Ooops, I did it again: I had something to say. Ever since I wrote that oneshot about Verona all those many years ago, I have been pootling about with oneshots for the other brides, as well as for You Know Who. I didn't think I'd write Marishka's first. In fact, Aleera's has been in the works for 6 years, as has Dracula's, while I had nothing on Marishka except a vague idea, so I don't know how this happened. But it did. And I'm pretty excited about sharing my new baby with you!

As I said on my TTSWT update, I've been pushing myself really hard in my writing to produce something that is totally my own and doesn't lean on or borrow from any other material. (And I've found I am having fun!) This is new and, sometimes, scary. So, if you enjoy it, or if you have suggestions or constructive critique, please review! I'd really love your feedback on my efforts.

But before we get started, I must say this: Marishka's oneshot came about largely because November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo, if you like acronyms), and the supremely talented TheStoryGypsy and I have been goading each other over Facebook about writing something. She has provided amazing support and last minute vocabulary/syntax advice at 2am, and for that I profoundly thank her.

And now, without further ado, I give you Marishka.

Metamorphoses

Her prayer was scarcely done when a heavy numbness seized her limbs, thin bark closed over her breast, her hair turned into leaves, her arms into branches, her feet so swift a moment ago stuck fast in slow-growing roots, her face was lost in the canopy. Only her shining beauty was left.

-Ovid

This kindness will I show.
Go with me to a notary, seal me there
Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,
If you repay me not on such a day,
In such a place, such sum or sums as are
Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit
Be nominated for an equal pound
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
In what part of your body pleaseth me.

-William Shakespeare

My brother lost me to the Count at cards.

It had been a strange summer. The grass in the fields along the roadside was sparse, as if it had been watered by the blood of too many soldiers and, like them, had withered and died. The trees in the dark blue forests creaked and moaned, waiting for the songs of birds that would not come back. And the wagon jostling along, growing lighter here and there as Valentin quietly beggared himself of our inheritance and I pretended not to notice. In Moldavia we had left a modest house, rich, black farmland, the stable with my little bay mare and the cows that old Andrei had to sell for us before he could join his people on the road east into Russia. What fools we were, he'd wailed, not to follow him! What fools to take the westerly road straight into Omar Pasha's waiting arms as his armies marched on to the Crimea! I thought of him every now and then, content on a dacha somewhere after dinner, a niece to bring the cherries for his tea, as we passed nights in colorless inns, farmhouses where the bed linens were rough and the wives fed us bread and milk and woke us with the dawn.

In Vienna, Val declared, we would have piles of meat and cheese every morning, pastries with apricot jam and Chantilly cream, and chocolate so thick you could stand a spoon in it. When he had secured a post as a secretary to an important gentleman, we would live in fine rooms with great featherbeds and I would have silk gowns, and he would take me waltzing at the Apollosaal. It would only be a little longer, only a few more weeks. If I could just be patient, and not look at him quite so severely when he sat down with the farmers and their men for ale and a hand of Preferans; it would be impolite to snub them.

One morning, when we had passed nearly through Roumania, Val shook me awake before the cockcrow. When I looked inquiringly at him, he raised a finger to his lips and motioned that I should dress quickly, gather my belongings, and follow him. We crept through the sleeping house and to the barn, but it was not until he began hurriedly to hitch up the horses that I understood. There was no money to settle the bill and we would have to steal away like common thieves in the night. "Oh, Val - " I started, angry tears pricking my eyes. He would not even look at me, but stared stonily ahead as he climbed up behind the team and gathered the reins, leaving me to scurry out after him, easing the doors shut and leaping up beside him, my unsaid reproaches turning rancid on my tongue. The stars still shone coldly in the sky as we trotted through the stable-yard and there was no movement in the black windows of the house, but as we passed through the gate and regained the road I felt a curious prickling at the back of my neck, as if something watched me from the shadows. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled.

There were more episodes like this one as we left the peaks of the Carpathians behind us, snowcapped even in September, the pretty foothills covered in wildflowers and silver birches, and journeyed down into the green plains of Hungary. But some evenings he was lucky and would alight from this or that tavern with his steps jaunty and coins jingling in his pocket. So it was that when we arrived in Buda-Pesth he had a few guldens to spend on a small but serviceable hotel in the old city near the thermal baths, where I might see the fashionable ladies who had come to take the waters while I had my tea.

And now it was evening and Val had bid me to resurrect from the depths of my trunk the remains of what had passed at home for my finery, the chartreuse taffeta that the moths had been at and Mama's old topaz pendant, and join him for supper. "We are celebrating, little sister," he said gaily, twirling me about, "I have behaved very badly, I know, but now I mean to make it up to you. Do you not wish to know what I've been about this afternoon? I have been at the cafes, up by the castle, where I made the acquaintance of the most extraordinary gentleman. He's some sort of aristocrat."

I stared at him, uncomprehending.

"He has business connections in town, in Vienna, all across the empire," he continued, his color high. "Oh, heavens, you are slow tonight! My sweet, pretty sister! One letter of introduction - this could be the making of our fortunes!" He kissed me hard on the mouth. "I mean to take care of you, Mari," he said, his eyes suddenly solemn, "I know I haven't really been a proper guardian, but I do mean to try." For a moment we regarded each other; his words hung between us, fragile, shimmering things. "Now, come downstairs and meet him."

The stranger occupied a table in a corner of the dining room where there were no gas lamps. Instead, a single candelabra sent a confused tumble of shadow and illumination spinning across the linen tablecloth and the alabaster planes of his face. For the briefest instant, something about the way the light hit him seemed to melt the flesh away and cast his eyes deep into gloom so that I saw only a skull, the empty visage of death, and my steps faltered; but then the candles flickered and the specter vanished. He moved to rise from his chair.

He was of medium height, but broad across the shoulders and thickly muscled. He was quietly but expensively dressed in unrelenting black: gleaming Hessian boots, breeches and a dress coat so exquisitely cut that they clung to him like a second skin, a silk cravat knotted at his throat. A pair of kid gloves lay neatly on the table beside him. He wore his hair, glossy and as dark as his garments, long in the fashion of the last century and gathered in a golden clasp, intricately worked. More gold adorned his body, a heavy signet ring on his right hand and, curiously, small hoops through his ears that made him seem exotic and even a bit feral. His features bore some of the same savagery: high cheekbones, a long, straight nose, a curving red mouth that seemed equally suited for cruelty and soft kisses, and when he stepped towards us it was with the sinuous gait of a jungle cat.

I did not realize that I was staring until Val pressed me forward by the small of my back. "Count," he said, "may I present my sister, Marishka."

"My lord," I whispered, dropping into a curtsey. My knees buckled as I rose and the stranger reached out to seize my fingers.

"Count Vladislaus Drăculea," he said, bending gallantly over my hand, "and your humble servant." His breath on my skin was shockingly cold.

"Please," he gestured back towards the table, "tonight you are my guests." White-gloved footmen brought us dish upon steaming dish while Val and the Count were engaged in deep conversation, my brother animated, the stranger courteous and attentive. The food was delicious, chicken done up with paprika, other stewed meats and vegetables, and I fell upon it with abandon before recalling myself and our host.

"But sir," I said abruptly, noting his empty plate, "my lord, you are not eating." Val dropped his fork and stared at me, aghast. Terror washed over me; I had offended.

"You must forgive my sister, Count," Val hastily interjected, "she is young and unused to company."

The Count looked up, his gaze full upon my face, and I suddenly realized that his eyes were not dark as I had first supposed but a strange, deep blue, almost green, like mountain lakes. I braced myself, but there was no anger there, only cool curiosity. He picked up his wine glass, the ruby liquid sloshing in the candlelight as he turned it in his fingers, drawing it briefly to his nose to inhale before setting it down again. "In centuries past, beauty," he said softly, "the faithful believed they could consume the blessed body and blood of Christ simply by gazing upon them, and draw them through their eyes into their flesh." He paused, his eyes still intent on me, and gave a slight smile. "Tonight I feast on youth."

Bewildered and somewhat unsettled, I passed the rest of the meal in silence, but every so often, daring a furtive glance at the Count from beneath my lashes, I thought I caught him studying me.

When, finally, the last of the dishes had been cleared away, the Count stood, shooting his cuffs. Custom dictated that the gentlemen would now withdraw to the hotel's little salon, or perhaps to another establishment altogether, for brandy and pipe tobacco, and I made also to rise and wait for dismissal. I would retire upstairs to the room that we shared between us and pack my silks away again. In my nightdress and wrapper, my hair in plaits, I would kneel at the embroidered prie dieu and pray to St. Nicholas that Val would carry off his grand scheme, and then I would keep a lonely vigil until his return. I was not at all prepared for what happened next.

"This has been most enchanting," he pronounced, "but surely, my young friends, you cannot mean to abandon me at such an hour. It has been an age since providence has seen fit to bless me with such charming company." Even as I turned to appeal quietly to Val, the Count spread his hands, a frown disfiguring his lovely mouth. "I have an acute horror of those who retire early. Come! The night is yet young!"

And then, perhaps seeing something in my expression, the Count threw his head back and laughed. It was a strange, grating sound and his teeth were very white.

"Oh, but I see," he cried, clapping his hands, "your lovely sister thinks I mean to take you out carousing in some den of iniquity." His eyes shone with mirth, but there was an edge to his voice. "She imagines all manner of monstrosities, I see them sketched out on her pretty face. She is envisioning opera girls and opium and low company. How you wound me, Mademoiselle! How shall I prove my virtue to you, that I am no serpent in the garden? No, indeed, we shall be quite cozy here; it shall be as if we were at home. Surely the young lady cannot object to a civilized game of Piquet - I say," he turned to Val, his expression guileless, "my boy, do you care for cards?"

I felt as if my blood had turned to ice.

"My dear, how pale you look." The Count was at my side at once, all courtly solicitude. "Are you ill?" Perhaps if I had said yes...

"Then I have distressed you," he continued, "pretty schoolgirl, you do not approve of gambling."

"It is not for me to approve nor disapprove, my lord," I said lamely, for how could I object to so great a man when Val depended upon his good opinion? I glanced at my brother and his expression had gone from merriment to mortification. "You do us great honor with your attentions," I finished.

"What must you imagine about the ways of nobility?" he said, his tone incredulous. "Dear me, you are cruel, you make me out to be some fiend out of a Schauerroman. How can I put you at ease? How can I persuade you that my society is suitable?" He gave me an appraising smile. "Very well, you need not abandon your brother in my clutches; you shall play governess and ensure that we behave properly."

At this, Val finally found his voice. "Now, Mari, I really don't think - " he began. The Count had raised a slim, pallid hand. It was an indolent gesture, but Val recognized it for the command it was and fell silent.

"I am afraid," he put in smoothly, "that I am still enough of a lordling to insist upon having my way in this. Her presence will bring me pleasure, and you are, I think, too gracious to deny your host."

The Count lifted a hand again and the maître d'hôtel appeared, silently, and ushered us out of the dining room, and into a small parlor. We had passed the salon, with its sweet cloud of tobacco smoke and the sounds of murmuring male voices and tinkling glasses, and this was another room entirely, an intimate space furnished with a dainty velvet sofa and Louis XV chairs arranged around a spindly card table. At the time I was grateful for this propriety, that I would not have to display myself to the gentlemen assembled in the other room. Only later did I look back and realize that a fire had been lit, that the decanter of pálinka set on the mantle had three glasses beside it, and that as the maître d'hôtel bowed and departed the Count discreetly pressed a fold of bills into his hand.

I was settled upon the sofa, my skirts draped around its gilded legs, with a tulip-shaped glass of bitter pálinka and a dry, proper volume about the marvels of Buda-Pesth. At the little table, Val sat at attention while the Count, one leg slung over the other in a posture of practiced ease, fanned out the cards. Anyone peering through the window would have thought it a charmingly domestic scene. But I watched them with some wariness, the book lying open and neglected in my lap, as the Count shuffled the deck and dealt.

"Still she scowls at me," the Count remarked, laying his cards face down upon the table. "Oh come, beauty, I am determined that we shall be friends. Tell me, what do you think of the Pearl of the Danube, or have you left your heart behind in the East? Some sweetheart, no doubt."

I thought of the few clumsy kisses I had endured from local boys, Ivan, the neighboring landowner's son, who had endeavored to unlace my bodice, and I said nothing.

"No?" He raised an inky brow. "A pretty schoolgirl ought to have a sweetheart. Most unnatural."

I felt my cheeks grow hot at his words, and to my surprise their calor was accompanied by an additional warmth, new and strange, pooling just below my belly. What manner of man was he, I wondered, that he should disturb yet beguile me so? I looked away from him then, fixing my eyes above the mantle where, in the firelight, a patch of wall showed curiously lighter than the rest, as if something - a picture, or a mirror perhaps - had lately been removed.

"And now you are cross with me again," he sighed, shaking his head. "Perhaps I am rough company after all."

The hour grew late; the decanter lay drained; the candles shuddered low in their sconces, scenting the room with spent beeswax; and still they played, back and forth, back and forth, the cards laid out across the table like corpses in great slashes of red and black. I did not follow their conversation but I registered when it ceased. The Count had gone quite still, a feline smile curving his lips; before him were aces. Val stared at them, gripping his thighs with sweating hands, his expression anguished, and I realized that he was left with nothing. He made first to reach inside his coat for his purse, empty of course, and then to push back from the table before his eyes fell on me. His gaze was desperate and, though I could hardly bear to do so, I understood, lifting numbed fingers to untie the ribbon that held Mama's pendant to my throat.

The Count's white hand shot out then, like the Angel, I thought wildly, come at the last instant to stay Abraham's knife, and he laid it deftly on Val's arm.

"You are intemperate, my young friend," he said, his voice low, "but I cannot ask you to part with such a cherished heirloom. I have a great regard for history and I would not see it undone. And besides," he added somewhat viciously, "that trinket will not fetch half such a sum as you staked."

Now the Count, too, looked in my direction and I felt myself pale under his scrutiny, the little hairs on my neck suddenly rising. I had the peculiar sensation that I had felt thus before and I struggled to place it.

"Perhaps now, Mademoiselle, I shall prove to you my merit, for I will show you this kindness: keep your bauble," he declared to us both, "and I shall hold the one who wears it...for safekeeping."

I think I swooned a little then, and Val leapt up from his chair, shouting. I could not make out the words. The Count regarded the spectacle impassively, his fingers steepled before his heart.

"Come now, beauty," his words cut through the ringing in my ears, "you will find me a generous host." His voice dropped to a lover's whisper. "You need not fear I will seek to exercise my droit du seigneur. It is not my habit to force myself upon unwilling virgins."

I only gaped.

"Upon my word, there is gratitude for you!" he spat. "I offer you my hospitality, my protection until such a time as your profligate brother can come to claim you. I guarantee you will receive no such charity at the gaming halls."

The Count rose then and clapped his hands. At once the door to the parlor flew open and a valet appeared - a boy, really, barely more than a page - with his arms full of wraps. His master threw a heavy greatcoat about himself, a black silk hat atop his sleek head, and took hold of an ebony walking stick, a handsome thing with a gold handle fashioned into the shape of a dragon, with two smoldering rubies for eyes. It was all but the work of a moment. My head swam and the tiny dragon stared at me with its red eyes. Absently I wondered if I ought to go upstairs to the room I would not sleep in and fetch my own cloak, and if the Count would turn up his nose at its shabbiness.

All this time, after that initial outburst, Val had stood hunched and motionless by the gilded table, peering again and again at his cards as if he expected them to be transfigured, for this all to have been some great farce. But now he steeled himself, drew himself up, and, pulling a glove from his pocket, he flung it at the Count's feet. Bile rose in my throat, acrid and thick, and I bit back a scream. This was how our lives would end: two figures on a hillside, a shot ringing out in the misty dawn.

The little valet gasped, but the Count merely flicked a glance at it, crumpled like vermin on the Turkey carpet. "Don't be a fool," he hissed.

"You besmirch my sister's honor, sir," Val stammered, "my honor."

"Have I?" the Count said mildly, coming to stand at my side. His fingers closed lightly around my shoulder and I shuddered at the unexpectedly familiar gesture. "Must I remind you, my boy, that it was you who accepted the wager."

Val blanched and then a scarlet stain spread across his cheeks. "I must - I will have satisfaction!" he cried, his voice strained with panic.

"I think not, sirrah," the Count curled his lip. "Pistols at dawn indeed."

The Count stripped off his own glove then, easing it delicately over his knuckles and snapping the kidskin straight again. But he did not throw it. Instead he thrust it and its mate, removed with the same precision, into the waiting hands of his valet. And then he was upon me with a swiftness and a ferocity that I could never have fathomed. His hands were like steel bands around my neck, his face inches from my own. His eyes were very bright. He seemed larger than he had before, and I realized with a sudden fear that I was in the arms of a man, not a boy, for the first time in my life. His thumbs lingered over my surging pulse, almost like a caress. My eyelids flitted shut. I hardly dared to breathe. But he did not throttle me; he did not kiss me. Slowly, wordlessly, he traced his naked fingers across the contours of my throat, running them along the black velvet ribbon until they stilled at my nape. They were surprisingly rough, not the tender flesh of a pampered creature, but firm, with calluses that snagged on the pile. In one fluid motion he had unpicked the knots and caught up the pendant in his palm.

With his left arm still twined about my waist he turned, extending his hand out to Val, the topaz glimmering dully in the bare hollow of his palm. My brother stared at the proffered jewel as if it were a viper.

"There, my friend," said the Count, "take what is yours as a reminder of the virtue of prudence."

A curious sort of lassitude came over me then, a heaviness to my limbs. I stood dumbly as the Count opened his hand and let the pendant fall to the floor, the ribbon fluttering lightly before it came to rest beside Val's forgotten glove. Then he snapped his fingers and the valet sprang forward again with a cloak in his arms. The Count himself wrapped me in rich sable fur still smelling faintly of another woman's perfume.

"And now that everything is as it should be..." The Count inclined his head in a slight bow, touching his hand to the brim of his hat. Almost gently he threaded my arm through his and drew me away towards the door. Val only continued to stare like an imbecile. We would not embrace, make promises, or even say goodbye.

Over the threshold, through the corridors, out to a waiting coach, where a pair of coal black horses tossed their heads and snorted in the crisp night air. And as he handed me up onto the velvet-covered seat, the Count leaned down, his teeth grazing my ear.

"Do you care for magic, beauty?" he whispered. "There is a great sorcerer in town, his specialty is metamorphosis."

They have tried to explain what has happened, why I cannot go back. I remember lying curled like a babe with my face pressed against fine fabric, my body racked with shivering and a searing pain in my throat. There were voices all around, strange voices like silver bells and then a rich baritone, soft in my ear. My master's voice. I was retching and weeping with thirst and there were arms about me, a man's rigid chest, and smooth, glorious liquid running over my lips. Then there was nothing.

I awoke alone. Someone had clothed me in crisp white nightdress and put me to bed in a handsome room. I could feel the weave of the bedlinen beneath my cheek, count the warp and the weft, all those fine spun threads. I smelled dust lurking in the corners, the musty stickiness of a spider's web, cut lilies sickly sweet, and then something putrid, my chartreuse silk balled up on a chair, streaked with sweat and gore. And I heard things, impossible things, the rush of an owl's wings, trees pushing their roots into the earth, the conversation of a young couple floating up from somewhere beyond, the pitter-pat of their hearts. My own heart was still.

Yes, they have tried to explain. Why, when I pulled myself from the silk coverlets, every inch of my flesh tingled; why I felt the floor pressing my feet up through the thick carpets; the very air embracing me. Why every window was shuttered fast and why, when I ran to them, tiny bands of light breaking through around the edges, I shrank away in terror. They have tried to explain the scorching hunger that sets my very veins alight.

I know that I am changed, but I do not understand how. This is a strange house: for all its grandeur, the fine pictures on the walls, the tapestries, the gilt furniture, and the Sèvres candlesticks, there is not a single mirror. When I put my hands to my face, my cheeks felt like marble, smooth, hard, and cold. I was a girl; now I am a sculpture. I was a girl and now I am something else. If I concentrate very hard, I think I can fly.

Then there was a dark lady clad in glorious white and green raiment, her face shining like a star. I thought she must be an angel, but it was only Verona, the first of us. She would not speak to me but she took me by the hand and put my mouth to the necks of beautiful young men, and I thought this must be love.

It is different with my master. He takes me in his arms and watches me die again, over and over. At night, in the early hours of the morning; alone, or entwined with all three of us. Sometimes he is tender; sometimes he is forceful and I cry out. He is so very beautiful. Sometimes I remember when he goaded me about sweethearts over paprikash that he did not eat, and I wonder if that is who he is, if he is my sweetheart. "Am I, beauty?" he will croon, "am I your sweetheart?" And he will crush his lips against my mouth, my throat, my breast, so hard that he leaves marks. "My own, my own." He tells me that I am to be a mother but I know that cannot be so, for I am an unnatural thing.

But then sometimes my master looks at me as though I have pained him. He thinks I do not see it, but I have heard them whispering. Something has gone wrong. "Some weakness in the blood." That is what they said about Mama before they took her away. Am I to be taken away as well? Nonsense, my master says, his little one, he could never part with her. Has something frightened his pretty schoolgirl? She starts and shies like a wild pony. Come here and be still. He will gather me up like a china doll, open his own breast with his nails, and clasp me to the wound. "Yes, drink it all down, darling girl, it will make you well." Then he will take my face in his hands and look at me hard, as if he is searching for something. He never finds it. With a great groan he will hurl me away from him and lock himself in his study with his books and his instruments.

What have I done? "Have I displeased you, Master?" I made bold to ask once, "are you angry with me?" For a moment I thought he might strike me, so black was his expression. But he only sighed and reached out to smooth my hair.

"Forgive me."

He so wants me to be happy, his stolen child. Here are hothouse flowers and sparkling jewels. He has brought me a stunning new costume, an Oriental fantasy straight out of the Arabian Nights. See the diaphanous trousers, the tinkling bells, just like the Corot above his desk. His two odalisques, he shall look at it and think of me. I laugh and twirl about, fabric fanning everywhere, bells a-jingle-jangle. His smile is beatific as he kisses my cheek. Spin me a tale, Scheherazade. Just one more, one more night; I shall spare your life.

Later, I lean my head against Verona's knee while she combs out my hair and reads me fables from a little book. Poor Cinderella who has lost her shoe; Little Red Cap and the wolf who Gobbles Her Up; and Briar Rose fast asleep in her thicket, waiting, the one I like best of all.

"Only no prince shall ever kiss you, scatter-brains, they do not like dead girls." Aleera is always saying ghoulish things and I put out my tongue at her.

There is another story about twelve princesses who dance all night in a forest of jewels. Why, I tell Verona, we have been there, too! I think we were in the Imperial City once - in Vienna, I mean. There was a great ballroom with parquet floors and I was waltzing in my master's arms; he said he would see me smile again. And out through the crush into the rain, in search of a late supper, I thought I saw him across the Ringstrasse. Val was older, his face like Papa's, and he wore a smart city suit under his overcoat. I gave a shout and broke away, but when I drew near, he was gone.

Verona is looking at me very queerly; perhaps I have said wrong. Perhaps I have only imagined a ball across a silver lake. My head is so shadowed and I have strange dreams.

But now, a Michaelmas treat, a new playmate has come! He proposes a merry game; we run through the village, back and forth, 'round and 'round the well until we are dizzy. All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel! We collapse upon the ground in great fits of laughter, shrieking like children. And what pretty toys he has! A jug of water, a golden bow, and little darts like butterflies. He tosses them to me and I toss them back. Oh! They sting!

.

The end! RIP, poor Marishka. Thank you for reading, and please review! (Pretty, pretty please?)

Notes on the setting and terms used:

Most of the action of this story takes place during the Crimean War (1853-1856), which pit Russia against an alliance of the Ottoman Empire, France, Britain, and Sardinia. Good summaries of the conflict, which was one of the most bloody of the nineteenth century and one of the first to be documented in photographs, are readily available online for those so inclined, so I won't repeat them here. The important element of the war for our story is the evacuation of Russian forces from the principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia in the summer of 1854, following a sound defeat by Turkish troops led by the great general Omar Pasha. I don't know what the effect of the war and of the evacuation would have been on civilians, like Marishka and Val, but I have had them decide to sell up and leave, putting them on the road to Vienna, then the capital of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and into Count Dracula's waiting arms.

All specific locations mentioned are real and, to the best of my knowledge, historically accurate for 1854. For example, the cafe where Val is meant to have encountered the Count is the Cafe Ruszwurm, one of the oldest coffeehouses in Budapest, established in 1827 and still open in its original location near the castle. The painting above the Count's desk is Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot's L'Algérienne (ca. 1871-1873, now hanging in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam). I also used many period spellings (e.g. Roumania and Buda-Pesth).

Purists may catch my one glaring error, which is that Michaelmas (the feast of St. Michael the Archangel) is a Roman Catholic/Anglican feast that is not observed in the Eastern Orthodox Church, the predominant faith in Romania, Moldavia, and the rest of Eastern Europe. However, the timing (September 29) and the theme (St. Michael expelled Lucifer from Heaven) lined up so nicely that I couldn't help myself. So, sorry not sorry.

(P.S. If I appeared to muddle some details of fairy tales wrong, blame poor Marishka; she is not always the most careful of listeners. I really do know how the Twelve Dancing Princesses goes, I promise.)

Schauerroman, literally "shudder novel," is the German term for works of gothic and sensational fiction that became intensely popular in the late eighteenth and early-to-mid nineteenth centuries concurrent with the rise of Romanticism.

Pálinka is a type of fruit brandy typical in Hungary, Romania, Austria, and Slovakia; it was invented in Romania in the Middle Ages.

Cover art: John Everett Millais, Ophelia (detail), 1851-1852, oil on canvas. Tate Britain, London. (Permissions: public domain)