When the medicines leave me languid, prone to lengthy naps, Elizabeth diverts herself by charging out into the estate on horseback with her bow and a brace of arrows. She brings back squirrels and rabbits and sometimes geese—once even a tawny mountain lion speared right through its amber eye—proudly brandishing them at me before they’re whisked off to be cleaned. She even has some of her prizes stuffed, and installed into the keep’s cavernous great hall as ornaments above the marble mantel.
“You will empty the forests if you go on this way,” I chide her gently, laughing, though the sheer number of them leaves me a touch uneasy. “Surely we don’t need so many!”
She gives me a wide smile, almost a baring of the teeth. “Well, I must do something while you recover, mustn’t I?” she retorts with just the slightest edge, dropping a quick kiss to my cheek before striding back off. “Quiet as it is here, sometimes I feel as if I will atrophy.”
If anything, her restlessness spurs me more quickly back to health. I do not want Elizabeth to feel that her life with me is dreary, that her convalescing former lover has consigned her to this mountaintop. She assures me that such is not the case, that she could never be impatient with me. But with every new kill she brings in, I redouble my efforts to regain my strength. Now that my mind has cleared, a dark and slippery notion has come to plague me, darting in and out of the corners of my awareness like a silverfish—that I have unwittingly secured Elizabeth exactly the life she wants, all while keeping her hands clean of her husband’s death. And giving her a noose to hang around my neck, should she ever have reason to take against me.
Which means I must take much greater care to pacify her than ever before.
I cannot afford to have her tire of my company, especially now that I can no longer imagine losing myself to her touch. If I turn away from her entreaties without diverting her in some other way, who am I to her, besides the once-deranged murderess responsible for her husband’s death?
“Are you happy, my dearest dove?” she asks me on one of our walks through the orchard, when we have been in Csejthe for nearly two months. “You seem more yourself every day.”
“I do seem to have found my footing again,” I concur. “Thanks to you.”
“And you have experienced . . . nothing unwonted here?” she asks, taking care to keep her voice light. “No nightmares, no whispers? Nothing like that?”
“Nothing at all,” I reply frankly. Whether my madness was born of restless spirits or my own guilt, it has blown away into nothing in the clear mountain air. What is done is done, and though I will atone for it all my life I refuse to destroy myself over it any longer. And I have not failed to notice that not a single servant has suffered Elizabeth’s wrath since Ferenc’s death. I don’t dare hope that having him gone has bled her entirely of the need to spread pain—all the game she fells is testament to the enduring nature of that need—but it does seem to have helped.
Perhaps my grievous sin has not been for naught.
“That’s wonderful news,” she effuses, squeezing my hand. “Then perhaps I might ask you for some help in my experiments.”
“Experiments?” I ask doubtfully, the back of my neck prickling with foreboding.
“I am thinking of crafting potions to enhance not just beauty but vitality as well,” she explains. “Inspired by the herbs we’ve gathered together and the tonics I’ve made for you. My face has begun to sag even worse of late, especially around the eyes. And you see how these frightful grooves have carved themselves around my mouth. I’d like to see how I might recapture the flush of youth—perhaps even to re-create the freshness I once shared with my son.”
I glance over at her, find smooth skin with only the most cursory of creases from her smiles. I don’t spot any semblance of this harpy that she seems to see within herself. “If you say so, Elizabeth, though you seem to me as beautiful as ever.”
“Thank you, my dove,” she replies with a tight-lipped smile. “But you do not know this face as I do, nor are you constantly reminded of its flaws whenever you chance across a mirror. Nor do you have a pressing need to fend off the ravages of age. And without this at its prime . . .” She gestures to her face, rolling her eyes. “How will I secure another husband?”
So it is the fear of losing the weapon of her beauty that dogs her still. That is no surprise, though the notion that she thinks to marry again rocks me with a squall of fear. If she finds another husband, where will that leave me? Her favor is all I have—all my family has. I cannot afford to have her discover that, with another, more suitable husband in hand, she no longer has any need of a pet sorceress. Or whatever else it is she thinks I am.
I realize with a bitter twist that I find myself in exactly the sort of cage I feared marriage to a man would bring. Except far, far worse—for Peter would have been unfailingly kind, never bending my talents to nefarious purposes known only to him.
“You plan to marry, then?” I ask, striving not to betray the fear. She has only just settled, laid her instruments of torture to the side. What if she finds a husband with his own sharp tastes to rile hers back to life? “I had thought it would be just the two of us for a while, at least.”
“I am in no great rush, do not fret,” she reassures me. “But yes, I will wed again. Being without a husband leaves all my holdings at risk of being plundered.” Her face darkens at the thought. “Should they be stripped from me by greedy rivals, I shall be reduced to nothing, no one of account. Relegated to the nunnery to cluck prayers at the lord for the rest of my days. With all the other unwanted hens.”
“Well, he shall be lucky to have you,” I say warily. “Whoever he will be.”
“He must be wealthy and highborn, of course, else why bother?” she muses, eyes turning inward, calculating. “Certainly more pliable than Ferenc, easier to mold—and so taken with me that he shall be the one pinned under my thumb. Though he will protect me and steward our estates, it will be only in name. In truth I will lead and he will follow.” She flashes me a rakish smile, arching a brow. “To draw such a man, I must make myself irresistible. That’s what the experiments are for.”
“And what do you have in mind, exactly?”
“Oh, so you will help me, how lovely!” she crows, as if I have a choice. The familiar elation in her eyes sends a cold runnel of a chill sluicing down my spine. “I’ve been thinking a great deal about blood, you know. How that thorn’s dirt sickened my own child’s blood, how it nearly stole his life with a single prick.”
“I see,” I venture warily. “And what has that to do with preserving your face?”
“Well, if blood can sicken, it stands to reason that it can be purified. Made more robust than it already is,” she theorizes, growing even more animated. “And since it is called ‘lifeblood’ for a reason, would that not exert a great effect on one’s well-being as well? Perhaps it might grant a much longer span of life, and nurture the bloom of youth long past youthful years.”
“It is an intriguing notion,” I allow, my mind racing to grasp the implications. I have never been much concerned with blood for its own sake, beyond knowing how to call forth the flux or staunch its flow when needed. But blood sustains us, and sluggish circulation can lead to death. I suppose the opposite does have potential. “And how do you aim to achieve this effect?”