And now she’s in need of healing hands.
With this new information, I seethe with urgency, aflame with the fervor to show the countess that I can be of use. But she has still not summoned me, and I can hardly stroll into her chambers without any invitation; impatient as I am to court her favor, I know the dangers of being too bold. As much as I struggle with it, besieged by doubt and the prickling of my conscience, I can devise only one thing to do.
The next time I see Agata in the morning, before she begins her day’s work, I slip some bearberry into her tisane.
She stays with me while she drinks the tea, regaling me with the details of her intestinal distress, as if she expects me to be goggle-eyed with fascination over every stray fart. It never ceases to amaze me how some folk revel in their own ailments. For once, I egg her on until I see beads of sweat begin to pearl on her forehead. Bearberry is not a kind herb; I would never have resorted to it were my own need not so great. But at the very least, it will do no lasting damage beyond a day’s severe distress.
“Anna,” she struggles, fisting a hand against her churning gut. “I think—”
I have a basin ready for her when she abruptly purges the contents of her stomach. My own shoulders hunch with sympathy, my stomach clenching like a fist with guilt, as the poor woman heaves helplessly with convulsions. She looks up at me, teary-eyed, haggard with pain. “But, it’s making me worse, what—” Another violent retch cuts her off.
“Sometimes chamomile can cause purging,” I lie. “Especially if the belly is already upset. Did you indulge in anything overspiced last night?”
I know the answer is yes, because it always is. Pressing her trembling lips together, she shoots me a guilty look. “Aye, I did,” she admits. “But only a bite, two at most! How could it have—” I look away, my skin crawling with guilt, as another grievous bout overtakes her. When it passes, she glances up at me desperately, panting with exertion. “How will I tend to the lady’s room in this state?” she gasps. “What if I should befoul her things? She would whip me, she . . .” She dissolves into tears, weeping over the slop basin.
“What if I were to go in your place?” I offer. “Would that help?”
She shakes her head hard, swiping her hand over her mouth. “You aren’t a maidservant, not fit to attend to the lady’s quarters.” Contrite as I am, it raises my hackles that this foolish, undisciplined woman would think herself above me. “Maybe one of the others could . . .” She trails off, realizing that the other maidservants have already flocked to their duties.
“The others have gone, and you’re in no fit state to serve,” I counter. “Give me your work dress, and I shall take your place for the day. The lady hardly bothers with who tends to her hearth and washing water, I’m sure.” This is a lie of course. The countess will surely take exception to my sudden presence, but I plan to cross that bridge when I come to it. “I’ll do just as well as you—and you will lie here, quiet, and recover your strength.”
She casts me another doubtful look, heavy with misgivings—What have you done to this poor woman, Anna, I think, for your own miserable gain?—then nods reluctantly, reaching for the basin. “Just remember,” she says hoarsely, her throat spasming as the bearberry torques her innards again. “Should she order you to do something, do it, at once, exactly as she tells you. And if her husband is about, you’d be wise to make yourself scarce.”
I nod grimly, my suspicions confirmed once again. “Thank you, Agata. I’ll do as you say.”
In my borrowed work dress, I hurry through the keep’s oppressive corridors. The innermost hallways always feel like midnight, even at the very break of dawn. They have no windows, and the meager light shed by the candle sconces barely pierces all that dark. And their frail flicker throws such ghastly shadows, skittering like spiders up the walls, that sometimes I think it would almost be better to simply succumb to the darkness. Creep blindly through it like a mole rather than resisting in vain.
The countess is still sleeping when I let myself in, slipping on mouse-quiet feet to stoke her hearth. Her chambermaids have not yet risen, either, so we are left alone. It smells like a different world up here compared to the rat shit and mildew of the cellars, an airy, floral haven shot through with the bright peal of citron. I steal thieving little looks at the lady as I clean, compelled by the way the shadow of her canopy competes with the dawn’s pale light to play upon her cheeks. She is paler than normal, I note, her skin a touch sallow, high points of fire burning on her cheekbones. Her sleep is uneasy, restless; she whimpers a little in her dreams, like a pained pup. It twists my heart to hear it.
By the time I’ve filled her basin, one of the other chambermaids has come in. I keep to the corners, dusting the windowsill as she helps the countess rise, draping a velvet housecoat over her shoulders and leading her to the vanity to dress her hair.
“Nothing too complicated, Judit,” the countess says, her low voice a rusty rasp. She peers closely at her reflection in the mirror, meeting her own dark eyes as she prods at their corners, tutting dispiritedly at the blue half-moons of fatigue beneath. “What a weary wretch I look, so blanched and sluggish and damnably old. Not a single rose in my cheeks or lips. I’ve a mind to retire again after I break my fast. If I can keep anything down, that is,” she adds ruefully.
“Aye, my lady,” the chambermaid agrees. She does look a bit like Krisztina, I note, though her hair is a pale copper like apricots rather than my friend’s fiery red, and tastefully restrained. She picks up a silver-backed brush and begins to drag it gingerly over the lady’s curls. But her hair is snarled into stubborn knots, likely from a night of tossing and turning, and the chambermaid has unsteady hands. I can hear the bristles catching as they yank on the lady’s hair—and her ensuing, furious yelp.
“Leave off, you ham-fisted twit,” she hisses abruptly, snatching the brush out of Judit’s hand. In the mirror, I see her face contort with pique. “You shall have me stripped bald as a newborn babe if you continue with this ineptitude!”
“I’m sorry, my lady!” The chambermaid gulps, her blue eyes huge with panic. “I did not mean—”
“Did I ask what you meant? Did such a question pass my lips, you ninny?” In a flash, the lady whirls around and cracks Judit across the cheek with the hairbrush. I stifle a gasp, and the chambermaid flinches with her entire body, releasing a shrill whimper. The lady glares at her, her cheeks splotched with heat, and I think of my brothers in the throes of a wicked tantrum. She is clearly in pain, at the very end of her tether, else she would not have lashed out like this—like a wounded animal.
Judit stands frozen, trembling like a leaf, eyes wide with terror. She has clearly never withstood the ire of wild, overindulged brothers, and she does not know what to do to defuse her lady’s rancor. So I step into the silence, my heart thrashing like a caged bird. This may very well be the worst mistake I will ever have a chance to make. But I have no choice; I cannot let this opportunity pass me by.
“My lady,” I say quietly, dipping into a deep curtsy despite my protesting knees. “May I try my hand at dressing your hair? I’ve a light touch—I promise not to cause you pain.”