Chapter Text
“You can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it.”
— Yves Olade, from When Rome Falls; Bloodsport, 2017
Cassandra knew there was something off with the girl the moment she saw her.
She arrived with the rest of the wild-eyed sheep, pathetic things that trembled and sobbed even at shifting shadows. They always cried so sweetly at first, begged to be returned. It was her favorite part, crunching hope underfoot like the bones of a mouse. But that one did not react, did not tremble; stared blankly ahead as Mother descended into the fray and grasped the loudest, a wailing maiden, by her throat and crushed.
It was a well-familiar dance by now. Mother dropped the corpse with a smile. And Daniela, always over eager, swarmed to seize it before it hit the ground. She would sample it before it met the barrel, an indulgence they allowed their youngest. The first sip was the sweetest, or so Daniela always claimed.
Mother always put on the prettiest shows, and Cassandra loved to watch her work. Few understood the artistry of fear as much as Mother, who seldom got her hands dirty, so Cassandra always seized the opportunity to drink in the fruits of her labor.
But the girl stayed still and silent, even as the others shrieked and clambered. Their clamoring was useless, ultimately; they wore too-heavy iron shackles that pulled at joints, wrists and ankles, but it was humorous to watch them try to scramble as Bela circled like a herding dog, blade in hand. A few cuts here and there, blood on stone, and they always settled.
"Welcome," Mother crooned, theatrical, "to Castle Dimitrescu."
Cassandra snickered loudly as the pack huddled together, ducking away from the curve of Bela's sickle and shrinking under a molten gaze. Mother weaponized her height to her advantage, towering over them like the Lord that she was, glowering down at them like dirt. The fear in the air was thick as molasses and twice as sweet.
They always learned their place quickly when Mother welcomed them.
One of them bleated out a pathetic, "What do you want with us?"
Mother laughed, teeth flashing. "Well, I can hardly keep such a place clean myself, now can I?"
"No, Mother," Bela chirped politely back, well-rehearsed. "It would simply be improper."
"Mm, a Lady shouldn't be expected to perform such dirty work," Mother agreed, accepting the handkerchief from Bela as she passed it over. There was blood on her gloves from the maid's neck, where hints of claws had slipped, and she dabbed it delicately off. It dropped lazily to the floor "So, we find ourselves in need of staff, don't we girls?"
"Yes, Mother," Cassandra chimed in, twisting her own sickle between her fingertips, reclining back in the arm chair lazily. "So, so many delicious new faces."
The outspoken one yelped as Bela tugged her forward by the bindings. "P-Please, no—"
"Silence," Bela commanded, speaking to her as one might an errant hound. She reached up, fisting a hand in long, dark hair, dragging her face stubbornly this way and that. Then, she seized the chained hands, studying her fingers. "Hm. Stand there."
Cassandra cackled as Bela shoved the woman aside, watching her stumble over her own chained feet, only barely catching herself on her palms before she met the stair's edge with her chin. The maid bit her lip to hold a sob, but worked herself slowly to her feet. Tears poured down her cheek. Cassandra ached to taste them, but kept herself still.
Unbothered, Bela prowled through their ranks, tugging and questioning, studying lines in palms and tears on faces.
Her sister had a preternatural sense for where skills were best used, so Mother let her be. She spoke up only once, when a maiden that trembled so sweetly and shook so strongly was to be sent to the growing line by the stairs. "Not that one, darling," Mother called, smoking now, cigarette smoke billowing from her nose like a dragon. "To Daniela, if you please."
Cassandra licked her lips in approval—that one smelled good, and breakfast had been so long ago.
Bela clicked her tongue, but nudged the girl to stand on her lonesome. "Of course, Mother."
Finally, at the end of the line, standing almost wholly alone and staring into space, Bela reached for the smallest maid. The girl was sixteen or seventeen at best, a head shorter than the rest. Dark-hair, whip-thin with a sallow face. A dark, splotchy bruise blossomed on her cheek. She didn't react when Bela pressed it, hard enough to turn the skin an ugly white. The girl's eyes shifted to regard her, blinking slow and controlled.
"Can you speak?"
The girl's eyes were dark-green, like moss. "Yes, Miss."
"Lady Bela, my eldest," Mother corrected, voice dark. She nodded towards Cassandra, eyes skimming over the small one, then over to the rest of the maids who huddled together. "Lady Cassandra, my next eldest. And my youngest, Lady Daniela, who has gone to ferry our dearly departed. My three daughters. And I am Lady Dimitrescu, Lady of the House, and I expect you to address us all as such. Am I clear?"
The girl remained emotionless; in shock or something more, but motionless under Mother's eyes and in Bela's grasp. Even when Bela's nails dug harshly into her bruised cheek, leaving angry red crescents on her skin that made Cassandra hum with appreciation. No, the girl just stared, lifeless and cold, dispassionate.
"Yes, Lady Dimitrescu," the girl's voice was low, monotone. "I understand."
Bela hummed, leaning in to peer harshly into her eyes. It was the face she often wore when peering at ledgers or negotiating with the Duke; like she was identifying the weak points. Whatever she saw there, she seemed satisfied. Bela released the girl's face and shoved her to the small herd by the hall door. "Go."
The girl went, shuffling, movements robotic.
Cassandra watched her go, twirling her sickle thoughtfully.
"You're just a kid."
The girl said nothing.
The silver-haired cook sucked her teeth. She'd seen plenty shell-shocked ones come in and out of her kitchens, though none were quite so dead around the eyes. They never lasted long, and Sylvia wasn't in the business of coddling or protecting the weak. Castle Dimitrescu would devour her alive.
"Right," she decided, already turning away. "To the sink with you—always dishes to be done."
The rest of the new faces showed more promise, five sets of hands desperately needed. It'd been a rough few weeks and her back ached from carrying the kitchen almost by herself. She singled out a strong-looking one, then one who called her Ma'am and could tell the ass-end of the knife from the point. "You two, with me," she commanded. "The rest of you, peel those potatoes and chop the tomatoes."
Sylvia had a thousand things to do and still too few hands to do them, but she always made do. She had little time to babysit. So, as was the way of Castle Dimitrescu, she threw them to the sharks. Let them sink or swim, there would be blood in the water by the end of service, one way or another—the ladies loved to make examples on the first night.
The strong one, Claudia, vomited as Sylvia showed her how to sever elbow joints.
The other one, Adina, went pale as the grave but managed to stay standing.
They would do.
In the corner, the little maid kept her head down and mouth shut. She worked, elbow-deep in too-hot water, hands boiled red and knuckles white on the bone as the scrubbed. Sometimes, a pale-faced maid would shove past her with a "move", or would drop dishes into the sink so water splashed all over her. But she said nothing, spoke to no-one, just worked stubbornly away.
Two weeks into life in Castle Dimitrescu, life quickly developed a routine.
The kitchen staff lived in the lower dormitories, nearest the cellar and the kitchen. It was freezing at night and the screams echoed far too well within their walls, so some had taken to sleeping two to a bed. The youngest slept on her own, in a threadbare blanket and her uniform, far from the rest of them—an outcast of her own making, refusing to speak unless spoken directly to, and sometimes not even then.
The others were older than her, closer to twenty. Few were older than that: the cook, Sylvia, and the Grand Chambermaid, Roxana, who reported direct to Lady Bela. She'd heard of Tatiana, who led housemaids responsible for the castle's upkeep, but she'd never met her. The house maids had their own dormitories on the Castle's opposite side, and came around only for meals.
It was close to the witching-hour of the thirteenth night that the buzzing started.
Curled up in the bunk closest to the door, the small maid heard it first. She woke from a fitful sleep, but said nothing as she often did. Just watched quietly as a cascade of flies flowed like ink around the door. The dresser wedged up against it didn't even shift. She watched, eyes dark but observant, as they condensed into the silhouette of a woman.
In the dark of night, only the faintest trace of clouded-moonlight pierced through the barred window. It turned dark hair a washed-out grey, but shone in eyes that burned like molten gold, reflecting back like a cat's pupil.
She stared.
The woman met her gaze, too-sharp teeth flashing brilliantly in the moonlight, stark against painted-black lips. She slowly raised a hand up to her mouth, a single finger in front of it; an unnecessary command for silence. The blade of a sickle curved wicked and menacing at her hip, rasping as she drew it.
When Juliana was pulled from the bed two rows over, the small maid just watched as it pierced through her thigh like a fishhook. The screaming woke up the rest of the room in an instant, but they all fell still at the sight of Cassandra Dimitrescu among them, stilling like mice trapped beneath a cat's paw.
Even Diana, who shared Juliana's bed, said nothing as the blood soaked through her thin, white chemise. Just watched, shivering, as her friend was pulled from her arms and her bed, reaching for her but receiving nothing but cold, stunned rejection. No help would come.
"Sleep well, little lambs," Cassandra purred, kicking the dresser aside hard enough to shatter.
The door slammed loudly behind her, like a gunshot in the darkness.
Juliana's screams carried through the night.
None slept.
Bela was coiled up in an arm chair in her study, any pretense of work abandoned as she flipped through a novel perched in her lap. A chalice sat at her elbow, the familiar scent of blood-wine enough to make Cassandra's stomach growl, even though she'd slaked her thirst through the night. She swarmed over, snatching it from the side-table and upending it into her mouth.
Her sister made an offended sigh. "Really?"
"What's the name of that maid?" Cassandra asked, licking a trickle from the corner of her mouth. "The small one."
"It's three in the morning," Bela said, accusatory.
"I didn't kill her," Cassandra scoffed, offended—then grinned, fully aware of the drying blood around her cheeks. "I got that other one, Juliana. She begged so well. It was almost a shame, but she tasted delicious."
"And yet you steal my wine?"
"Everything tastes better stolen," Cassandra retorted. "Now, answer the question. I know you know."
Because she always knew, had perhaps carried the ability since before her rebirth, though Mother always refused to speak of those times—when they were all maids, then corpses, before they became her daughters. Bela's memory was vast, almost picture-perfect. It made her being a know-it-all simply a fact of life.
Bela flipped a page in her book, though she wasn't looking at it. "Lucia."
"Kidnapped?"
"Freely given," Bela answered. "Paying off a debt."
"Hers?"
"No."
A familiar story, tragically common—Daddy went out and drank a bit too much, gambled a bit too hard, or maybe his harvest didn’t turn out quite as planned. He borrowed some money, thinking he'd make it back. They never did. So, House Dimitrescu called to collect. A debt wiped in exchange for a maiden. Pathetic, really, but a reliable source of food. Those ones always reeked of betrayal and sorrow. Delicious.
Cassandra hummed, turning the name over in her mind like a shiny stone.
Bela watched her, eyebrows pinched. "What's that look about?"
"There's something off with that one," Cassandra purred. "I want to know what it is."
Her older sister sighed, legs unfurling from underneath her, shutting her book forcefully. "Leave me out of your games."
"Whatever," Cassandra scoffed. "You'll only ruin my fun anyway."
"Don't kill her," Bela said, turning to leave. "It would be a waste to write off a debt that size so soon."
"Don't worry, sister," Cassandra replied, smiling at the possibilities. "I wasn't planning to."
Lucia dwelled little on her lot in life.
Perhaps once, when she was younger, she may have jumped at shadows and things that went bump in the night. She may have felt pain as more than flashes and slow simmering in her veins. But if so, she couldn't recall it. Her memories were spotty, grainy, like the films they sometimes showed in the village; flickers and sensations that burned to empty holes, then jumped to another scene.
Her father often said she had been born wrong, and perhaps there was truth to it. He had tried to teach her fear, but the lessons had never quite stuck. At least, not in a way that satisfied him—though very little did.
Some of his lessons had stuck, though: be seen, not heard. Lucia knew complaining only promised punishment, so her thoughts seldom left her chest, just curdled sourly behind her breast bone until she could pour them into other things—dishwater, scalding hot, was as good an outlet as any.
Her father had sent her to this life, but at least the monsters of Castle Dimitrescu wore their countenances honestly.
The other maids didn't like her, but nor did they hate her. They were, she was; entities separate, unattached. A blessing, really. She'd witnessed many familiar faces sent to the cellar, carved like cattle and served over the dinner table. The first year of her service was a bloodbath. She spent it head-down in soapy water, scrubbing until she forgot their faces.
She witnessed horrors, many and often; mostly perpetrated by Lady Cassandra.
She came to claim her living corpses in the dead of night, to ensure they never forgot their roles in the Castle. But so too did she leave special shows for Lucia; stepping over broken-necked bodies in the halls as Lucia entered them, leaving organs like love notes on her bedside, drawing symbols in blood upon pallid skin. It seemed almost a game to her. She never spoke, but the violence was a message of its own.
It was a cat and mouse game, one that begged her end. And yet—
Lucia survived where others did not.
On her eighteenth birthday, in the dead of a blood-soaked winter that left them light on hands, came a new apron and knife.
“Congratulations,” Sylvia shoved them at her, face wan but not unkind. “You’ve been promoted.”
Lucia had precious little gifts in her life, fewer that were not blood-stained. She didn't know what to do with them. Her hands felt permanently red from dishwater and old blood was crusted beneath her nails, and it all felt too much. But she held the knife with more certainty than she'd ever had with anything else, awed and overcome—and it felt right.
Her knife work was horrible to start; too big, too small, too wasteful. But Sylvia taught her how to cut, to slice, to work the knife like an extension of her arm. Lucia worked until it became habit, until she could cut anything into a uniform julienne or an expert brunoise, no matter how it bled in her hands. Until the knife felt better in her hand than out of it, and her silence was marked only by the thunk thunk of the chopping board.
And the days grew longer, the staff thinner, but all the while she worked: ghost-like but flourishing.
The daughters would sometimes burst into the kitchen, moods foul and prowling like caged animals. Even Bela, who almost never menaced the staff when her sisters did such a fine job of it on their own. The cold made them irritable, blood-thirsty, Sylvia said. Lady Dimitrescu struggled to hold the leash in the season. Her children caused trouble for trouble’s sake, just to pick off the ones who startled the loudest—never Lucia, with her steady knife and nurtured silence.
By the next delivery day, as the frost eased and shackled women marched through the doors anew, the kitchen belonged to just her and Sylvia—who clapped a weathered hand over her shoulder, smiled with exhaustion, and said: “You’ll go far here.”
And for the first time in the years she could remember, Lucia smiled.