“That sounds wonderful,” I whisper, barely daring to hope that such a haven truly exists. And that if it does, Ferenc will not be able to follow me there. “Thank you for taking me.”
“Of course, my love,” she murmurs into my ear, tipping a ewer of water over my hair as I once did for her. “Did I not tell you I would take care of you?”
“You did. And I am so grateful for you.”
We arrive a fortnight later after a tortuous carriage ride, the caravan of servants and covered wagons wending like a scraggling dragon’s tail behind us. Though I am sure this diminished retinue would have far preferred to be left behind, they have little choice; they belong to Elizabeth as her chattel, and must go where their mistress goes. And perhaps there has been enough peace of late, since their master died, to settle their minds and keep them from running.
I find the estate even lovelier than described. Csejthe Castle sprawls upon a craggy cliff like a grand stone queen astride her throne, with rolling woods and farmland unfurling below. Unlike Nadasdy Castle with its white walls and red roofs, more of a sprawling manse than a castle proper, Csejthe is a keep exactly as a child might imagine, peeled from the pages of storybooks. Its pointed towers spear the sky, and massive ramparts hunch around the gatehouse and turrets. The forests below the keep are full of nightingales, the twilight alive with birdsong. The moon has risen early on the afternoon we arrive, a sharp crescent hooked in the bruised-plum sky. Though the air is still chilly, the year is creeping into April. I can already see the first few bold snowdrops nosing past the soil. And there is that sweet, wet smell of spring, budding green and newly fertile loam.
It is nothing like Nadasdy Castle, and I could not be more grateful.
I hang my head out of the closed carriage like an eager hound, breathing the air in. It smells like exactly what I need. “You like it, I see,” Elizabeth says, a smile restrained in her voice. “Is it as I promised?”
“Even better,” I reply, closing my eyes as a breeze riffles through my eyelashes. “Perhaps it will be as you say. Perhaps I will be better here.”
“You will,” she assures me, reaching out to squeeze my hand with the warm ember of her own. “I know it.”
Once we are settled in the keep, I walk through its clean stone corridors, gaining confidence as I find myself consistently alone. No longer bedeviled by bugs, whispers, or menacing phantom smells. These hallways are high-ceilinged and well lit, much airier than those of Nadasdy keep—and better yet, uninfested with Ferenc’s taint.
In any case, Elizabeth does not allow me to languish indoors. For my sake, she has even become willing to expose herself to the day, though she makes sure to carry a broad-brimmed parasol. Each day after breakfast—now that I am able to eat again—I accompany her to the small orchard nestled against the west wall of the keep. The spindly apple, plum, and cherry trees are only just now budding with the lacy blossoms that precede fruit. At first our forays are brief. My limbs are weak, and I squint feebly at the sky like some subterranean creature unfamiliar with light. But soon, at Elizabeth’s behest, I bring along a basket and my sickle knife, so I can show her which herbs are good to cut and brew into tonics. She has never seen them in their native forms, and each new specimen strikes her as a revelation.
“This one is agrimony,” I say, indicating the spears of clustered yellow flowers flourishing by a root. “Wonderful for so many things. My mother liked to use it for belly gripes, though it’ll settle a sore gallbladder, too. You can even apply it to wounds and warts.”
“Marvelous,” she tells me, a smile lighting her eyes. I have been like a child for so long, dependent on her and struck dull by my distress, that I can see her take pleasure at even this tentative revival. “And this yellow one? Is it of the same family?”
“Not at all.” I cut one of the flower heads and present it to her with a flourish, twirling it between my fingers. She plucks it from my hand with a coy smile, and tucks it behind her ear as I scramble clumsily up to my feet. It seems my former grace will need more time and coaxing to reappear. “Other than serving as an ornament for my lady, goat weed is a blessing for the constitution. It uplifts the spirits and banishes the doldrums.”
“Well then, why don’t we try it on you?” she exclaims, biting her lower lip with anticipation. “Surely there are others like it, are there not? Revitalizing herbs to bring you back to strength? If you show me, I could even make the brews for you!”
“You do not need to do that, after everything else you’ve done for me,” I demur, though it reassures me to know that she is not weary of my unending weakness. “Look, my hands barely even shake anymore. I can make the tea myself perfectly well.”
“But perhaps I wish to make them for you, as a gift,” she counters, taking my proffered hands and placing them against her chest. My insides tighten at the delicate jut of her collarbone beneath my fingers, the satiny give of skin suspended above it, the softness of her bosom under my palms. We have not touched each other this way since before Ferenc died, but my skin remembers well.
It is my heart, I find, that is the trouble.
As she leans toward me slowly with parted lips, a vision of the infernal banquet brands itself across my mind—the memory of leaping firelight licking hungrily at the walls, Elizabeth’s disheveled hair unraveling around her face, the exultant glee in her eyes as she laid into Orsolya’s back with the bullwhip. My mouth turns abruptly dry as sand, my stomach clenching with revulsion.
As much as I long for the comfort of her closeness, I find I can no longer bear to let her touch me.
“I’m sorry,” I say faintly, turning away from her so she cannot see the turmoil clouding my face. I cannot allow Elizabeth to know that I am rejecting her; I fear not even I would be safe from the retribution she would exact for such a grievous wound to her pride. “But I’m feeling a bit light-headed. Perhaps I’m more tired than I thought. Will you be terribly disappointed with me if we go back inside? I think I may need to lie down for a spell.”
I hear the sharp intake of her breath, followed by the trace of a sigh. “Of course not,” she says eventually, forcing cheer into her voice. When I turn back to her she is wearing a determined smile, though uncharacteristic uncertainty plays in her eyes, along with veiled speculation. “Rest is exactly what you need. After all, it’s why we came here, is it not?”
“Yes,” I say, weak with relief that she has not seen through my pretense. “Thank you, Elizabeth. Surely—certainly I’ll be much better soon.”
She loops her arm through mine, squeezing me to her side as we turn back to the keep. “You will, my dove, I know it. I will make it so.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Poison and the Elixir
Though I walk on eggshells for the next few days, Elizabeth seems to have taken me at my word.
Following my instructions, she brews tonics for me, tisanes to soothe the mind and lift the spirits. I drink goat weed and golden root and cat’s claw, augmented by tinctures of valerian and lemon balm. She has never made her own concoctions before, and the process of it delights her so thoroughly that her solar transforms into an apothecary’s cabinet seemingly overnight, littered with vials of essentials and absolutes.