.: FIFTEEN :.

...

A couple of days before Christmas, Ferenc came to visit his sister. It was a Saturday afternoon, the last market day before Christmastide, and – although it was one of the only days of the week where he wasn't expected to serve his master and was therefore able to go out and earn his own money – he'd chosen to spend the time with his very small family of one. His sister.

Irina was more than happy to allow them a little time together, and while they sat down beside the fireplace and talked – she curled up in the window smoking tobacco with Folie sleeping at her feet as she pored over the notes in her ledger and caught up with her letters.

There weren't as many letters as there usually were; a few so called friends back in Vienna had stopped writing to her as soon as the rumours had reached them, and those who hadn't stopped writing, wrote far less frequently than before. Amalia still wrote, of course; she'd heard the rumours but refused to let them cloud her love for her best friend. She was just as lonely, it seemed, and had written close to ten pages complaining about the court in Parma, her mother (who she wasn't speaking to) along with a detailed description of some infuriating French minister who was pulling her husband's strings. Irina sympathised (although it had all honestly seemed a bit trivial to her) and had scribbled just as many pages in response about the equally infuriating Hungarian Prince who was attempting to pull on her father's strings. She signed off with a little well-meaning nudge for her best friend to make amends with the Empress – "what I wouldn't give for a meddlesome mother, Mal."

In between the letters, she perplexed over her notes (including the phrases she'd plucked out of Magia Posthuma and added in the margin), brushed her fingers over the rough, ink sketches of blood cells and translucent, white cells – as well as the strange, metamorphosing – mutating – hidden cells that she'd discovered in Vlad's blood. Both sets were differentiated and labelled clearly in her swooping handwriting. HUMAN BLOOD, and "V" BLOOD. V for Vlad. V for very strange. V for very everything, really.

"Tell me the truth, Ferenc," Fiebe suddenly insisted in Romanian.

Irina tuned her ears as she looked up; she blew a stream of smoke into the air and gazed off towards the misty mountains on the horizon. She didn't mean to eavesdrop in on Fiebe and Ferenc's conversation; it wasn't so much that she was trying to listen to what they were saying, more that she was testing herself – seeing how much of the language she could understand. They spoke as quickly and as fluently as native speakers tend to do, and sometimes just picking up a familiar word was as difficult as distinguishing a single raindrop on a rooftop during a downpour – but Irina surprised herself when she found she was able piece together a few fragments of their conversation, just like a puzzle.

"Is he still cruel to you?" Fiebe asked her brother as she continued stitching an intricate pattern of silver vines and leaves all along the satin sleeves and pleats of the gown Irina had chosen to wear to Prince Lupesci's Christmastide ball.

Ferenc scoffed. "…Nothing I can't handle," he replied, brushing a rough, beaten hand through a crop of hair the same soft strawberry blonde shade as Fiebe's.

Irina imagined that he might be handsome if he scrubbed up. He was boyish and tall with long limbs, sullen brows and a set of slightly sunken, heavy amber eyes. He had long fingers that she imagined might have made themselves useful playing a harpsichord or violin in another life, but instead they were mottled with scratches and scrapes from the snares he used to serve his master. They'd annoyed Irina the last time he'd visited, and so she'd made a healing balm for Fiebe to give him for Christmastide.

"I'm lucky, sis. I don't have it as bad as the others; I hardly see the bastard. I'm always outside checking the fences and the traps. And with the bounty on wolves caught, I can earn a little extra and have a bit of fun - you know," he added with a wink.

Fiebe swatted him.

"There's been some trouble in the kitchen with rats, so I'm going to need to go to the house next week. But I'll do the work, I'll do it well enough, and then? I'll be gone," Ferenc went on. "I don't need to see that bloated sack of shit anymore than I need to… Especially now that I don't have to worry about you being trapped like a mouse in that house all day. With her."

Fiebe looked visibly worried; the hand holding the needle hovered in mid-air, and she seemed to shrink into herself somehow – hunching her small shoulders as she glanced off into the fire. "…Yes."

Ferenc lowered his voice. "...Maria told me last week that the bitch had another one of her fits over a dress," he whispered. "She asked one of the girls to pick up where you left off - Lena, I think it was - you know, the one with the lazy eye. Anyway, the stupid girl didn't know what she was doing – used too big a needle and snagged the silk. Two hundred gulden worth of Italian silk, ruined."

Fiebe's blue eyes widened. "Dumnezeule." She tutted and shook her head as she continued to carefully pull the needle and thread through the silk; slowly, just as her mother had taught her. "She must have been mad with rage."

Irina wasn't entirely sure what Ferenc said next; the only word she recognised was tongs and from the way he was gesturing with his hands and the way Fiebe threw one of her own to her mouth and gasped, she suspected that the tongs hadn't been used to curl the poor girl's hair. She frowned as she recalled the old scars and burn marks on Fiebe's forearms the night she'd been brought to her and wondered how anyone could be so cruel.

"Scorpea," Ferenc spat. He reached out and gently placed his hand over Fiebe's – the one holding the gown neatly in place across her lap, "It's good you escaped, Fiebe. I'm glad."

Fiebe smiled and nodded. "And so will you. Soon."

When Ferenc's amber eyes wandered in Irina's direction, she quickly scooped up a new letter from the small pile sitting beside her – busying herself.

She chewed on her tobacco pipe and she pondered over the rigid, scratchy handwriting for a moment before she turned the letter over in her hands. The red, wax seal she did recognise, however; the chalice, swirling serpent and crown was the symbol of the Royal Physician. Gerard van Swieten.

Irina's heart began to pound as she folded the letter between her fingers and broke the wax seal. Finally, a reply! she thought to herself as her eyes skimmed the letter.

Van Swieten wrote that he'd been surprised but pleased to receive a letter from her, and – despite bloodwork admittedly not being his area of expertise – he'd read her findings with great interest. (Great interest!) He said that he was aware of the translucent cells she'd seen through her microscope (which had apparently been discovered by a Frenchman and called "globuli albicantes" – or white cells), but he said that – in all his years of practicing medicine – he'd never encountered nor heard talk of the shifting cells (which he labelled with a question mark as "globuli mutatio?" – mutating cells) that she'd sketched and described as being present in "V" Blood – nor the strange accompanying symptoms. Even though he – sadly – couldn't offer her an explanation (other than the cells being symptomatic of some kind of blood disorder), he said that it was an intriguing discovery, and asked whether he could send her notes on to a friend teaching at Leiden University (Leiden University!) who specialised in the study of blood.

Irina was giddy as she lowered the letter; thrilled by the thought of her notes being read by a physician of Leiden University. She picked up her quill and added to her notes, labelling the strange, shifting cells as "globuli mutatio" and then adding the question "Possible Blood Disorder?" underneath the section describing "V" BLOOD.

So, a Blood Disorder then? she thought to herself as she glanced out of the window. A disorder of the blood that – contrary to the course of most diseases – empowered the subject, instead of weakening them. It fired the body with incredible strength and speed, as well as creating within it the ability to heal quickly. And – if the girl from the brothel was to be believed – all these things combined endowed the subject with eternal life. The downside? A need to drink human blood to make up for a deficiency in red blood cells.

Irina was relieved to read a sensible, scientific opinion on the matter, if not the direct answer she'd been hoping for. She was beginning to realise that the only person who could give her that was Vlad himself.

She frowned as she drew a small, snaking arrow rising up from the "V". At the end of the arrow, she reluctantly added the word "Vampire?".

"…Does the Ducesa treat you well?" Ferenc asked Fiebe. He pointed to the gown she was embroidering, "I see she's got you slaving over silk and satin."

Fiebe nodded eagerly. "She is very kind to me – and you know I enjoy the work," she replied. "We are friends, I think."

Irina smiled as she carried on reading Van Swieten's letter.

Ferenc's lips pulled. "…Still, you should be careful," he warned. He glanced over his shoulder before he spoke, "I've heard all these troubling rumours about her–"

Fiebe huffed. "Lies," she insisted, as she took her teeth to the silver thread and snapped it.

"Sis, they're saying she's a witch–"

Fiebe scowled. "She's a healer!" she insisted. "Like Ileana Cosânzeana."

"But what about that girl – that whore from that brothel by the steps? She died less than a day after her visit," Ferenc said. "That washerwoman is convinced she killed her – and you were there with her!"

Smoke curled from Irina's nostrils. Despite everything she'd done to help the girl, the washerwoman had believed every single one of the rumours circulating about that night – about how The Governor's Daughter had poisoned Sofie and then left her to die. Irina's bedsheets had remained unwashed for two weeks until she gave up and stripped them herself. And even though she knew that the damage had been done long before her visit, Sofie's death still weighed heavy on her heart.

"Yes I was there! There was nothing the Ducesa could have done – the girl poisoned herself to get rid of the baby growing inside her," Fiebe insisted, leaping to her defence. She reached out and brushed her fingers over the fading scratches and scrapes covering her brother's knuckles, "Just look at what she's done for you, Ferenc – for us."

Ferenc looked down and nodded. "…I know," he replied softly. "I just worry for you, puşti. I don't want you getting dragged into anything."

Fiebe smiled. "Tâmpit! Her father - he wants to free the serfs, Ferenc!" she told him. "Can you imagine how much better life will be for people like us?"

"…No, I can't," he replied with a frown. "Because it will never happen."

Irina blew a ring of smoke towards the window and watched it fog upon the glass. If Prince Lupesci had his way, then Ferenc would be right. And, as her father's health continued to decline, it seemed more and more likely that the prince would get his way. Unfortunately, Van Swieten hadn't offered much help on that front in his letter; he'd echoed her fears that The Duke was suffering from some kind of ulceration of the stomach – possibly cancer – and was only able to offer some suggestions for pain management. If only there were a way for him to develop that strange blood disorder, he'd suggested, before wishing her and her father well.

"If only," Irina muttered to herself as she allowed her gaze to drift along the horizon – over the peaks and troughs of the snowy mountains and the spectre of a ruined castle.

She realised that her options were running out. She'd been holding herself back, until now, unsure and afraid of asking favours from a man she hardly knew and wasn't entirely sure she trusted – but if there was even the slightest chance that she could help her father, then she had to go. Everything seemed to hinge upon his recovery.

Sensing a lull in Fiebe and Ferenc's conversation, Irina folded the letter and dropped it onto a pile with the rest. She opened the window and tipped out the ash from her pipe – watching the sparks swirl off into the sky. "Ferenc, how is the weather out there today?" she asked him in German – after all, she didn't want him to know that she'd been eavesdropping.

He looked up at her, his features painted with confusion. "…Crisp and clear, Ducesa."

Through the vines of frost painting the window and the lumps of snow perched on the sills, the air was clear enough to see the jagged line of mountains in the distance – the late afternoon sun shining a ripe hue onto the snow.

"Good. Perfect weather for hunting," Irina announced.

"Hunting?" he repeated.

As she stepped over Folie's body, the dog's ears pricked. Folie was a clever dog; she'd learned what the word hunting meant a long time ago and even liked to listen out for it. As soon as she'd heard it, she was up onto her feet and following Irina like a shadow with her tail whipping from side to side.

Fiebe abandoned her work. "But, Ducesa… it's late," she said as she tucked in her needle and folded the gown over the back of the chair. "The sun – it will set in a few hours and–"

Irina shrugged. "I'm not afraid of a little darkness, and besides, twilight's often the best time to catch deer on the move," she told her. "I've been inside all day and I think a little fresh air would do me the world of good."

Fiebe narrowed her blue eyes. "Good from what?"

Irina clapped her hands together, "Enough questions – destul de multe întrebări – could you please fetch my riding coat. The black, velvet Brunswick with sable around the hood."

Folie barked excitedly, bounding towards her – tail thrashing.

Irina chuckled as she stooped and scratched the dog's muzzle, smoothing her hand through soft, brown fur. "Not this time," she told her. "You stay here and keep Scapino, papa and Fiebe company–"

Folie whimpered, but obediently slid down onto her belly with a yawn.

"–And make sure she doesn't work on that gown all night," Irina added, more for Fiebe's benefit than Folie's. "She'll ruin her eyes."

Fiebe sighed. "But you cannot go alone, Ducesa," she complained as she went off in search of the coat. "I send word to ask Prince Lupesci to join you–"

Irina pulled a face into the mirror sitting on her dressing table. "Absolutely not! I can't think of anything worse!" she snapped as she took one of her pistols out of the drawer, set it down and then set about brushing her hair and applying a little rouge. She swept the long, brown curls away from her face, tied a black ribbon around them, and then threw them over her shoulder. "I was actually hoping that your brother might oblige me," she said as she scooped up a pair of gloves and her mask.

Ferenc looked alarmed. "…Me, Ducesa?"

Fiebe suddenly appeared with the coat. "Ferenc? Why?" she asked, watching closely as Irina shoved her ledger into a small, velvet drawstring bag.

"Well… he's heading back that way anyway – aren't you?" Irina replied, looking at Ferenc. "And… well, I just thought that since he knows the surrounding countryside so well, given his position… he might know all the best spots for hunting deer."

Fiebe narrowed her eyes; they swept suspiciously over her mistress' tousled hair, fresh rouge and the mask she was clutching along with the bag – her fingers twiddling with the ribbons and cords impatiently.

Irina groaned when she noticed how Fiebe was staring at her. "Oh for heaven's sake, what is it? You're thinking things."

Fiebe tutted and shook her head. "Nothing, Ducesa," she replied as she helped her mistress put on her coat.

By the time Ferenc had reluctantly agreed and two horses from the stables had been saddled, daylight was quickly fading away. And as they galloped through the cobbled streets of Hermannstadt and burst through the town gates into the countryside, the lamp lighters were already pottering around with their ladders and cans of oil. They rode southeast towards the forests and foothills of the Carpathians, following the icy river as it snaked through fields and farmland along the way. When they reached a fork in the road – a choice between the southern mountain pass and the well-trodden road to Braşov – Ferenc dragged on the reins and came to a stop in the snow.

"The river widens up ahead near Avrig," he shouted, turning the nose of his horse towards the Braşov road. "The deer go there to drink at sunset. We should be just in time, I think - if we move fast."

Irina removed her mask – untangling it from her hair. "Actually… we're not going hunting," she told him as she shoved the mask into one of her saddle bags.

Ferenc was confused. "…But I thought–"

"I lied," Irina admitted as she lowered her hood and sent him an apologetic look.

Ferenc steered his horse and trotted back over to her – the stallion's breath fogging on the frosty air. "Then why the hell did you ask me?"

Irina cast a glance towards the dark outline of the mountains. "I need to go to Poenari," she explained "And… I need someone I can trust to take me there."

Ferenc threw his head back and cackled at the dusky sky – at the blue clouds drifting over ripe sunset hues of pink and purple. "Poenari! Dumnezeule!" he grunted, swiping a hand across his mouth and slightly bearded jaw. "Why the hell do you want to go there? The road's a coșmar – a nightmare, you understand? – worse now it's winter. And once you get there, the castle's nothing but a stone shell, Ducesa. A wreck! A ruin crumbling into the lake below it."

Irina shrugged her lips and smiled. "Sounds rather picturesque actually."

Ferenc snorted and waved a hand at her. "Dracului de nobili, tu ești la fel," he muttered under his breath.

"…Look," Irina said, attempting to rein in her temper – after all, he was entitled to be angry with her. "Someone I know lives there – he's only recently inherited it. He must be restoring it, I suppose – but that's not the point, the point is that I desperately need to speak with him."

Ferenc spat into the snow. He scoffed as he leaned on his thigh and looked at her. "I should have known," he said. He smirked and nodded, "This man, he's your iubit – your… your lover, yes?"

Irina's eyes widened; she was outraged. "Adjust your tone, Ferenc! I think you've forgotten who you're speaking to," she barked, gripping the reins a little tighter.

Ferenc sighed. "…Forgive me," he said, but clearly didn't mean it.

Irina softened a little – she had lied to him, after all. "…Look. My father – the Governor – he's very sick, Ferenc. Probably – I'm told – on his death bed," she explained. "And, this man who lives in Poenari – the man I desperately need to see – he might have something that could save him or in the very least, ease his suffering a little."

Ferenc scowled as he pulled his gaze away from her and fixed it on the snowy horizon.

Irina's dark eyebrows pulled together. "Forgive me for mentioning them, but if there was even the smallest chance that you could have saved your mother and father – even if it meant travelling somewhere far away on a foolish whim, on even the slightest possibility that it might make a difference," she said, "you would have done it – without hesitation – am I right?"

Ferenc looked at her. He shrugged and then nodded. "…Of course, I would have," he replied. "I would have done anything."

Irina nodded.

"…But why all the secrecy, eh?" he demanded, waving his hand at her. "The mask, lying to my sister–"

Irina looked down. "I know–"

"–She looks up to you, you know."

"I know."

"And, why go now, at night?"

"I know. I know it's difficult to understand, but no one – no one – can know that The Duke is actually dying. And the man that I need to…" she tried to explain, but her voice trailed away. "Look, I didn't want Fiebe to worry. You know what she's like; she's protective. And besides, the whole town's already gossiping about me and saying the most horrendous things…" She practically sneered at him as she suddenly switched from German to Romanian. "I'm a witch, so they say. And a whore."

Ferenc looked sheepish as he fished around in his saddle bag for a metal flask filled with brandy. "…I don't believe that," he told her as he spun the top and then took a swig. He licked the dregs from his lips and then swiped the sleeve of his jacket across them, "I didn't mean to say that you were… I just worry about my sister, that's all."

Irina rolled her eyes and smiled. "I know you do. It's so sweet I could vomit," she replied, raising an eyebrow.

He looked at her and then quickly averted his gaze. "Well... She's all I have, so-"

"I'd never let anything happen to her," Irina promised. "I hope you know that."

"I do; you saved her life," he said, although he seemed to be trying to convince himself.

"…I did," Irina replied, nodding. "But that doesn't mean that I own it."

Ferenc held her gaze sullenly.

"She's my friend as well as my maid - and I mean that," Irina admitted, and suddenly felt a pained look pinch her expression. "…Perhaps my only friend at the moment."

Ferenc stared at her as she sniffed – the setting sun warm on her skin.

"I'm sorry your master is so cruel to you," Irina suddenly said. "…What if I were to buy your freedom?"

Ferenc practically laughed. "If I take you to Poenari, I suppose? Sure!"

Irina wrinkled her nose. "Well, I was sort of hoping you would do that for me anyway," she replied. "But, I'll try and buy your freedom even if you don't."

Ferenc blinked at her. "...You mean it? You're not just saying that?"

"Brothers and sisters shouldn't be separated, and besides – I need to hire a groom I can trust to take me hunting," Irina told him.

Ferenc practically blushed.

"I really don't want to have to rely on Prince Lupesci to take me – the man has absolutely no idea what he's doing with that ridiculous crossbow."

Ferenc chuckled as he took another swig from his flask. "...Alright. You have yourself a deal, Ducesa," he said as he capped the flask and tucked it back into his saddle bag. He steered his horse and then snapped the reins, "But we should hurry if you want to get to Poenari before nightfall."

Irina lifted her hood, then kicked in her heels and trotted alongside him as they set off on the mountain path. "…So tell me, who is your master?"

"Didn't Fiebe tell you? My master is the mayor," Ferenc replied. "Herr Carmitru."

Irina stopped; she couldn't believe it.

Ferenc looked back at her; he wasn't sure why she was so surprised. It was common knowledge that the mayor owned much of the farmland around Hermannstadt and most of the serfs with it.

But, then that would mean… "You're telling me that Fiebe's old mistress was Fraulein Carmitru?" she asked. Carmelia?

"Of course - who else?" Ferenc shouted back as he galloped on ahead.

They rode for an hour along the old, crumbling road through the mountains. A road that had once been trodden by Turkish Janissaries that meandered through a rising valley between the snowy mountains and weaved back and forth over a partially frozen river below. The mountains seemed to rise up around them – looming threateningly in the encroaching darkness – and Irina wondered how Vlad could have travelled so easily back and forth from Hermannstadt. It didn't seem like the sort of road to take a carriage easily; there were rocks big enough to unhinge a wheel for a start, and some of the snow drifts were deep enough for the horses to have to wade through.

Eventually though, the river snaked off to the right, the valley opened out, and there, right above them – almost balancing on a clifftop – was Castelul Poenari.

The sun was setting just behind it and illuminated the crumbling red bricks and bastions as if they were on fire, while the old turrets sagged beneath layers of snow. It looked more like a fortress than a castle or a palace, and Irina imagined that a hundred or so years ago it had been something quite spectacular. But Ferenc had been right, it was just a stone shell now and she wondered how Vlad could call it home.

It was a steep climb through the surrounding forest to reach the castle itself – the horses leapt up the rock face and zig-zagged between the trees – but the path evened out and soon they were riding along the clifftop towards a splintered, black drawbridge half buried in snow.

Irina lowered her hood and gazed up at the castle.

The windows were like dead sockets in a skull – hollow, dark and lifeless – whilst the old wooden balconies and brattices were charred and practically hanging off. There were gaping holes in the masonry and the old fortified wooden doors were splintering and hanging from their hinges. The castle looked as if it hadn't been occupied for centuries – the last tenant having been evicted by what looked to have been a violent blaze. The stories that Helena Tarsus had regaled her with about Dracula, were as fresh on her mind as the snow on the castle's sagging rooftop.

There were no lights, no servants. There were no signs of life at all.

Ferenc suddenly appeared alongside her, the fading sun illuminating his amber eyes and golden hair. "…Are you sure your man said Poenari?"

Irina nodded. "I'm sure," she replied, sounding very unsure.

Ferenc wiped a hand across his jaw and shook his head, "The last man who lived here died centuries ago, Ducesa," he said. "The soldiers and nobles burned it down when they thought he was a vampire. He kidnapped girls from the village and drank them dry, so they say. They say he was Vlad Țepeș, returned from the dead. Dracula."

"…And so, they burned his fortress to the ground and drove him out of Transylvania for good – but in doing so unleashed his curse upon the world," Irina replied dramatically, reciting Helena's words.

Ferenc looked at her. "You know the stories?"

Irina sent him a bored look as she urged her horse up the unsteady drawbridge. It creaked and groaned under the added weight – and her heart almost stopped when she imagined the whole thing snapping in two and sending them both off the cliff edge – but the horse leapt forward and to safety, trotting up the cracked stone steps that led through the gatehouse and into the courtyard.

The wind didn't howl as much within the embrace of the castle walls, but the courtyard was just as unwelcoming as the outside of the castle had been. It was empty, and half in darkness – old bits of burned furniture and fallen masonry buried beneath piles of snow – and as Irina slipped down from her horse the last of the early evening sunlight was retreating from the castle – fleeing through cracks in the walls.

No groom nor footman came to greet her.

"…Vlad?" she called out as she snatched the reins of her horse and led it over to the bottom of a stone staircase.

The sunken steps led up from the courtyard into a painfully medieval cantilevered gallery up above – a covered walkway looking over the courtyard with doors leading off into the surrounding towers. She tied the reins around the rotting banister and then set off up the staircase, the hooves of Ferenc's horse suddenly sounding out in the courtyard behind her.

"Ducesa, be careful!" he called out as she scooped up her skirts and began to ascend.

Irina ignored his warnings and explored the ruins like a child; clambering up every step, peering through every window and over every wall from top to bottom. And although much of the castle had been ransacked and burned, the rooms were still haunted by a ghost of their former glory – from the vaulted ceilings and faded murals and torn tapestries, to the vast stone fireplaces and broken and rusting iron chandeliers.

Just when it seemed she'd explored every crevice, Irina stumbled upon an old spiral staircase leading to the top of the tallest tower. She climbed them carefully, and when they finally fell away, she reached a space – a room – where only the crows cared to roost. She gasped and grinned at the view of the surrounding valley, forests and lake below from the large hole where the wall had tumbled away.

The wind whipped her hair and the tails of her coat as she dug her nails into the bricks and peered over the edge. The sky was pink, the full moon was bright, and in the distance - tucked within a spine of snowy mountains - she could see Hermannstadt glowing beyond the forest – smoke from the burning log fires muddying the sky above it.

She smiled softly; it was a beautiful view.

A voice suddenly beckoned her from behind. "…Are you lost?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know, I know, I know - I'm a terrible tease! I can't wait for you to read Chapter Sixteen, it was one of my absolute favourites to write. I don't want to give away too much, but we're going to be flashing back to the infamous Violet Tuesday and the masked man Irina keeps ever so subtly mentioning. Who could he possibly be...? ;-)

Have a lovely week you lot (hope you had a lovely Christmas and are enjoying a slow and easy Twixtmas!) aaaaand Happy New Year! X

Historical/Language Notes:

Leiden University: One of the oldest higher education institutions in Europe, Leiden University was the place to go if you wanted to study all things medicine. Big 18th names in medicine went there, like Herman Boerhaave, Bernhard Albinus and Gerard Van Sweiten - but of course, women were barred from studying. There were a couple of women in the 18th century who pestered hard enough to be allowed to study for a degree at other universities - like Laura Bassi (an Italian physicist who earned a PhD from Bologna University and went on to lecture there) and Dorothea Erxleben (who got a special dispensation from Frederick the Great to study medicine at the University of Halle).

"Puşti": Romanian, "Kid"

"Tâmpit": Romanian, "Stupid"/"Idiot".

Brunswick: More fashion history for you! The easiest way to describe a Brunswick is to get you to imagine a hoodie made of satin and fastened at the front. They were traditionally worn as travelling/riding gear.

Avrig: A small town outside of Hermannstadt in the foothills of the Carpathians. It actually became the summer residence of the Governor of Hermannstadt - but I think that's just a little bit later than when this story is set.

"Dracului de nobili, tu ești la fel": "Fucking nobles, you're all the same."

Turkish Janissaries: Ottoman Turkish for "New Soldier". Janissaries were a special group of soldiers that made up the sultan's bodyguards and private army. The truth is that they were slaves - and actually westerners. During Vlad's time especially, The Porte (The Ottoman Government) would head to the western fringes of their empire every five or so years and kidnap christian boys between 8 and 15. They'd be taken from their parents, carried off to Constantinople, forced to convert to Islam and then trained to become elite fighting machines. The whole process was called Devshirme - which means "Child Levy"/"Blood Tax" and the whole point of it was (not just to create a massive army) to build the empire and diminish the fighting population of their enemies. If you've seen Dracula Untold, then you'll have seen Devshirme in action. So sad. :-(