.: THIRTEEN :.

...

Hermannstadt, mid December 1769

Irina felt her blood run cold as she peered into her father's chamber pot. She'd poured over every book she owned, tried every combination of herbs she could think of and yet still, he suffered terribly. The Duke had languished in bed for a whole week, groaning in pain and throwing up anything he ate – the vomit marbled with fresh blood.

The Duke looked up at his daughter from his cocoon of pillows and furs and smiled. "...Oh dear," he strained, reaching down to stroke Scapino – who was curled up on the bed beside him. "As bad as that?"

Irina's lashes fluttered as she covered the chamber pot with a napkin. She handed it to Fiebe, who whisked it away and out of sight. "…It's fine," she insisted, rubbing her hands in the apron she was wearing to protect her pink, satin gown. She shrugged, "Your body is simply… purging itself."

Her father released a throaty chuckle. "Liar."

Irina perched on the bed beside him and took his hand. She squeezed it and forced a smile, "You're just having a bad week, papa," she insisted with a nod. "That's all."

"A bad month, you mean," he replied.

Irina's gaze hardened; she couldn't deny the fear that was clawing at her like a hungry cat, telling her over and over again that it wasn't just a bad week or month, that it was the beginning of the end. "You've been working too hard. You need to eat, and you need to rest," she told him, arranging the furs over his swollen belly.

The Duke looked up at her and frowned. "It simply won't do, Liebling. I feel as if I've been in bed since we arrived here," he complained. "I hate feeling so useless. There's work to be done, the whole system here needs reforming, the serfs need seeing to; the Empress is counting on me to–"

"Well, she'll just have to wait, won't she?" Irina snarled. She wanted to snap that if governing Transylvania was really so important then the Empress shouldn't have sent such an old man to do it in the first place, but she bit down on that thought; it wouldn't help anyone now. "…Look, it's almost Christmas, papa. I imagine that back home in Vienna they're all probably far too busy feasting on honey cake and pickling themselves on Glühwein to care about what's going on here."

No one's interested in what's going on here, she thought to herself. But then she changed her mind; there was one thing occupying their attention.

Just as she'd feared, news of her upstaging Doctor Tarsus and her appearance in a local brothel had travelled all the way back to Vienna on the wind and to the editors at The Chronicle who had immediately pounced on it, teasing their readers with a lurid tale about a certain Little Duchess with a gruesome interest in flesh. Irina couldn't believe it. She was angry and humiliated; she dreaded to think what everyone was whispering about her back at court. The only blessing was that her father hadn't read the article – she'd balled it in her fist and flung it into the fire almost as soon as she'd finished reading it.

He certainly noticed the way she was staring through the floorboards though. "...What is it, Liebling?"

Irina tapped his hand as she stood up and untied her apron - shifting from Doctor to Duchess. "Nothing, papa. I was just thinking that you'll be back on your feet by Silvester Eve, I'm sure of it," she lied as she tidied his bedside table, clearing away the soiled napkins and glasses. She picked up a half empty bottle of the digestive tonic she'd made for him and raised an eyebrow, "Perhaps even sooner if you'd take the medicines that I've been making for you."

The Duke sighed. "…It's not that I don't appreciate all the trouble you've gone to, Irina," he told her. "But all these tonics and infusions… they're just not working, and I've never felt so full and uncomfortable in my life"

"I think you're forgetting that summer at Innsbruck, papa," she said with a smile, recalling an Imperial Hunt and following feast. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I couldn't possibly eat a thing–"

Irina shook her head as she picked up a pile of paperwork that had been hiding under the clutter; warrants, laws to be passed, letters and petitions, along with a map of Hermannstadt and the surrounding forests and farmland stretching right into the foothills of the lower Carpathians. A sneaky stack of government work he'd been seeing to while her back was turned. She knew the tonics weren't working; nothing was working. But most concerning of all was the fact that he was struggling to eat; the skin around his eyes had sunken slightly, his fingers felt bonier than they usually did – and yet his stomach had swollen up like a pumpkin.

"–I know you don't want to hear this – and please don't be offended, Liebling," he whispered, "but perhaps it's time to send for Doctor Tarsus."

Irina glared at him, outraged by the idea. "Absolutely not!" she snapped. "I can't believe you'd even suggest such a thing, papa! The man will bleed you and cup you and then give up and call the Archbishop along, who will roll his eyes and shrug and call it an act of God."

The Duke closed his eyes. He was too weak to fight with her. "Perhaps it is an act of God, and we should all simply give into it."

"Well, I'm not ready to give in yet," she said as she snatched up the pile of documents sitting on the bedside table. "And neither should you."

"Don't get upset, I only meant–"

Irina blazed. "I'm not upset, I'm angry!"

The Duke found the strength to grab her arm – his bony, clammy fingers brushing along the extravagant lace cuffs of her gown. "This isn't what I want for you, Liebling – cleaning out chamber pots and mopping up blood like a nursemaid."

"I really don't mind," she insisted.

"But I worry about you," he told her. He chuckled suddenly, struck by a thought, "Your mother, God bless her – before you were born – she'd always insist she was sure she was carrying a future Queen. Everyone thought she was mad."

Irina laughed, but felt tears prick her eyes. "I might still become a Queen, papa," she said, forcing them back.

"The Empress was pestering me to make a match for you before leaving Vienna. She begged me not to whisk you away and to instead make use of you... but forgive me, my liebling, I refused – selfishly, I told her I couldn't bear to part with you. I couldn't; I can't just yet," he admitted, looking up at her with sad eyes.

Irina sighed. "Papa–"

"Perhaps I should have listened to her," the Duke went on. "The truth is I still can't bear the thought of parting with you, but now… Now I hate to think of me leaving you without any protection at all–"

When she felt an uncomfortable lump swell in the back of her throat and the threat of tears about to spill forth like a fountain, Irina frowned. "Enough. Stop feeling sorry for yourself - it's insufferable! You're not going anywhere," she scolded as she quickly bundled the pile of paperwork against her bodice and slipped her hand from her father's grasp. "You need to rest. And I'm taking these papers back downstairs – you can look at them when you're feeling better."

Irina picked up her skirts with her free hand and hurried from the room, stopping briefly to order her father's valet to "ensure that the Duke takes his medicine".

As soon as she'd left the room, she broke. She slumped against the nearest wall with a hand clasped over her mouth as she choked on her failures, and desperately tried to smother that deep and cloying fear of what might happen if she failed again.

The painful truth was that – as an only child – she'd do very well out her father's death, but she couldn't bear the thought of losing him and being alone in the world. She already felt alone having lost her mother, her friends, her home. And now the whole court was pointing a finger at her back. Her hand shook as she fumbled and felt her way along the banister and down the stairs, bound for her father's study. When she reached the door however, she all but fell against it – gripping the handle as she tried to pull herself together.

Irina took a steeling breath, then opened the door. However, when she stepped into the room and found Prince Lupesci sitting at her father's desk poring over some parchment – quill in hand – she blinked.

He lifted his gaze from the parchment he was holding and raised his eyebrows at her - at the messy wisps of hair hanging around her watery eyes.

Irina swiped at them. "…What are you doing here?" she sniffed, hanging on the door. "You shouldn't be in here."

The prince looked concerned as he lowered both the paper and quill, then stood up. "Irina," he greeted her, stepping out from behind the desk. "Are you... well?"

Irina gripped the paperwork a little tighter. "Fine," she said, lifting her head. "I asked you a question, your highness."

The prince shrugged his lips. "Your father sent for me," he explained, waving his hand around. "There were a handful of documents that needed to be signed urgently; he wanted me to take a look at them for him - since he's confined to his bed."

Irina narrowed her eyes, glancing at the gilt desk her father had brought with him from Vienna piled neatly with documents and letters. He'd always been very particular about his paperwork; he arranged it personally and precisely. He wouldn't let just anyone touch or rearrange it. "…He mentioned no such thing to me," she said; knowing her father, if there were any urgent pieces of paper then they'd be upstairs beside his bed. In fact, she was probably carrying them.

Prince Lupesci folded his hands behind his back and seemed to consider his words before he spoke. "…I mean no offence when I say this, Irina - so please take what I'm about to say with the sincerity with which it's intended - but why would he mention it to you?" he suggested, taking a step closer to her. "Such matters shouldn't concern you - they'd be of little interest."

Irina glared at him. "Perhaps you're right. I've never really had a head for politics," she agreed, matching his step. "But what does concern me, your highness, is the fact that I've been sitting at my father's bedside since breakfast and I don't ever recall you being announced..."

The prince lifted his chin, bracing himself for a hurricane.

"So, either the footman is having an off-day, or," Irina went on, "You weren't invited at all. Which then begs the question; what are you doing in my father's private study?"

She'd hoped to see some flicker of panic in his eyes at the accusation, but instead they remained frustratingly blank.

His smile was slow and slight. "Perhaps we should go and see him then," he suggested, pointing at the door. "Clear up the confusion."

Irina smiled back. Having played cards with the man more than a handful of times, she knew all too well when he was attempting to bluff his way out of a bad hand. "No," she replied. "He's resting now; I wouldn't want to disturb him."

The prince nodded. "Of course."

"But, I'll discuss it with him later," she insisted, sending him a sharp look.

"Our dear Governor," the prince sighed, shaking his head. "Always resting, never rested."

"And yet he refuses to be kept from his work, it would seem," she spat, tapping the bundle of papers she was carrying. "His duty to the Empress always comes first – above everything, above his health…"

The prince peered at the papers. "Yes, he has some rather… ambitious plans."

Irina sidestepped the prince and carried them over to the desk. "I'd expect no less from my father. Papa's an ambitious, brave and brilliant man - the Empress chooses her council wisely," she replied as she shuffled the papers and then arranged them neatly. She fought back tears as she contemplated the thought of losing him. "He was a soldier long before he was a bureaucrat; he was instrumental in driving the Prussians out of Bohemia during the Seven Years War."

"So he told me. His great achievement."

"Yes, the Empress became rather fond of him after that – and not just for thwarting her arch rival, of course - which she enjoyed immensely - but particularly for always speaking honestly with her and his knack of bringing her around from one of her tempers. Although I think the Emperor is far more grateful for that particular talent of his; he's always been very good at steering her towards more moderate policy. Pig-headed women are his specialty, after all," she said with a frown - and was unsure whether she was actually talking about the Empress anymore. She was thinking of her mother; of herself. "...In spite of what she says, she relies on him. She'd be lost without him."

"I'm sure... but now he has this radical notion to free the serfs - which seems contrary to her current policy," the prince replied, just as Irina's eyes fell upon the parchment he'd been reading before she stumbled in on him.

It was a letter from Amalia's older brother Joseph; the Empress' son and heir. He'd been co-ruling as Emperor with his mother for nearly five years – learning the business of ruling, as it were. He was a reformer, and his hatred for slavery in all its forms was well known. A quick skim read of the letter revealed that her father and the Emperor-in-waiting had been discussing the idea of freeing the Transylvanian serfs - floating the idea to the Empress that a compromise could be achieved if the freed serfs promised to join the Austrian army for a time. A win-win, almost. It wasn't true freedom – really it was simply casting off one yoke for another – but at least it was a very small step in the right direction.

"…Would that be such a terrible thing?" Irina asked.

The prince snorted. "Terrible? It would be catastrophic, Irina," he replied. "This kingdom survives on the business of serfdom – it's done so for centuries; it's the foundation of everything. To change the system now would be disastrous for the economy. The serfs farm the land, they pay their taxes and in return we protect them–"

Irina scoffed. "Protect them from what? There's nothing to protect them from!"

He sighed impatiently. "Why do you think I've been so desperately trying to hunt out the monster who attacked you - who attacked those women? Your maid. Why do I bother spending hours out in freezing cold countryside stalking and then killing wolves? I do it because it's my duty. It's my duty to protect these people - this is the natural order. The system works very well as it is, it has done for centuries–"

"Perhaps it works for us, but it certainly doesn't for them," Irina disagreed. "It's outdated and cruel."

"But if we were to free them, then they'd–"

"They'd still pay taxes and farm the land, that much wouldn't change, except that they would be doing it of their own free will and for themselves, instead of being forced into it," Irina argued.

The prince couldn't – wouldn't – agree with her. He shook his head and chuckled. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he said dismissively, throwing his hands around. "I don't know I'm even bothering to try and explain it to you."

"Try," she growled.

He huffed, "They were born to be serfs, Irina, just as you were born to be a Duchess and I a Prince! They simply wouldn't understand how to be anything else!"

She almost laughed at him. "Ridiculous! By that logic you're suggesting that I wouldn't know how to be anything other than a Duchess!" she said. "Which is absolutely absurd."

"Oh! So, if they were to throw down their pitch forks and abandon the fields en masse, you're saying that you'd happily pick up the slack?" he suggested.

Irina sighed and shook her head, "That's not what I'm–"

"Because that's what they'll do if they're freed! Perhaps worse," the prince went on. "Show a dog a morsel and he'll want the whole meal."

Irina folded her arms and rolled her eyes. "The fact that you're comparing them to dogs just shows how backward this place and its people are!"

Prince Lupesci shook his head. "Your father will make enemies if he goes ahead with his plans," he warned.

Irina glared at him. "...And I assume you're implying that you'll be one of them," she guessed.

"…On the contrary," the prince replied, after a beat. "I am your father's servant; I only desire to guide him - to advise him. As brave and as brilliant as he might be, he's still unfamiliar with our ways."

Irina sat down in her father's leather, wing-back chair and folded her hands neatly on the desk in front of her. "Well, I'll pass on your concerns," she replied with a sour smile.

"I hope you will. He'd be wise to listen to them," he replied, bowing his head slightly before he turned on his heel and made a move towards the door. "…Oh and while I'm dispensing advice I should also warn you not to continue to make an enemy of Doctor Tarsus," he said, turning back. "He's been complaining that you've been stealing his patients."

Irina looked at him. There was no use lying or hiding anymore; she was tired of it, tired of him. "I stole nothing," she replied firmly. "Those women sought me out because he failed to treat them. He point blank refused in some cases. I couldn't abide it."

"Still Irina, he's furious," the prince said as strolled back over to the desk and placed his palms flat on the smooth surface.

"Well then let him grumble; I don't care," she snapped, sitting back in the chair. "...Anything else? Any other concerns?"

"Yes," the prince said, leaning over the desk and holding her gaze. "There's a rumour running riot that you were seen in a brothel. Not a place for a Duchess, I think."

Irina hesitated.

When she didn't respond, Prince Lupesci pressed her. "They're gossiping about it from here all the way to Vienna-"

"I'm aware."

"-They're calling you a witch and a harlot."

After a moment, she sighed. "Are they indeed. How original," she drawled, rolling her brown eyes and tapping her fingers on the arm rests of her father's chair.

The prince looked dutifully concerned. "This isn't a joke, Irina."

She huffed, "Look, I was treating a patient. That's all. I wouldn't have gone there otherwise, believe me."

The prince's eyebrows bounced. He rarely looked so surprised. "…It's true?"

Why deny it? "Yes, it's true," Irina replied. For perhaps the first time in her life, she'd decided that she was fed up of trying to be perfect. Fed up of attempting to control how everyone else thought about her. "Look, I know it was foolish, I know shouldn't have, and – believe me – I tried not to... but everyone else had given up on the poor girl and I couldn't just–"

"With good reason."

"Not a good enough one for me!" Irina suddenly flared. She'd had enough – more than enough. "Look, they might be able to look the other way and live with themselves, but I won't. Women – all women, not just me – deserve better care, and they deserve to be sent away with a better course of treatment than to simply part with a little blood and then digest a book of psalms!"

The Prince narrowed his hazel eyes. "…And you were attending on this girl all night?"

Irina looked away. "All night."

He chased her gaze. "…It's quite the scandal, you know."

Oh, for God's sake! "And yet, if I were to tell you that I stumbled across Herr Carmitru while I was there, you'd struggle to even lift an eyebrow. Because that would be perfectly commonplace, wouldn't it?" she replied with an irritable sweep of her hand.

"Herr Carmitru is a man, Irina," the prince reminded her. "There's a difference; men have needs–"

Irina stood up, "So do we!" she shouted, almost laughing. "So do we!" she repeated – slower – beating her hand against the surface of the desk with every word. "My God! I'm so sick of the same ridiculous and pathetic excuses for why men can do and get away with whatever they want!"

The prince straightened and took a step away from the desk.

"Do you really think that women don't have the same desires as you do? You don't imagine that – given the chance – we'd quite like to fight and to fuck and to make a difference in the world? To be instrumental for once rather than be simply ornamental? Our needs are just as important as yours," she argued fiercely. "My God! Forget the serfs; what about us? We're the ones who are desperate for a little freedom!"

Prince Lupesci observed her silently, then spoke. "You're hysterical, Irina; you're not yourself-"

"I disagree; perhaps I'm more myself than I ever have been," she snarled, feeling a shiver as she said the words.

"Perhaps I should call the doctor to–"

Irina would have laughed if she hadn't been so angry. "Oh, get out!" she barked, pointing at the door.

The Prince sighed. "As you wish, my lady," he said, bowing.

"Your highness," Irina hissed as she watched him turn to leave.

He stopped in the doorway. "One more thing–"

Irina pinched her nose. Fucking hell, "Oh, what now? If you even dare to-"

"I'm having a ball at my home on Christmas Eve," he interrupted with the hint of a smile. "I haven't sent the invitations out yet but I'd very much like it if you came. Oh, and your father, of course. Providing he's well enough to attend."

Irina pulled a face. "…Aren't you inviting scandal by inviting such a scandalous woman?"

He thought on it for a moment, then shrugged his lips. "I'll take the risk," he said as he slipped out and shut the door behind him.

Once he was gone, Irina let her head fall into her hand with a long sigh. She rubbed her fingers through the creases in her forehead; if she'd been worried about her father before, now she was practically terrified for him. He was sick, the last thing he needed was a mutiny amongst the nobility – and she certainly hadn't helped matters; the last thing he needed was everyone calling his daughter's morals into question. And now she'd gone and shouted at the leading local noble. Fuck. He needed to get better, and quickly.

She didn't trust Prince Lupesci as far as she could throw him. How dare he sit at her father's desk, reading his private letters! Who did he think he was? The Emperor?

She glanced to the side and noticed a stick of her father's green sealing wax balancing on a silver saucer, and when she reached out and picked it up, she found that the end was still soft and pliable - slightly warm – having recently been melted in a candle flame. Her father's metal seal was also sitting nearby, little blobs of green wax dried around the edge.

Irina's mouth dropped. "...That scoundrel!" she gasped as she snatched up a parchment nearby that had been signed and sealed.

She ripped it open without a care. It was a law instructing that only the nobles were allowed to hunt the forests surrounding Hermannstadt, and that the bounty for wolves killed would increase tenfold. Violators could be punished by death. The signature was her father's, but the law had Prince Lupesci's name all over it. She wondered how many others had slipped through without notice. But what could she do about it? Her father was quite possibly on his death bed, Vienna was slowly turning its back on her - on them both - and the council's power was clearly growing.

Irina shook her head. She'd never felt so desperate in her life as she slammed the paper on top of the pile she'd brought down from her father's room – on top of the map of Hermannstadt and the spine of mountains curling around it.

She frowned as her eyes settled on one corner of the map and a castle far from town, surrounded by forests and perched on a precarious mountain path. She opened one of the desk drawers and grabbed a magnifying glass; her fingertips traced over the name of the fortress.

Castel Poenari.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Plot, plot, plot. What could Prince Lupesci possibly be up to? Things are starting to unravel for Irina...! Thanks so much to everyone who's followed and favourited! I'm completely overwhelmed by the response to this story both here and over on AOOO; you're all so kind! And thanks to Scarlet Empress and Remember for your kind words every week! :-)

Historical/Language Notes:

Glühwein: Lovely, lovely mulled wine. :-)

Silvester Eve: New Year's Eve

Seven Years War: Some people call The Seven Years War the first "true world war" because it involved so many great powers in Europe and impacted events for centuries after it was over and done with. It basically broke out because Britain and France had a bit of an argument over their new territories in America, and then pretty much all the great powers in Europe piled on and caused a free for all. Maria Theresa absolutely HATED Frederick the Great and still held a grudge against him for taking a small chunk of her empire (Silesia) from under her nose when she'd first come to the throne. She was hoping to get it back, but failed. The main outcome of the war (besides almost bankrupting everyone involved) was that all the old alliances and partnerships in Europe shifted for good.

Emperor Joseph: Poor Joey. After his father died, his mother - the Empress - allowed him to sit in on council meetings and offer suggestions for reform. He was more enlightened than his mother and wanted to allow his future people more freedoms than they'd ever had before - including serfs, but his mother was strict and of course had the final word and a lot of their council meetings ended up with him storming out and stropping like a teenager. His mother was a total force to be reckoned with after all! Still, she died in his arms - and I'm certain he loved her if not respected her very deeply. In the end, he was a pretty good Emperor and the arts and music especially flourished under his rule (Mozart *woop woop*) - but he died feeling as though he hadn't accomplished anything special (which was totally wrong of him to think so and leaves me feeling a bit sorry for him) - I kind of get the impression that he'd always felt a little inadequate and in his mama's shadow. :-)