“Orsolya, mistress,” the scull whispers, flushing beetroot as she drops a frantic curtsy.
“Orsolya,” Elizabeth repeats, articulating the name so delicately she might be tasting some delectable dessert. “What a fine, unlikely name for such a filthy strumpet. My husband’s mother is called the same. Your parents must have had lamentably high aspirations for you.”
The poor girl trembles like cornered prey, her eyes darting this way and that, unsure what she should say or do to save herself. Don’t bother, I wish I could tell her. There is no way out, save to endure.
“Come, Orsolya,” Elizabeth commands with another mocking emphasis on the name, turning on her heel and sweeping out of the stables. “And you, too, boy. I have a mind to teach your trull a lesson while you watch.”
“Why spare him the punishment, Elizabeth?” I hiss under my breath as I fall into step with her, ahead of the other two. I find myself desperate to protect this hapless girl, shield her from Elizabeth’s wrath. “He is the ruffian I told you of, the scoundrel who accosted me! Perhaps she had no choice!”
“Come, Anna, you saw that the trollop was acting of her own volition just as I did,” she responds, casting me an acerbic glance. “Sullying my stables with her wantonness.”
“Of course I saw it,” I agree hastily, though in honesty I cannot see the harm at all—not when she and I were lustily sullying her own bed only the day before, and certainly not when she herself has a son out of wedlock. “But he—”
She lifts a hand, silencing me. “As to why I will not discipline him as he deserves, that is simple. Punishing men is simply not worth the trouble. A family will take even a broken shambles of a daughter back without raising a ruckus, but harming so much as the hair of a boy, a precious carrier of the bloodline . . .” Her voice curdles with disgust, her lip lifting into a half snarl. “Men are assigned a great deal more worth than women, be they common or noble. And I would rather not bring a slavering mob down on my head.”
The unfairness of it, and the undeniable truth, rankles me as we tramp through the courtyard and beyond the castle’s western wing like some solemn congregation, forging through the gathered snowdrifts until we reach the little pond just behind the keep. When I first arrived it was a lovely spot, shaded by aspens and firs and ideal for gathering water-loving herbs. Now the trees extend eager, naked limbs above it like pilfering fingers, and cloudy slabs of ice float on the surface like blind eyes. Elizabeth draws up short at its edge, turning to rake Orsolya with her contemptuous gaze.
“When you were little,” she begins. “Did your mother ever scour your mouth clean of foul language, using soap and water?”
“O-once, my lady,” the scull stutters, so terrified I can almost see her bones clatter with her shaking.
“Then you’ll know I do this for your own good. To purge your filthy body.” She gestures toward the water. “In you go. And do not make me ask you twice.”
The scull flings a desperate, disbelieving look at the icy water. Her lips part in question, but before she can entreat Elizabeth and secure an even worse fate for herself, I break in. “Did you not hear the lady, trollop?” I demand harshly. “She said get in. And if you disrespect our mistress further by tarrying, I shall flog you myself until you’ve no blood left.”
The girl’s eyes fly open wide—she is as afraid of me as she is of Elizabeth, I realize with a wash of horror—and she takes a shaky step toward the pond, then another. Her halting progress proves too slow for Elizabeth’s liking; she reaches out and calmly shoves Orsolya into the water.
The girl’s shriek as she pitches into the icy depths pierces me directly through the heart.
When she surfaces, she is dangerously purple-lipped and pale, trembling so hard she can barely master her mouth enough to form words. “P-please, m-m-mistress,” she begs piteously through chattering teeth, wrapping mottled arms around herself. “It—it—it is freezing! I, I will die!”
I think of how desperately cold I was the night I arrived at the keep, and that was months ago, and dry besides. How much worse must this be for her?
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth allows airily, and I realize with a dread knell of shock that she is perfectly willing to let Orsolya die. “Or you will abide and be the wiser for it.”
The girl begs for mercy a while longer, but her energy ebbs quickly as the cold pervades. I can see her become woozy and witless, her lids drooping over foggy eyes. If she does not emerge soon, she will die; even the dullard stable boy, the cause of all this trouble, can see as much. He weeps silently, clear snot gushing from his nose, but even he knows better than to plead for her life.
There is no one left to help her but me. And if I do nothing, her death is on my soul.
“Elizabeth,” I murmur low into her ear. Careful, so agonizingly careful not to overstep. I must dilute her ire by offering what seems like a more complex punishment—more interesting than this, but one that will spare the girl’s life as well. In the moment, I can devise only one. “The slut is at death’s door already. And what have you accomplished, if you merely let her freeze?”
She whips her dark gaze to me, canny and shrewd. “What do you mean? What would you have me do instead?”
“Take her out and strip her,” I suggest. “Since she is so proud of her nudity, have her walk naked to the castle and through the corridors until she repents.”
Elizabeth weaves her head back and forth in the same considering motion I remember from when she was deciding how to deal with me, the first day I came to her. “I like it,” she finally decides. “It is fitting, and just. Presents a certain pleasing symmetry. Orsolya! You may come out, you slattern!”
The girl is so weak and frozen through that she can only wade clumsily to the edge before collapsing onto it. The stable boy and I drag her out, but he leaves me to peel the clothes off her alone, struck by shame rather belatedly. The garments are frozen fast to her, and in some places I yank painfully at her chilblained skin despite my ginger touch. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her under my breath. “But you’ll be warm soon, I promise.”
By the time we march her back to the keep, Elizabeth has lost interest in her predicament, much as I suspected she would. Her malice seems to spark easily and then burn bright but fast, leaving her dull and bored once sated. She instructs me to supervise the girl’s procession of shame in her stead, retiring to the library to read while I hasten Orsolya through the halls, nudging her as close as I can to every open flame. I only relax once I have her safely bundled in her pallet, with bottles of hot water tucked at her hands and feet. She won’t be dying; at least, not today.
Though I am only helping her, the scullery echoes like a cavern with whispers of “Witch, witch, witch” every way I turn, the word snapping like the crack of frozen branches in the wind. But whenever I whirl to confront someone, I’m met with a bland, impassive face. Even Ilona will not look at me, averting her gaze from my eyes. She remembers how I failed to defend her and her knees.
It all makes me long terribly for Peter, my mother, and my sister, and even my mutton-headed brothers. What I wouldn’t give to see them smile at me, speak to me with warmth.