.: FOURTEEN :.
...
"Bless me father for I have sinned," Irina said as she knelt down before the slatted, wooden screen within the confessional. "I believe it's been… well. Now let me think; it must be at least… yes, six months. It's been six months since my last confession."
Had it really been that long?
She glanced down at the blood red beads of the rosary entwined around her clasped hands – a name-day gift from the Empress that had lain entombed in the bottom drawer of her dressing table ever since leaving Vienna. She'd completely forgotten that she'd put them in there for safe keeping and had let her breakfast to go cold that morning as she ripped her room apart trying to hunt them down.
"…Yes, I think that's right," she whispered, wrinkling her nose. "…Sorry, excellency."
There was an impatient sigh from the other side of the screen, and then a flicker of light as Archbishop Sigismund made the sign of the cross. "You're here now. Better late than not at all. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti," he muttered. "May the lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins."
Irina dutifully crossed herself and then took a breath, but when she opened her lips to speak – strangely – she found that she couldn't seem to find the words.
The Archbishop sighed again. "…Please, there's no need to be shy my lady; unburden yourself," he gently urged.
Irina pressed her lips to her folded knuckles and closed her eyes.
After a week of fitful sleep and sensing her resolve slipping, attending confession had seemed like the only obvious thing left to do. She'd found surprising comfort in it over the summer months after Amalia had left court for Parma. Slipping out of the palace to visit the cathedral and ramble her worries away to whichever priest was unfortunate enough to be sitting in the confessional at the time had helped her to deal with the loss of her best friend – her usual confessor. She hoped that attending confession now would work to ease her thoughts just as had done back then.
She'd still written to Amalia of course; she'd jotted down everything bothering her in painstaking detail. A reply wouldn't arrive for weeks, but the process of purging her thoughts onto paper seemed at least to take the edge off. She'd scrawled page after page panicking about and pondering over her father's declining health, and had completely destroyed a quill when she scribbled about thick-headed Hungarian nobles and how the whole town - the whole Empire - was constantly gossiping about her... and not in a good way. How she longed for the days when they gossiped about her making a fool of herself falling off the back of a sled, or whispered about the neckline of the gown she'd chosen to wear to the opera.
But when it came to sharing the other thing – or rather, the other person – that had been keeping her awake late at night, she stopped short and sat at her writing desk for a long time stroking the feathered end of her quill against her lips.
If she couldn't tell her best friend everything, then what hope did she have of spilling her deepest, darkest thoughts in a confessional booth? And now that she was safely cocooned within its wooden walls, kneeling at the partition – she felt silly.
"Tell me, child, what sins have you committed? Confess them to me, and all will be forgiven."
Irina raised her eyebrows and tutted. "…I confess, eminence, that I don't know why I'm here," she admitted. "I feel... I feel lost. And alone."
Vlad immediately strolled out from the shadows of her mind just as he'd done that day in the woods. "Are you lost?" he'd asked her, a small smile on his lips.
"God has brought you here," the Archbishop answered from the other side of the screen. "He can sense when a soul is in danger; he's led you here because he wants to welcome you back into his flock."
Irina's gaze was sharp as she peered through the wooden slats. Oh, she was in danger, alright. She didn't need anyone to tell her that; she could feel it deep down in her bones - pushing out against the confines of her corset. It wasn't so much the sinking feeling in her stomach about her father that had her on edge, or fears about the town quickly turning against them both. Of course, she was concerned about both of those things, but neither of them disturbed her sleep or preoccupied her mind in the quite the same way as Vlad did.
During quiet moments when she wasn't nursing her father or fretting about Prince Lupesci's hold over him, he would slip easily into her head and make himself at home. He liked to dwell in the darkest corners of mind – in the shadowed cloisters – where the blackest shades of her soul liked to lurk. And whilst she'd allow him to tempt the wild out of her in her head, something held her back from doing the same in reality. How hypocritical of him to attempt to force her hand when he was holding his own cards so close to his chest! Irina couldn't seem to shake the feeling that if she were to gamble now and lay her own cards down flat upon the table in front of him then she'd lose. She wouldn't do it – couldn't do it – not until she knew exactly what he was holding back. Not until she was certain of exactly what she was getting herself into.
Perhaps she could force his hand; after all, she knew she was going to have to go to Poenari and visit him – just in case the rare medical notes he'd mentioned had the chance of helping her poor father in some way. Still, she feared for her soul if she did.
The Archbishop's silhouette nodded slowly. "Fear not my lady, for the lord is merciful to those who are truly penitent," he insisted. "…So, tell me. What is it that weighs on your mind?"
Irina scoffed when she realised that she was wasting her time; that she wasn't going to find the answers she was looking for sitting around in a wooden box. She began gathering her velvet skirts, "I think that perhaps this can wait. I'm sorry for wasting your time, emin–"
"A warning; if you leave now, Duchess, then you'll be banned from receiving holy communion," the archbishop said.
Irina paused and frowned. "I beg your pardon? Why?"
"Since, a soul in a state of mortal sin must not receive the body of our lord without having first received sacramental absolution," he explained.
"And who says that I've committed such a sin?" she demanded. "I know I certainly didn't; I've barely uttered a word."
The archbishop turned his head and slid open the screen.
Irina blinked at him.
"The very fact that you're here tells me you have something to confess, Duchess. And I think we both know - Lord, the whole town knows - that you're racking up quite the list," he whispered, "so I strongly advise you to seek penance before it's too late."
Irina couldn't believe what she was hearing; she gaped at him and tightened her grip on the prayer beads. "…Or what?"
The archbishop looked at her, "Be advised; you may have powerful friends, but the world is beginning to turn – and to turn away from you, Duchess," he said, shaking his head. "Beware that God does not do the same; all that he's given, he can take away."
Irina would have laughed if she hadn't been so angry, and frightened; not of God, but of what might happen if the world really did turn its back on her. She wanted to snap that he'd have to fight her for it; that he'd have to prise it from her dead hands… but she wasn't stupid. The last thing she needed was to make things worse. She'd noticed the way the people in the market stared at her as she'd made her way across it, and even though she still was nowhere near fluent enough to understand much of what they whispered about her - she knew it wasn't anything good. So instead, she swallowed her pride and leaned on the sill separating the confessional; she folded her hands neatly – one on top of the other – with the scarlet prayer beads still entwined around her knuckles.
She bowed her head, "You're right; I'm a sinful woman – and completely undeserving of everything I have - everything God has so generously given me," she sighed, before putting on a convincingly remorseful performance fit for the stage of Die Burg – sweeping her hands like a woeful soprano as she confessed that she hadn't been herself since her father had become sick. That she feared for him, and for herself. That she longed to be forgiven.
Archbishop Sigismund lapped up her aria of half-truths, absolved her and then sent her on her way – adding that he hoped to see her at mass.
Irina emerged from the confessional to the sound of the choir practicing a mournful Dies Irae for a Requiem Mass. She pocketed her prayer beads and lifted the hood of her velvet cloak over her head; she was anxious to hurry back through the snow to the palace and to return to Folie and Fiebe (who she'd charged to sit by her father's bedside) and the warmth of the fire, but all that was forgotten when she strolled past a blonde woman who she recognised, but couldn't remember why - and from where.
There was a moment – as their gowns brushed in the middle of the aisle leading from the altar to the vestibule – where the woman's heavy-lidded blue eyes locked with Irina's murky, brown ones, and an expression of vague familiarity passed over her puckish features. Her gaze washed covetously over the deep, blue pleats and ruffles of Irina's velvet polonaise as it swished and swirled like the tide, before dropping to the stained, ochre-coloured hem of her own gown as she walked on.
Irina's pace across the flagstones stuttered as she tried to recall where on earth she'd seen the woman.
There was something about the playful curl of her nose, and the way her heavily rouged cheeks dimpled that was all too familiar, and yet, she racked her brains for the whole length of the aisle. Then, when she reached the heavy wooden door leading to the square, she suddenly remembered.
Irina stopped as her mind flashed back to the dark, creaking corridors of a brothel. To a candlelit bed, a naked embrace, and a bite glimpsed from the shadows.
"…It's her," Irina realised out loud, spinning just in time to see a flash of yellow silk slipping into the confessional.
She raised her eyebrows as the door clicked shut; if Archbishop Sigismund had given her a hard time, then God only knew what he was going to say to that woman. But more to the point, what was the woman going to say to him? If there was anyone in Hermannstadt who knew the truth about Vlad, then it was her, and Seal of Confession or not, Irina worried what the archbishop would do if he happened to overhear that there was a man out there paying to bite whores whenever he pleased. What if he simply assumed that Vlad was responsible for the attacks? The council were still desperately hunting for the culprit, and the town was quietly on the edge of descending into hysteria over it.
Irina immediately decided that if she ever had any hope of finding out who Vlad was - what he was - then she needed to speak to the woman.
And so, she waited.
She slipped out onto the frosty square and took shelter from the swirling snow and the noise of the market beneath a covered arch – positioning herself so she could both hear the soulful sound of the choir practicing and see the comings and goings through the main door. The wind was biting, and she was frozen through to her bones by the time the woman finally emerged from the church – but she was determined not to miss her chance.
Irina stepped into the woman's path just as she slipped through the doors counting a handful of gold coins. "Scuzati-ma," she said. "…I'd like a word."
Affronted, the woman quickly pocketed the coins and wrapped the scanty cloak she was wearing tightly around her body. "Oh, not this again!" she groaned as she tried to sidestep Irina. "Look, I'm sorry but it's not my fault how your husband chooses to spend his money – whoever he is – go take it up with him."
Irina stopped her. "No, no – I'm not married," she said as she tugged at her glove and show the woman the bare knuckle where a wedding ring would have sat.
The woman's blue eyes widened as she chose instead to look at the spectacular sapphire band sitting on Irina's middle finger.
"I'm not here to blame or to shout," Irina promised as she slipped her glove back on. "I just want a quiet word, that's all."
The woman arched one of her neatly plucked, blonde eyebrows when she suddenly realised who she was talking to. "…You're that vrăjitoare who killed Sofie – I knew I recognised you! I saw you leave that night – sneaking out like a rat," she snarled in a rough and rasping voice.
Despite her attempts to purge the poison from Sofie's body and stave off any infection, the poor girl had been carried off the following evening. The brothel madam - bitter at losing one of her girls - had clearly been spreading vicious lies about what had happened.
The girl took a step back, "Stay the hell away from me, vrăjitoare!"
Irina raised her hands. "Please, I'm a doctor, not a witch; I tried to save Sofie–"
"Ha! Să mori tu! And I'm the Dauphine of France!" the woman snapped as she tried to shove her way past.
Irina huffed as she blocked the woman's path once again. It was funny, she really did bear a striking resemblance to little madame Antoine; she had the same ash blonde curls and the same bright, blue cow eyes – but that was where the similarities ended.
"If only you shared her manners!" Irina remarked. "Do you have the slightest idea of who you're talking to?"
The woman looked Irina up and down. She pursed her lips, "…Well, from the clothes and the jewellery – and the way you're looking down that speckled snout at me – I'd say you are someone who thinks they are very important," she grunted.
Irina took a breath, then smiled. "Just a bit; I'm the Duchess of Brunswick. The Governor's daughter. So I kindly suggest that you adjust your tone."
The woman narrowed her eyes; she stared at Irina for a moment, then turned her head and gazed off into the snowy square. She tutted, "The men… they talk about you."
"Which men?"
"All of them," the woman replied, scoffing. "…And none of it good."
Irina stuck her tongue in her cheek and shook her head. "And you believe all that nonsense, I suppose?"
The woman suddenly grinned, her pink cheeks dimpling. She folded her arms, "I know better than to believe the shit men like that spout. And besides, I know a whore when I see one - and you are not one," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "So. What is it you want from me, Duchess?"
Irina took the woman's arm and gently steered her away from prying eyes. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed, "I need to ask you a few questions about one of your clients."
The woman nodded. "Hm. What's it worth to me?" she asked, holding out her empty hand.
Irina glanced down at it.
"You want something from me, you pay like the rest."
Irina groaned. "Oh fine," she said as – one by one – she gently teased the diamond earrings from her lobes. "There," she said as she dropped them into the woman's hand.
The woman shrugged her lips as she lifted one of the earrings up to the light to get a better look. "…These made of paste?"
"They're real!" Irina snapped, outraged. She'd never worn a paste jewel in her life.
The woman chuffed. "They look too big to be real," she complained.
"Well, give them back then," Irina said.
"No," the woman pouted as she pulled away and quickly inserted the diamonds into her own ears.
Irina sighed.
"So. Who is it that you want to know about?" the woman asked as she tucked the wisps of blonde of hair framing her face behind her ears – so the diamonds were prominently displayed. "He must be very important, no? Is it the archbishop?"
"The archbishop?" Irina gaped, suddenly realising that the woman hadn't been confessing her sins to him after all. "...No."
"Or the mayor? Such a needy man," she sighed, shaking her head. "He's not one of mine, but… I can tell you what his girl tells me–"
Irina lifted her eyebrows and considered it. Revenge was rather "Tempting," she admitted. But sighed when she remembered who the mayor's wife was. She couldn't do that to Carmelia - she was gossiped about enough. She shook her head, "But no, that's not who I wanted to ask you about."
"So, who?"
"…The Count," Irina said.
The woman's whole body stopped. She quickly shrugged and then shook her head – the diamonds rattling, "I don't know who that is."
Irina was surprised. She looked around, "...What? I'm talking about Vlad – La Conta," she elaborated quietly. "And, I think you do know who he is–"
"I'm sorry, I don't," the woman grunted. She snatched the diamonds from her ears and forced them into Irina's hand. "You can have these back; I don't want them."
Irina was incredulous; she glanced down at the diamonds and sneered. "...You're lying," she said. "Why are you lying?"
"I'm not lying," the woman snapped as she moved to walk away. "Go away. Leave me alone."
Irina clenched her fists. She wasn't sure whether it was plain jealousy or utter desperation that made her reach out and snatch the woman's wrist, but it was certainly anger that drove her to drag her into a nearby alcove and shove her up against the cold and clammy wall of the church.
The woman thrashed as she was pinned in place. "Let go of me!" she squealed, but quickly snapped her mouth shut when Irina pulled out her pocket pistol and armed it with a threatening click.
The woman's gaze was frenzied and fearful as Irina reached down with her free hand and grabbed a fistful of stained, dandelion-coloured skirts; she rucked up the hem until the woman's goose-pimpled thighs were exposed to the cold air.
The woman panted like an angry horse. "…What are you – who the fuck do you think you are!? Let me go!"
Irina looked down; she brushed the leather-clad pad of her thumb over the mottled and bruised remains of a bite mark, and then shoved the skirts down. "…I want to know about the man who did that to you," she demanded as she disarmed the pistol and then stepped away.
The woman sagged against the wall, glaring at her. She swept an errant strand of feathery blonde hair from her eyes, "Fucking bitch. You're mad."
Irina suddenly looked down at the gun in her hand and felt her stomach drop. What was wrong with her? "Probably…" she agreed as she quickly pocketed it. She wasn't sure what had come over her - the stress of everything was affecting her more than she was willing to let on. Still, that wasn't an excuse.
"…How did you know?" the woman asked.
Irina looked up at her. "Because I saw," she replied, pacing back and forth. "I saw the two of you together. I saw what he did to you."
The woman stared at her.
Irina swallowed down the lump in her throat. "…I think I am mad. Look. I'm sorry," she apologised. "I shouldn't have grabbed you like that. I don't know why I did it. I can give you something for the bruising if you like; a mark like that can't be good for business."
Silence filled the space between the two women, as did the snow as it drifted down from the smothering blanket of grey clouds.
The woman raised her eyebrows and sighed. "…Look," she said. "You can push me around like a peste and give me every diamond in your jewel box… But he pays me well for my silence as well as my pizda. I won't tell you anything… or tell anyone else who asks."
Irina looked at her – really looked – at the way she was leaning her head against the wall and staring softly off to the side.
"I could never betray him, like that," the woman told her.
Irina nodded as she stepped next to the woman and leaned with her against the wall. She looked down at the diamonds sparkling in her fist and suddenly wondered, "Why? What is he offering you?"
The woman turned her head and scoffed. "You aristocrată! And you wonder why your men come to us – no one tells you anything of this world," she complained.
Irina rolled her eyes. "That's not what I meant," she replied. "I understand perfectly how these sorts of... transactions tend to work; I just don't understand what you're getting out of it. Other than bruises. Seems rather one-sided to me."
"I told you," the woman said. "He pays me."
"Well, yes, so you say… but how much and in what way? Because you just turned down twelve thousand gulden worth of diamonds," Irina elaborated, showing the woman the earrings sitting in the palm of her hand, sparkling like morning frost. "I should think that would be a career-changing sum of money for a woman like you."
The woman stared longingly at the diamonds.
Irina closed her fist, snatching them away. "So, I see only two explanations," she went on, clearing her throat. "Either you're in love with him… or, he's offering you something even the Empress can't buy."
The woman laughed – rolling her body along the wall towards Irina. "…You really want to know?" she asked.
"I really do," Irina replied, turning to face her.
The woman lowered her voice to a whisper and traced her finger along the brickwork of the church. "…You go to church, yes?"
"Yes, of course."
"...Do you believe what they say about eternal life?" the woman asked.
Irina was confused but nodded anyway. "...I think so."
The woman hummed. "So do I. I want that. I want to live forever," she replied. She stood up, smirking as she pushed away from the wall. "…But, I do not pray to God for it," she explained, before lifting her hood and walking away.
Irina stared after her.
"…Enjoy your diamonds!" the woman called back over her shoulder.
After that, Irina headed straight for the book store. She realised that - while she'd reread every single medical book and paper in her personal library - there was one book she hadn't consulted. A book she'd once borrowed and returned. A book full of pseudo-science, superstitions and suspicions. Perhaps the only book with the answers she was looking for. Magia Posthuma. Having exhausted every logical answer, the time had come to turn to illogical and illusionary. She bought a copy, took it back to palace and camped out at her father's bedside as she read it - cover to cover. This time she read it with open eyes and without the skepticism and cynicism she'd held all those months ago, and for the first time considered the fact that Vampires might be real after all.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know you were all expecting a trip to Poenari this chapter; don't worry - it's coming, I promise! Happy Friday! And - since I won't be seeing you until next Friday - Merry Christmas! :-) (Yikes, can't believe how quickly it's crept up us - although I have to say, I am very much looking forward to a few days pickling myself on gin and eating my weight in chocolate and pigs in blankets...) Thank you so, so much to everyone who's reading and following along - and thanks so much to my kind reviewers, Scarlet Empress and Remember. Have a lovely Christmas guys! X
Historical/Language Notes:
Dies Irae: A Dies Irae is a latin chant/hymn describing the final judgement - "Day of Wrath". You'll usually find it in a Requiem Mass - a Catholic Mass for the dead in general, or for someone who's recently passed away. If you want to get a feel for what they sound like, check out Mozart's (epic and unfinished) Requiem in D Minor. CHILLS. (Also, I've got a playlist of music that I listened to while writing this story - it's a mix of modern, soundtrack and classical music - let me know if you want it and I'll give you the link.)
Polonaise: I talked about robe à la française in a previous chapter, well, a robe à la polonaise (Polish) is another type of gown popular in the 18th century, and known for its tucked ruffles and pleats, bunched up to display petticoats underneath. It was kind of based on how working class women styled their clothes - they used to tuck their overskirts up to keep them out of the way and out of the mud, and soon the nobility adopted the style as a "Walking Dress" to wear when out and about during the day. The style kind of came back into fashion the 1880s with the ruffles and pleats designed to be worn over a bustle. :-)
Seal of Confession: Probably obvious, but Catholic priests are bound not to reveal whatever they hear during confession. It's absolutely forbidden, no matter what they hear (unless the the person confessing allows them to do so, in rare cases, and even then they're supposed to keep their anonymity) and can result in excommunication if they break the seal. Even today, as far as I know, priests aren't allowed to divulge what they hear - even to testify in court.
"Vrăjitoare": Romanian, Witch.
"Să mori tu": Romanian, "No way!"/"Yeah right!"
Dauphine of France: Marie Antoinette (Antoine) - Amalia's baby sister. She was briefly mentioned in Chapter One, where her possible marriage to the future King of France (the Dauphin) was being arranged. She actually didn't make the journey to Versailles and officially become Dauphine until the 19th of April 1770 - but all the negotiations were complete and most of Europe would probably have known that her destiny was to become Queen of France. I've got a soft spot for Antoinette (as I do for most historical women if I'm being honest - in case you haven't noticed, I treat my historical male characters very badly!) - she wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the box, and her education had kind of taken a back seat while she was growing up. No one expected her to become Queen of France, after all! She was terrified of her mother, overshadowed by a lot of her more capable siblings and desperately wanted to please. She was definitely lumped in at the deep end, poor girl. I watched a documentary the other day where some bloke absolutely lambasted her for being promiscuous (WRONG) and callous towards the poor (WRONG) and wanted to throw my shoe at the TV. Ugh! Traditionally history has been written by men, it's only recently that women's history has finally been rewritten honestly and without bias.
Peste: Slang for "Pimp"
Pizda: *ahem* "Cunt"