge at the priestess, claws first. Your heart stutters at the thought of what might happen to her. Miranda flexes her fingers; deadly, coiled on the brink of violence. No - you can’t let this happen.

“Countess…” you croak, shifting your attention back to Lady Dimitrescu. “Don't-”

“Quiet!” Miranda and the countess hiss in tandem. They keep eyeing one another, both breathing hard. The air is thick and charged. Even the blood-filled beakers have stopped bubbling on their burners. Caught between awe and terror, you watch mutely.

“I didn't want it to come to this, Alcina,” Miranda murmurs. “You want to keep her so much? May I ask why?”

“I could ask you the very same… you have your own reasons, too,” the countess says tersely. “You have chosen to keep Aideen Byrne. I ask that you respect my reasons, as I do yours.”

In the wake of her words, you sense a shift in Miranda; barely tangible, but something flits across her expression for a split second. She considers the countess, moments seem to seep into minutes. You daren't breathe, daren't believe this will end in anything but a torrent of blood. Getting out alive seems far too much to hope for. Lady Dimitrescu stands tall and regal, with not a trace of fear about her. She will not relent; in this you find no comfort, only a deep and writhing dread.

“We need to speak privately, Alcina,” Miranda snaps, finally, shooting you a venomous look. “But do not think for a moment that I will change my mind so easily.”

“Very well,” the countess says neutrally, nodding at the wreckage of the door. “Shall we?”

Miranda scoffs. “There is no need to leave this room. Allow me.”

With a nasty smile, she meets your eyes again. Gracefully she lifts her gloved hand, clicks her fingers. The scene before you freezes and flickers like a paused video tape. A brief sensation of falling; you are robbed of your senses, enveloped in blackness.

***

The courtyard is warm, the castle solid at your back. There is an odd shimmering quality to the air, slightly unreal; so, you must be dreaming. Unsurprised, you drift over to a stone bench and settle in a warm patch of sunlight. Must be spring, you think, in this scene your unconscious mind has created. The air smells hopeful.

You're at peace here, watching a dragonfly alight for a moment's rest on a nearby marble sculpture. Even your body feels different; uninjured, free of hunger or thirst. When you touch your face, it is smooth and unscarred. Like starting all over again.

“I thought I might find you here, little mouse.”

Lady Dimitrescu has materialised beside you on the bench soundlessly. She, like the air itself, has that strange and shimmering look about her. Smiling, she drapes an arm across your shoulders. She smells of lavender and warm skin; she smells human. You settle into her, feel her amused gaze on the side of your face.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“None to speak of, really,” you say amiably as she toys with a strand of your hair. “Nice dream, this. Almost makes me not want to wake up.”

“Hm. Interesting thought,” the countess muses, her voice sweet and mellow, though somewhat faraway. “Suppose you could go anywhere in this dream of yours. Where might you go? What might you do?”

As you consider the question, the greenish dragonfly rises again only to hover for a moment and settle on your bare wrist. Its intricate wings twitch in a curiously lazy sort of way. Brave little thing.

“I think I'd stay here with you, actually,” you say after a while. “Better here than back out there…”

Lady Dimitrescu says nothing, only strokes your hair as you stare out towards the mountains. Time doesn't exist here. You imagine you could stay here forever, but some small voice registers in your mind; a nudge to bring you back to reality.

“Suppose I should probably wake up,” you sigh with a little smile; the countess smiles back understandingly. “Never was too good at staying asleep. I'll see you soon?”

She nods and holds you a little bit tighter, places a kiss on your head. Her presence at your side begins to lighten until she dissipates entirely. The courtyard is enveloped in a clean white fog that wraps around you like a cloak, obscuring everything. Faintly, ever so faintly, a voice penetrates it, an insistent whisper.

***

“Little mouse? Are you awake?”

You grumble and squint as you stir from sleep. A large hand smooths your hair back from your face, and that voice is hushing you softly. You blink; the countess’ face hovers above yours, creased with relief. Your head is in her lap. A gentle, rhythmic bumping beneath you, the distant sound of wheels turning.

“Hm?” you grunt, lifting your head and frowning. This isn't the lab, but the interior of a carriage upholstered in rich green velvet. The aches in your body tell you that you're no longer dreaming. How many hours have you missed? Your brain seems to throb in protest at this influx of baffling new information.

“Lie still,” the countess murmurs, cradling your head. “You're weak, my love. We're almost home.”

My love. Home.

These words sink deep into your bones. She says them with such conviction that you can't help but to believe them, at least for now. You are too tired to dwell any more.

“She let us go?” you ask, choosing instead to probe the more pressing matter. “How on God's green earth did you swing that?”

The smallest hint of amusement crosses her features as she takes in your incredulous expression. “I will tell you everything later, I promise. But we must get you fed and rested, more importantly.”

“You crafty woman, you,” you mutter, equal parts awe and disbelief in your voice. She smiles a strained smile, and says nothing more. The rest of the journey is taken silently; the countess seems unable to tear her eyes away from you, seems fearful that you might disappear if she looks away.

When the carriage trundles to a halt, you choose to walk up to the castle under your own power, despite Lady Dimitrescu's protests. She steers you gently with a hand on your shoulder, matching your sluggish pace. The sight of the castle doors, of warm light flooding from within, brings a sudden tightness to your throat. Home, for now. You choose to think of it as such.

Dinner is a subdued affair. She watches you eat in silence, the need for words evaporating in the welcome stillness. You eat your fill and drink water until your headache clears. Exhaustion soon takes hold; the countess insists on carrying you up to bed. You fall almost instantly into a dead sleep, the first without disturbance you've had in a while.

Through the night Lady Dimitrescu remains by your side, still there when you wake. As though you never left her bed at all. She kisses you, smiling through each one. The food and rest have had a remarkable restorative effect, and your mood is startlingly light. But, when you try to get up, she quickly turns stern. You acquiesce meekly and allow her staff to wait on you with more food, a hot bath, fresh clothes.

The day wears on with no indication that you'll learn what truly happened last night. To your own surprise, you find yourself quite unwilling to press the issue. In mere hours you have shuttled at alarming speed from terror, to accepting your death, and now a tenuous shred of safety. How much more of this can you possibly hope for? With a sense of delaying the inevitable, you keep your questions buried for the time being. Better to enjoy this fragile stretch of calm before it all comes undone.

Sometime in the afternoon, a tap at the door jolts you from a light doze.

“Enter,” says the countess, and Antonia pokes her head into the room. She catches your eye, offers a tiny smile before addressing Lady Dimitrescu.

“Lady Beneviento and her companion have arrived, mistress,” she tells her. “They're waiting in the atrium.”

“Ah, of course,” the countess hums thoughtfully. “We will be there presently. Ensure they are comfortable while they wait.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Antonia bows her head once, and leaves. Lady Dimitrescu stares after her for a moment, and you're surprised to see an amused smile forming on her lips.

“What is it?”

Her smile grows ever so slightly. “Donna still thinks I don’t know that she has taken a… well, a lover of sorts. I presume you've met this woman?”

“Yes, I have,” you say, surprised. “Prudence. She very nearly shot me in the head. Quite a long story, as it happens.”

She shoots you an odd look, seemingly trying to work out if you're joking, then shakes her head bemusedly. She slips out of bed and winces a little, perhaps stiff from lying awake beside you all night.

“In any case, we oughtn’t keep them waiting. I hope you don’t mind occupying Prudence while I speak with my sister.”

“Of course not,” you say, mildly cheered by the prospect of having something useful to do.

It's slow going down the stairs; your body is still stubbornly weak after your ordeal. Vaguely you wonder how close to death you actually came in that laboratory. Much too close for comfort. The fact that you’re here, not dead or turned into some sort of beast, feels ludicrous. But, with the countess at your side, perhaps it’s not so unbelievable after all. A part of you knows that this brief reprieve will have to end somewhere, though it's a difficult pill to swallow.

You're mired in these uncomfortable thoughts as you descend the last staircase, leaning on Lady Dimitrescu's arm. So much so, in fact, that you almost fail to notice Donna and Prudence standing there expectantly.

“Donna,” the countess greets her sister. “And you must be Prudence. Welcome to my castle.”

Prudence grins broadly and bows her head, then gives you the shadow of a wink. Donna rushes in to embrace you, bypassing the countess. Her unveiled face is soft and warm against yours.

“Gods…” Donna murmurs into your hair. “I still can't quite believe it. We thought you were dead, or worse.”

“Ah, Death won't have me. I'm too much trouble.”

She almost laughs, but it gets lost in a stifled sob as she holds you a while longer. Her relief is palpable. Gently you disengage from her, smiling as you thumb a tear from her cheek.

“Shall we, Donna?” the countess asks softly. Donna sniffles and nods, touches your arm once more before she follows the countess to the foot of the stairs. You watch them leave with a heaviness in your chest.

“It’s good to see you alive and well,” Prudence pipes up after a few moments, stepping up to your side. “You're just about the slipperiest, most stubborn thing I've ever met. I respect that.”

You roll your eyes and nod towards the door. “I need to stretch my legs. Are you up for a walk?”

The grounds have a slight sheen to them from melting frost. A weak sun tries to penetrate the heavy cloud cover, providing only the faintest warmth. Prudence ambles along beside you, hands in her pockets and looking contemplative. The silence is quite amiable, but there's an unease coming from her. She seems to understand why you're out here with her; you wait patiently for her to speak.

“After you got taken from Donna's…” Prudence begins after a short while. “We came straight here to tell the countess. Called up Heisenberg and Moreau, too. I really did think you were dead,” she admits. “But the countess wouldn't have it. She was beside herself, as was Donna. I tried to tell them it was no good, but…” She sounds vaguely guilty as she trails off.

“I think you were the more reasonable one, all things considered,” you tell her with a reassuring smile. “So, how did you find me, in the end?”

“You have Heisenberg to thank for that,” she says. “He knows the way Miranda operates and figured out where she might have taken you. But it still took him days to find the right place. The countess went half-mad, waiting. I thought she was going to kill him at one point. Like a woman possessed.”

You smile fondly, picturing the scene. “Unsurprising. She's quite a thing to behold when she gets like that. Thank you, anyway, Prudence. For your part in helping me. I owe you.”

She bats this away with a wave of her hand, her expression guarded and troubled. She pulls ahead with her long strides, and you have little hope of keeping up. Her agitation leeches into you; there’s something hanging in the air, something she would rather not broach.

“Prudence…” you call out, and she slows down with her fists clenched at her sides. “Do you happen to know how Lady Dimitrescu convinced Miranda to let me go?”

As you draw level with her, she sighs, resigned.

“I have absolutely no idea, and that's the honest truth,” she says heavily. “But that's exactly what has been bothering me. I can't help but suspect… I don’t know. It's all just a bit strange, is it not?”

Though you were expecting a response in that vein, your heart still lowers a fraction. Yes - it is more than a bit strange. Prudence looks down at you with pity and sadness weighing down her kind brown eyes. She, too, is an outsider; she understands in some small way. Even so, there is still a great gulf between the two of you. Miranda’s focus is trained squarely and frighteningly on you and you alone. She shouldn't have let you go, and yet she did.

You turn back towards the castle with a grim resolve, knowing you must face whatever is at the heart of these unanswered questions.

***

Donna and the countess are waiting in the atrium when you reenter the castle, Prudence trailing not far behind. She crosses immediately to Donna’s side, who looks markedly more subdued than not half an hour ago.

“Are you sure you won't stay the night, Donna?” Lady Dimitrescu asks. “You and Prudence are both more than welcome.”

“No, thank you. We'll take our leave now,” Donna says quietly; her veil is lifted, and her one visible eye is rimmed with red. “Thank you for having us.”

Donna inclines her head slightly towards you, beckoning with a finger. You step up to her, and she once again enfolds you in an embrace. She holds herself stiffly; then, moving your hair aside, puts her lips to your ear.

“It has been an honour to know you,” she breathes, so low that only you can hear. “Please be safe.”

With that, she swiftly disengages and takes Prudence's arm. They're striding out through the open doors before you can open your mouth to respond. Prudence looks back once and gives you a stoic nod before turning away. A passing maid closes the doors; a pressing silence is left in their wake. Your thoughts are scattered and muddled, Donna's parting words ringing in your ears.

Lady Dimitrescu's hand falls on your shoulder, and you startle, so faraway that you hadn't noticed her approach. You're still staring at the doors unblinkingly.

“Do you need to go and rest?” she offers, uncharacteristically meek. “You must be tired, little mouse.”

You place your hand over hers, closing your eyes. “No, I'm quite alright,” you say. “I could do with a drink, actually. And I think we ought to talk.”

She stiffens for only a moment before sighing; she knew this was coming. Beneath yours, her fingers twitch. A sadness seems to ripple over her, passes through into you.

“Yes, of course,” she murmurs. “Let us go to the atelier… I'll call for a bottle of wine.”

The two of you retrace those steps of so many nights before, silent and thoughtful. The castle, where once it had seemed impossibly large, takes on a claustrophobic feeling as you walk, the walls hemming you in.

Into the atelier, settling on that same hard stool, and the countess on her grand chair. A great distance between you, that you can’t bring yourself to close just yet. The room smells of old wood and paint; your easel has been moved back here.

A familiar-faced maid darts in after a few minutes, sets down a tray bearing a bottle of wine and two glasses before scurrying out. Lady Dimitrescu considers the bottle, briefly, then pours two generous measures. You make no move to get up and take the drink; you're not entirely sure why you asked for one.

“I suppose you have questions,” the countess says after draining half of her glass. “And I have let you sit too long without answers. For that I apologise; I merely wished to allow you time to recover.”

“I understand,” you murmur, watching her face; inscrutable, a blank mask. “I should probably thank you for saving me, first, shouldn't I?”

This earns you the tiniest quiver of her mouth, almost a smile but not quite. “There is no need. It was never in any doubt that I would find you.”

You close your eyes, imagining for the most fleeting of moments, what would happen if you decided against hearing the rest. Perhaps you could go on as you have been; spend your days with the countess, more alive than you've ever felt. She would likely allow it. But there is someone else who would not; someone who won't rest while you remain here, whole and breathing.

“So, then…” You take in a deep breath and open your eyes. “Why don’t you start from the beginning? After you found me, I mean. Prudence told me the rest, more or less.”

She bites her lip, shifting on the chair. She takes a moment to light a cigarette, avoiding your eyes. “When Miranda put you to sleep, she was furious, at first. She threatened me, my daughters, Donna… everyone she could think of. I thought it best to let her, though it angered me to listen to her vitriol.

“Eventually, she settled down. She had worn herself out. I asked her why she was so bent on implanting you specifically, but received no clear answer. She was similarly reticent about Aideen,” she says, exhaling a silvery plume of smoke. “Nothing I said seemed to move her.”

Aideen. Where might she be now? Does she know of the countess’ intervention? Does she care? She would have let Miranda do as she pleased with you. The thought stirs up more pity than sadness in you - pity for Aideen, for how little of her is left. Her choices still hurt, but more distantly now. She seems a lifetime, an entire universe away.

“I kept her talking for as long as I could,” Lady Dimitrescu continues, and you drag your attention back to the present. “But conversation soon turned to the impasse at which we had found ourselves. I wanted to leave with you, and Miranda would hear no such thing. No amount of bargaining made any headway.”

A barely perceptible wince follows her words; she resets her face, too late. And you find that your breath is shallower, your hands are gripping the edge of the stool. All you can do is listen, trembling slightly, your eyes locked with the countess’. She looks squarely back at you.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “But try as I did - and believe me, I tried - she was completely immovable. I could not convince her to let you be. I threatened her in turn, bargained, pleaded…”

Her voice breaks. You stand and drag your stool towards her, set yourself down so that your knees are touching hers. She leans down and rests her forehead on yours, breathing quietly and rapidly.

“I was given two choices,” she says heavily, her words fractured. “Either I let Miranda implant you, or… gods, I’m sorry…”

“It's alright,” you whisper, touching her face; her cheek is tear-streaked, her shoulders quake with the effort of keeping herself together. “You're doing beautifully. Take your time.”

“Or I kill you myself,” she quavers, squeezing her eyes shut. “Those were her damned choices...”

You nod slowly, utterly unsurprised. Not that you had expected this, exactly, but what else could it have been? You knew that Miranda wouldn't simply let you walk. All you can muster is a muted anger at what this is doing to the countess; she's breaking before your eyes.

She dries her face delicately on her sleeve without breaking contact with you. With one hand you stroke her jaw gently, the other resting on her knee for support.

“I suspect we have a matter of days before she loses patience, and comes to deal with you herself,” she says, recovering herself slightly. “But I… I have come up with a way in which you neither have to die, nor be implanted. I’ve made arrangements for you-”

“Yes, I understand,” you say quickly, before she can finish; you’re not sure if you can bear to hear it out loud. “Yes, that's… thank you, countess.”

She releases a long, tremulous breath. “I wish there was another way, I truly do. But she will stop at nothing. I don't make this choice lightly; I do so to keep you safe.”

“I know,” you murmur. “I know. Thank you for everything.”

There seems to be nothing left to say. Something like an hour passes; somewhere along the way, you find yourself seated on the countess’ lap, enfolded in her arms. She places her ear against your chest, closes her eyes. You kiss the top of her head, threading your fingers through her hair. The occasional tear drops from her eyes to land on your shirt, but she makes no sound. You take it all in and lodge each sensation in the back of your mind; her smell, the strength of her arms around you, the way her hair slips through your fingers. Something to carry with you, a swell of emotion distilled into a single memory. One you'll refuse to forget.

“Alcina…” you say, softly. “Are you alright?”

She lifts her head and looks at you, blinking in a bewildered, dreamlike sort of way. Her name on your lips; she seems not to mind.

“Yes, little mouse. Are you?”

The lie makes both of you smile, and the countess’ eyes brighten a little.

“No, not at all,” you half-laugh. “But I think… God, I don't know what I think. That we should stop moping, perhaps?”

She exhales lightly in amusement, then turns to looking thoughtful. “You may have a point there. How do you suppose we go about that?”

You think for a moment, watching as she draws some composure from deep within herself, a strength that both perplexes and awes you.

“I think, if we have just a few days, as you say…” you say, smiling again. “That we should try to enjoy them. Pretend like none of this is happening, and just… just be. What do you think?”

She considers this, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she traces one of your scars with a finger. “I think that sounds quite sensible, which is a surprise, coming from you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Finally she laughs, and it's such a wonderful sound. She hands you a glass of wine and kisses you, lingering a moment before pulling away.

“Very well, then, my love. Here's to our last days together.”

Notes:

round 2 of cry, frow up, crumple in a heap on the floor etc etc

good gosh we're on the penultimate chapter, can't quite believe it! the angst is angsting Hard™️ but you all know me well enough by now - it's a staple at this point 💔

big big thanks again to Vionette_In_The_Dark for lending me Prudence for the latter half of this work! live, laugh, love Prue, as I always say <3

thank you all so much for reading, always, I'm truly grateful! final chapter hopefully before the end of the year!

Chapter 16: The Shape of My Mistakes

The castle grounds stretch out below you, lazy and indifferent in the stillness of early morning. Melting frost has left behind a dewy, slightly surreal sparkling effect; the outer walls look almost gilded. Further out, the village sits cradled between craggy purplish-black mountains, their tips shrouded in mist. You're not sure if you can bear to wrench yourself away from this; you've been here for hours, staring mutely at what you must leave behind.

It's impossible to imagine waking up to anything else, walking away into another life. Did you truly live before this, or were you merely stumbling dreamlike through your days? You have seen too much now, accessed knowledge that you might have been better off without. You found this landscape inscrutable and oppressive, once. As you stand now, looking out over the parapet, you question whether or not you would trade everything for just a little more time here.

For several minutes you've been aware of a presence just behind the doors at your back. Only now do you feel ready to turn and look - Bela loiters behind the glass, staring at you with wary eyes.

You open the door enough to make yourself heard. “Hello, Bela. Everything alright?”

She takes a moment to find her words. When she does, her voice is measured and emotionless. “Come inside. It's too cold for me out here. We need to talk.”

There's a look on her face that you can't parse, but it's enough to propel you to step indoors and face her properly. She has carefully arranged her features so as not to betray anything, an undercurrent of something else beneath. Far removed from the Bela who once scowled if you so much as breathed in her vicinity. Her composure seems stretched thin as she shifts restlessly, waiting, until you nod for her to go ahead.

She turns on her heel without further elaborating and begins to set a fierce pace through the castle, not slowing or stopping to let you keep up. She is silent and purposeful in her tread, only coming to a halt when she reaches the library doors, where she gestures mutely for you to enter.

Still, she won't look at you as she paces around the dizzyingly high shelves, taking nothing in. You settle yourself in an armchair, grateful for a rest after the hours spent stationary on your feet. Casting your eyes around, you can't help a twinge of awe at the books of innumerable sizes and colours encircling the room. This a carefully curated collection, generations’ worth of knowledge that you will never be privy to.

“I spoke to Mother,” says Bela after a long spell of quiet, her voice carrying high and clear in the cavernous space. “She told me everything. She's hurting a lot, though she'd never admit as much.”

It feels appropriate to speak up in the face of her show of frankness; something akin to a tenuous respect between the two of you. “I'm sorry, Bela.”

She sighs, halfway between impatience and sheepishness. “This time, for once, there's nothing you need to be sorry for. This isn’t your fault. I'd love to blame you… hate you, even, but I just can’t anymore. Not now, not after everything”

You allow her a pause as she takes down a book, seemingly at random, and turns it over in her hands disinterestedly. The cover is a deep sea-green, stark against Bela's pale skin.

“She's done so much to protect us, you know. From the very start. My sisters and I were, on paper, experiments. Not her real children. But she loved us far beyond the scope of that. She has to keep us safe, keep out the cold, keep us fed any way she can…”

“She's a remarkable woman,” you say evenly. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for her.”

“She harbours a… a deep affection for you. I see it every time she looks your way, when her thoughts wander to you. I don't claim to understand it, but I can see it plain as blood on snow.”

You don't quite know how to respond to this, so you say nothing. Bela seems to gain some confidence from your silence, and continues.

“So I understand why she won't let you be implanted. She cares too much to allow that to happen. Nor could she bear to cause your death, indirectly or not,” she says slowly, as though only just coming around to the idea herself. “I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I understand, in a way, and that I'll take care of her. I thought it might be important for you to know that someone will.”

“Thank you,” you say, smiling gently. “She… your mother means a lot to me. And you to her. So, in a way, you're important to me, too. As are your sisters.”

Bela returns your smile with a rare one of her own; strained, but welcome. “Well, I've said my piece. I won't keep you any longer. Take care of yourself.”

She nods in a slightly stiff display of amiability, and takes her leave. Thoughtfully you rise and walk around the rows upon rows of books, ruminating on how little time you've spent in here. If you had the time to read every volume… there are likely too many to fit into a lifetime.

You can't help but wonder if Aideen visited this room; she would delight in the sheer number of tomes on the shelves. Or, at least, the Aideen you once knew would have loved it. You have both been altered irrevocably by this place and its inhabitants, more like strangers than anything. In this, you suppose there's a shred of common ground left. Except for the painful fact that she gets to remain; an ache swells in your chest at the thought, takes root there and resolves itself into a knot of bitterness that you can't quite swallow.

***

The countess has been occupied elsewhere for much of the day, so you take tea in her chambers alone. As to what demands her attention, you're none the wiser. She has been a constant in your thoughts these past hours and days. Is she thinking of you? Does she not want to spend this last precious morsel of time with you, the most finite resource of all? Even now, there are parts of her shrouded in mystery. You've long suspected that you will never quite be able to understand her fully. Before you can unravel all the unanswered questions, you'll be long gone from here. A matter of days, she said.

How are you to condense everything you wish to do, to say, into mere days? The ugliness and unfairness of it all is enough to darken your mood. But you must keep your word to her; you promised to enjoy this remaining time, to pretend that your imminent departure won't happen. To just be, but it's getting more difficult to keep that promise as the hour draws nearer.

You hear her footsteps before she arrives. The door creaks as it opens, and there she stands, lovely as ever. Your melancholy thoughts dissipate, already forgotten, as she clears the doorway with something of a timid smile. She sets herself down on the bed and indicates for you to join her. You follow suit and sit close by her, taking her hands in yours and rubbing her palms affectionately. She sighs, closing her eyes.

“You're exhausted,” you note after a few moments. “You ought to rest, you know.”

She cocks an eyebrow and smiles wryly. “I'm quite alright. Pay me no mind. I have been busy… I apologise for leaving you alone today. There were matters that demanded my attention, but I fear I've been quite inattentive to you.”

“No, no, don't worry,” you rush to reassure her. “I'm more concerned about you, in all honesty.”

You shift your hands to access her shoulders, the highest part you can reach, and squeeze them as firmly as you can. She sighs again, seemingly in relief, leaning into the touch. Beneath her skin, the muscles of her shoulders are taut and tense.

Struck with an idea, you shift up onto your knees behind her and start up a rhythm of kneading her shoulders, loosening the knots there.

“Ah…” she breathes. “Thank you.”

Your satisfied smile is obscured to her as you work your thumbs into her skin, easing the tension out of her. Absently she shrugs her dress down her shoulders a little, to allow you better purchase with your hands. You continue steadily, not breaking your rhythm, though you feel warmth rising up from the collar of your shirt. The last time you were this close…

This intimacy feels deeper, purer in its innocence. Alcina hums under her breath, sinking further into you. And, quite out of nowhere, you know you want to help her unwind completely, if she'll let you. It's the last chance you'll get. Another time, she had said. Maybe now that time has come.

“Alcina?” you murmur, with a feeling of holding your hand out to a skittish wild animal. Your gut leaps with nerves.

“Mm?”

“Would you… would you like me to do anything more for you?” you ask quietly, hoping to impart your intentions without being overbearing.

Alcina stiffens momentarily, catching your meaning well enough. “I… Yes. I need a moment, please. Excuse me.”

She rises from the bed fluidly and disappears into the adjoining bathroom without another word. You remain as she left you, kneeling on the bed with your hands still hovering where her shoulders were. Her face was obscured, hiding her reaction from you. Did you offend her with your suggestion?

You are afforded only a moment to worry before she returns, and all your doubts evaporate into nothingness.

She is dressed only in a slightly sheer black robe; one look tells you that there is nothing underneath. Your mind turns hazy at the sight. At this, a little smile spreads over her lips as you stare. Gracefully, and with the air of knowing exactly what she's doing to you, she drifts back over to the bed.

Your hands twitch, your eyes flicker greedily over every part of her you can take in. Still with that same knowing smile, she sits down and cocks an expectant eyebrow, waiting for you to react. A beat later, your brain kicks back into life. You stand to situate yourself between her parted legs; her breathing quickens in response, though her expression is unchanged.

With soft indulgence she takes you by the waist, pulling you closer. You're arrested by her eyes, low-lidded and wanting, the regal planes of her face; you feel the need to embed this image in your mind for fear of forgetting. But there is so much more of her to see, and you ache to lay eyes and hands on the rest of her.

She allows you this moment, keeps your gaze steadily as you pull the tie of her robe with fumbling fingers. With the slightest twitch of her lips, she guides your hand to untie the silk holding the garment closed.

The fabric rasps quietly, and she is bared to you, for the first and last time. What hits you first is the striking synthesis of power and softness she embodies; a mesmerising harmony of all that she is. Dazed, you stare unabashedly. There is equal, if not greater, reverence in the way she looks at you. Though she hides it well, she's just as lost in this as you are. She invites you silently, without need for words.

And so you take her. First with your hands, gently, marvelling at the feel of her and guided by whispered encouragements. She responds to your touch like nothing you have ever felt. Then with your mouth, where you lose yourself in the taste of her, and she falls apart gasping your name. This is where you ought to be; this is everything you want. All those things neither of you can say distilled into such a thin, fragile moment.

She lies back on her elbows, catching her breath. Her head tipped back, throat constricting as she recovers herself. You sit up on your knees to watch her, heavy-eyed and content. For a while you stay like this, drinking her in. A peace you've never been afforded before now; you aren't sure how you'll learn to live without.

Alcina sighs, propping herself up to look down at you. It's almost jarring when she breaks the silence, like neither of you has spoken in years. “I'll miss you, little mouse.”

“Yes,” you murmur, resting your head against her thigh. She winds her fingers into your hair tenderly. “But you'll be alright; I know you will. You have Donna, your girls…”

Her brows knit together as she thumbs your cheek thoughtfully. “And what of you? What will you do, after…?”

She doesn't finish the sentence; there is no need to. You shrug, forcing a smile for her benefit. “Oh, don't you worry about me. I'm sure I'll find a way to stay out of trouble, keep myself occupied…”

“No, my love. I'm being quite serious.” She leans in closer and takes your chin in her hand, giving you no choice but to meet her eyes. “I need to know that you will be all right, else I'll never rest easy again, wondering about you.”

You fidget and shift uncomfortably. “I… I might not be, for a little while. But I won't give up and mope for the rest of my life, if that's what you're asking. I can't… I won't let everything I've been through go to waste.”

She nods, sombre, running her fingers over your scars. “I understand. I did not intend to diminish your strength.”

Catching her hand in yours, you hold it to your cheek with a small smile. “I won't forget this, though. Don't think I could if I wanted to.”

Though she returns the smile, her eyes are still shadowed with something like grief. “Are you… prepared to depart on short notice?”

You make a sound of agreement, knowing the moment has truly passed. There's really nothing more left to say; or rather, that neither of you wishes to pry open the topic of your departure. It sits between you like a shared wound, still fresh and aching.

Mutely you crawl up into her arms, and she kisses you once before falling silent. For much of the night you lie awake. Many questions surface, none of them with satisfactory answers. You wonder what form the rest of your life will take once you leave this place. Will you live, truly live, after all you've seen and felt? Try as you might, you cannot conjure up a future in your mind. Perhaps you have lost yourself; lost who you were before this, before her.

***

Some hours later, you wake alone, burrowed in the covers of the countess’ bed. The sunset crashes in, refracting through the thick glass of the windows to create dazzling spots of light thrown around the room. A shaft of it falls across the bed, warming the empty space at your side. You feel rested for the first time in an age. Comfortable. Home, but not for much longer.

Alcina opens the door softly, and smiles upon seeing you awake. She crosses to sit by your hip, rubbing your shoulder over the quilt affectionately. But she's troubled; you see it immediately, in the set of her jaw and the way her eyes dart evasively.

“I've received word that… that we haven't much time,” she says after a while, her voice clipped and tight. “For your safety, I think you ought to leave tonight. I'm sorry.”

Swallowing your own fierce deluge of emotion, you clear your throat. “It's… it's alright. Was it Donna who sent word?”

Alcina pulls an odd face before answering. “In a sense, yes. She, well… she received word from Aideen, and then passed it onto me.” You note, distantly, that she does not refer to Aideen as your wife.

The sensation that runs through your body is, for a brief moment, like being dunked in an icy river. Then the heat of shame, that old familiar feeling rushing in, eclipses the cold. Aideen, your Aideen, still thinking of you. Trying, in her own distant way, to make amends. She wants you safe.

You turn mute in the wake of this new information and all that it might mean. Sensing your conflict, Alcina looks on gravely. What can she say, really? You don't expect her to offer anything up, but she continues in a hushed, strained voice.

“Aideen has my gratitude for giving fair warning,” she says. “Much more than I would have expected of her, in truth. I had hoped that might be of some comfort to you.”

“Yes, it is,” you lie, blinking hard. “Well… I should get ready, then, I suppose.”

She agrees almost inaudibly, withdrawing, seeming to insulate within herself a thousand sorrows that she can't permit herself to express. You share them silently. So little time, each second crueller than the last. Snatched away from you, ephemeral, like something that never existed at all. It slips through your fingers the tighter you try to hold on.

How much can one person bear to lose, you wonder. At what point does it become too much for the body and soul to bear? Yours are battered and scarred beyond recognition. Yours are those of someone you must leave behind.

“Please excuse me for a while,” Alcina says, rising from the bed with her face turned away. “I… I have some things I need to do.”

She touches your shoulder briefly, her poise fractured, but just about intact. Neither of you can find the words, it seems. A common theme between the two of you.

“Of course,” you tell her. “Take your time.”

You watch her leave, and she takes the world with her. There is so much you ought to say - why can't you? Why can't she? It strikes you that, even now, you hardly know one another, and you'll never get the chance. There was much you've been prepared to lose; your sanity, your life, Aideen. But of all the losses, this one somehow stings more keenly than the rest. The ache of what you can't ever have again.

Methodically and mechanically, you begin to pack away your meagre belongings. They are concentrated in this room, where you have spent much of your time since your rescue from Miranda's lab. The few suits you dragged from the castle's dusty wardrobes, your bestiary, your wedding band. Husks of a life once lived. They have taken on the quality of artefacts meant to accompany the dead; they will, you suppose, accompany you in the death of one life for another. It doesn't take long to pack them away in your briefcase, but you dawdle nonetheless, fighting against the pull of time. But the sky outside is darkening fast, and time continues to mock you. This feels like more than a departure; it feels like having half of yourself torn out in the process.

Down in the atrium, lit only by a few low-burning lamps, Alcina waits for you. Her hands clasped at her front, her devastating face wearing the spectre of a smile. Holding herself together, but only just. Much the same as you, she guards each unsaid word like a talisman. But she opens her arms as you draw near, and it breaks you.

Your suitcase clatters to the floor, and you fall against her, trembling with the effort of not falling apart.

“Oh, my love…” she says thickly, drawing you in with her strong hands, scooping you up to her chest. “You lovely, lovely thing… I'm so sorry…”

Oddly enough, tears don't come. At least, they don't spill over, but remain gathered in your eyes to rob you of vision. In a way, it’s welcome; you're almost relieved that you can't see her face. You're terrified at what you might find there, that it might push you headlong over the edge into hysteria.

“Thank you for everything,” you manage to get out. “You've been… this has been…” God, you can't do this. Whatever else you meant to say sticks in your throat, presses on your windpipe. Choking on all the things you can't express.

“I know,” Alcina murmurs, her cheek against yours. “I know.”

She sets you down gently, and you're glad of the opportunity to swipe the tears from your eyes while she politely looks away. The sound of approaching hoofbeats jolts you both, and your heart seems to drop a foot or so.

Alcina shoots a look at the door, halfway between anger and defeat, then back at you.

“Take this, please,” she says quickly, pulling something from the sleeve of her dress; a small envelope. “Open it when you… when you're away from here. Take care.”

You take it from her numbly, shove it into your jacket pocket as you nod without taking in her words. The hoofbeats have come to a halt, and you can't bear this a moment longer. If you don't leave now, you never will, and then what? Miranda made it abundantly clear what she intends to do with you. Through all of this, a small part of your mind has scrambled to come up with a way out of this, some impossible miracle. But no amount of wishful thinking will help you here.

Picking up your briefcase, you limp to the door. Don't look back, you tell yourself. It'll be a thousand times worse if you look back.

“Goodbye,” you throw over your shoulder, mumbled and barely intelligible, as you prise open the heavy door and step out into the night. Your eyes stay fixed ahead, steady unlike your legs, which feel set to collapse beneath you. The temptation to look back, just once, is something you cannot entertain. That which lies ahead is your sole focus. You note, in a dull and deadened way, that it's a beautiful night; the air is crisp but not bitingly so, the sky mostly cloudless and speckled with stars.

A familiar carriage has drawn up outside, with an equally familiar face poking out of the back.

“Ah… my old friend,” the Duke says kindly. He extends a hand to you, an uncharacteristically sombre look on his face. “Come along, then. We should make haste. Time waits for no man, as they say.”

You climb into the back of the carriage; a squeeze to get past the Duke's bulk onto a pile of cushions and rugs in the corner. That eye-watering smell of herbs and gunpowder is especially concentrated here, and you have to sniffle a few times to acclimatise. The Duke raps on the wooden side of the carriage, some sort of signal to his horse, which begins a slow plod forwards. He shifts around, making himself comfortable with much huffing and cracking of old joints.

“Ah,” he sighs, once settled, and peers at your face through the gloom, beneath the light of a single, weak lamp. “Oh, dear girl, ever so glum. It's for the best, you know.”

“Mm,” you grunt, not especially inclined to enter into a conversation. All of your energy is trained squarely on not losing your mind, nothing to spare for pleasantries and chat.

“And it has truly been a pleasure to know you,” he adds, either oblivious or undeterred by your discomfort. “You have made quite an impression, and not just on my humble self. Oh, yes… I do think the countess was quite taken with you, in the end.”

You say nothing, barely able to look him in the eye. A solid lump of bitterness sits on your chest, making speech impossible. He seems to understand, and respectfully turns to busy himself with some small trinket, which emits soft clicking sounds as he plays with it. You curl up and try to nest down in the lumpy bed of cushions, hoping to find sleep. But, almost immediately, you know it's no good. Though you feel tired in every part of yourself, every joint and muscle, rest will not be your friend tonight. Perhaps not ever again.

Resigned to this cruel wakefulness, you sigh and sit upright, and as you do, something rustles against your side. You slip a hand into the pocket where the noise came from, and land upon the little envelope Lady Dimitrescu handed to you. The very last thing she did before you saw her face for the last time. A reminder, twisted up in a million strands of regret, that she is still thinking of you. For how much longer, you couldn't possibly say. It's a small comfort that she may live long enough to forget you.

You glance at the Duke; he's still performatively looking away, so you pull the piece of folded paper from the envelope and smooth it out on your lap.

My love,

Forgive me for penning the words I could not say to you out loud. Perhaps I am a coward, but I do not claim to be perfect. That, I know you will understand.

I regret that I could not do more to protect you, nor to keep you by my side. But there is far more history at play than would fit in this letter, most of it concerning Miranda. It would do you no good to know all of this, and I fear such knowledge would only endanger you further. I could not risk any more harm than has already befallen you at her hands. Knowing that you will soon be safe is enough.

I implore you to live your life to the fullest when you leave this place. Though such a thing could never be easy, I trust you to approach everything with the same curiosity and earnestness with which you first came to me. I also trust that you know and understand that I have come to harbour a deep fondness for you, hence why I made the impossible decision to send you away.

But, in the admittedly unlikely event that it became safe to do so, I promise to send for you. Though the possibility is negligible at best, I feel better for having this to hold onto, selfish as I am.

Thank you. You already know what for.

Faithfully,

Alcina.

“Oh, God…”

The sound that leaves you, between a gasp and a sigh, stirs the Duke from his perusal of his wares. His light eyebrows jump, his face creased with mild concern. Pity, too, if you look closely enough. And you do keep staring, because looking down at the letter again may be the very thing that destroys you. Held so tightly in your hands that the paper begins to strain and tear at the edges, cutting through her words.

“Are you all right, friend?”

“No.”

Turn back, you want to say. Take me back there. I don’t care if I die, just take me back…

But you don't, because she wants you to live.

The Duke looks on knowingly, and reaches into a leather pouch at his hip. Out from it he pulls a tiny bottle of amber liquid, which he places onto the carriage floor near your feet.

“A sleeping draught,” he explains. “It will put you out for the rest of the ride. If you wish to stop feeling and thinking for a while…”

You snatch up the bottle before he finishes speaking, rip out the stopper and tip its contents into your mouth. A wordless yes to the Duke's suggestion, to oblivion, to never thinking and feeling again. The latter, you know he can't offer you. But you give him a mumble of thanks regardless as your eyes grow heavy, and the heap of cushions softens your descent as you slump to the wooden boards.

***

A small mercy that you do not dream, or perhaps an intended effect of the Duke's medicine. At any rate, the sleep it brings is clean and heavy. You wake with the letter still clutched in your fist, and a piercing beam of sunlight falling across your eyes.

“Good morning!”

The Duke sits a couple of feet away at the open doors, illuminated from behind so that he becomes a large, beaming sort of cherub. Groaning, you sit up and squint at him, an involuntary scowl on your face. Unperturbed, the Duke hums contentedly and pats his knees, clearly waiting for something.

“What?” you grunt, frowning. “Do you want paying for this?”

“No, no,” he says, putting a hand to his chest in mock offence. “I was paid ahead of time by the good countess. I merely wanted you to know that we've arrived.”

“Arrived? Where?” you ask stupidly, blinking, until it dawns on you. “Oh…”

Amidst your bleariness, you hadn't noticed the sounds coming from outside the carriage. Human and mechanical noises creating an awful racket; engines, voices shouting over one another, car horns blaring. And just beyond the Duke's head, you can see the sky. A plane, no larger than a fly from this distance, streaks through the clouds thousands of feet in the air.

“Right. Yes…” you mutter, rubbing hard at your face. “Good. But-”

“Worry not, dear girl. I called in at the inn, and the charming woman there had something of yours, just as I suspected.”

He produces your battered maroon passport from within his waistcoat, and hands it over with a rakish grin. When you open it, you see that your photograph, once of a clean, young face, now much more closely resembles your current appearance, scars and all. You're without the capacity to ask how or when such a change was possible, and acknowledge that it was likely a clever trick of the Duke, the details of which you suspect he wouldn't divulge.

“Thank you.”

“And your travel is also paid for, once again courtesy our most gracious countess,” says the Duke, a curiosity overcoming his expression now. “Do forgive my solicitousness, but… I must ask you one thing, if you'll indulge me a moment.”

At a gesture from you, he leans in and lowers his voice to a serious whisper. “Was she worth it, my friend?”

He could be asking any number of things. Was it worth it for you to risk everything, your life and all, for Aideen, for it all to come to nothing in the end? Or, perhaps he means to ask: was Alcina worth it? Worth shedding your old life, your old self, ultimately to have her ripped away from you?

The answer is the same, whichever question it happens to be.

“She was worth the entire world, and then some.”

He nods, smiles, and sticks out his hand. You shake it gladly, and climb past him out of the carriage, stepping into all the light and noise. A squat building with countless windows, bodies swarming in and out of it, aircrafts taxiing and taking off. The Duke's carriage is laughably out of place, but no-one seems to spare it a glance. And when you turn to make a remark to that effect, you find yourself quite alone. The carriage, the horse, and the Duke himself have all vanished. Unsurprised, you shake your head and turn to the thoroughfare.

The world, the normal, human world, ought to terrify you. But somehow, incredibly, it's still the same world you once inhabited. If anything, it's as though you never left; it all went on without you, time kept inching forwards whilst you were gone. Faces blur into one another, and part of you expects one of them to have teeth too large, to leer at you with blood spilling from their lips. Most likely a part of you will always expect a crazed beast to be around the next corner. Such is your cross to bear for seeking out things which should never be seen. There is little solace to be found in recognising that these threats are imaginary.

On autopilot, you make the long journey home; in relative comfort, thanks to Alcina's generosity. Though your face draws looks of shock and interest from passersby, you are, for the most part, numb to their stares. Learning to live again comes bundled with learning to glance off the feelings of the world around you and so, you figure, you may as well start now.

By the time you reach home, the sky has begun to darken.

The old church you once called home is unchanged. Still dusty, still ancient, still smelling of damp wood and incense. You drop your suitcase by the door and hobble through the hall on leaden legs, not bothering to turn on the lights as you go. You don't want to lay eyes on this crude imitation of home. A vague thought of selling the place drifts across your mind briefly, only to be deadened by exhaustion and resignation. For all its emptiness and every bitter memory, you can't think of a better place in which to wait out the rest of your days. A perfect cage to wait for that which will never come.

I promise to send for you…

You fumble by the light of the moon to pull your old armchair to the window, and set yourself down in it with a groan. Everything aches, renewed and intensified by rest; your body has been waiting patiently to remind you of how very much it has been through. Biding its time like a beast just outside your field of vision, claws and teeth and blood on its mind. Aideen would have laughed, most likely, at your paranoia, how twitchy you've become. The imprint of her presence is all around; the dip in her armchair where she would curl up, a book of hers never returned to the shelf.

Alcina might have smiled fondly, made a sage remark about the nature of beasts and the mind, but what do you know? She is a lifetime away now. Every lost thing sits around you, holding vigil for a day that won't ever come. Huddled like restless spirits, they gather, hemming you in.

All that's left to do is sit here and rake over everything within reach of your memory. There's a need to make sure you don't forget a single moment, good or bad; every pain endured, every shard of hope, every way in which you've been changed. From leaving this house to your return, from the castle to the lab - you mustn't forget the smallest detail. Your anchor to sanity lies in your memories, in ensuring not a second becomes lost to the murk of your mind.

And you know where to begin, because there is no other place it could begin. Outside the window the moon has slipped behind cloud cover, and the sky is inky, blue-black with no visible stars. A blank surface on which to etch your thoughts. To carve your mistakes and the shape they form; sharper now that night has fallen, thrown into relief by light's absence.

Notes:

My apologies for yet another steaming plate of angst delivered hot and fresh 💔💔 but on the upside, we are finished with this angst fest officially and hopefully have lived to fight another day!

But in all seriousness, thank you everyone who's stuck around reading this batshit ride with all its ups and downs (more of the latter really...) I didn't expect it to go on quite this long or go the way it did, but I'm proud (me?! proud?! ikr!) nonetheless of what this has become. Thank you all, every bit of support has meant so much to me 💕

As an aside, I will still be updating The Hurt Is Half the Fun and building up to a new AU in the meantime... stay tuned 👀