.: NINETEEN :.
...
Hermannstadt, Christmas Eve, 1769
"One moment, Eos…"
His sonorous voice had cut through the music and the noise of the crowd and had immediately halted her march to the door. She'd turned back towards it, scowling through her gold mask as his sober, black suit and silhouette emerged from the throng of brightly coloured silks like a black cloud on a summer afternoon.
"…I'm not quite finished with you yet," he'd said.
She'd thrown her hands up and huffed. Why had he followed her? "Well, I've certainly had my fill of you," she'd replied as he shoved his way towards her.
"Not yet, you haven't."
The moment he'd thrown down the ace of diamonds and taken the game, Irina had torn away from the table with an indignant (and rather undignified) grunt – kicking over her chair in the process. The shame of it – of losing to him – had broken her, and she'd been desperate to leave at any cost, but she'd barely made it through into the next room before she heard his voice calling after her. How had he caught up to her so quickly?
And suddenly there he was, looming over her like a shadow creeping up a wall; she hadn't noticed how tall he was whilst he was sat at the gaming table. She'd had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. "…You've already taken both my pearls and my pride, Count," she'd said. "What more could you possibly want?"
"I very much doubt you'll mourn the loss," he'd jibed smoothly; "I imagine ladies like you have more jewels than you have places to wear them–"
She'd glared at him; she was tired of being picked apart by a total stranger, "You know nothing of–"
"I think I've more than demonstrated that I do – and as for your pride?" he'd interrupted fluidly as he invaded her space.
She'd stopped breathing; with every breath she seemed to draw more of him in - his musk, his magnetism.
His lips had curled beneath his mask. "From what I can tell, you could certainly stand to lose a little."
"How dare you!" Irina had snarled, rising a little taller to challenge him. "If you had any idea who I was then you'd swallow those words, Count; they'd be enough to have you whipped."
The idea seemed to amuse him. "…I'd take the whipping if it meant I could have your name," he'd dared her, knowing that she'd never reveal her identity to him; it was a card she was keeping very close to her chest. "…Or are you going to make me guess?"
"The only games I play are card games."
With nothing more to say, she'd rolled her eyes as she grabbed her skirts and spun away from him – ripping through one of the soft, chartreuse curtains dangling beside her. She'd hoped – prayed – that it might lead to a way out - that she could lose him - but instead it simply led into one of the cellar's stone cloisters and nothing but a dead end. A dead end furnished sparingly with a ripped chaise, a rickety side table cluttered with half empty champagne glasses, and a stuttering candelabra spitting wax onto the flagstones.
And then the curtain was suddenly swept to the side. When he ducked inside with a predatory look in his eyes, she'd taken a step back. "…If you dare lay a finger on me–"
Half amused, half offended, he'd scoffed at the notion. "Without permission? I wouldn't dream of it, Eos," he'd replied, prowling towards her. He'd opened his arms and bowed, "After all, it is darkness who succumbs to the dawn – not the other way around."
She'd stared as he lifted his dark head and smiled at her. He'd been charming – so charming – and Irina wondered why she hadn't seen it before. "…Then, what?" she'd demanded, her hands hanging limp at her side. "What do you want?"
"…Well," he'd said, standing up. "I believe that the victor of a game of Mariagenspiel – as a rule – must kiss the loser. I'd hate for you to leave feeling as though I deprived you of your due. Especially on the eve of Lent, with all those serious, sober weeks ahead of you-"
Almost as if by magic, a distant tolling bell could be heard. Midnight.
Irina had practically laughed as she folded her arms; she'd been amused by such a weak ruse to kiss her. And yet, she'd blushed at the thought. "You're too late; it's already Lent."
He'd looked down at his boots and chuckled. "...Allow me to give you something to atone for, then."
"That won't be necessary," she'd told him, but her whole body had prickled when she caught the mischievous look in his eyes.
"Oh, but I insist," he'd purred.
She'd raised an eyebrow under her mask. "…You didn't insist upon such a rule with your previous opponent."
He'd hesitated at that. "…Well, my previous opponent wasn't quite as… alluring," he'd explained as he circled her, his gaze roaming. "It's not every night you happen across a Goddess."
Irina had felt every muscle in her body tense when he stopped in front of her and then stooped to meet her gaze. Her lips had parted to respond, but words had failed her. She'd pulled a face and snorted - she couldn't have him thinking that he'd rendered her speechless after all.
"...In fact, I confess; I've never wanted to play by the rules more," he'd told her, almost in a whisper. "And you should know, Eos; that isn't exactly considered my forté."
She'd smirked. "That, I think I can believe."
Of all the men who'd flirted with her at court – all the boys who'd brought her roses from the gardens (risking the wrath of the Empress' gardener) or pestered her father for the freedom to ask her to dance... even the ones she'd brazenly locked eyes with at the opera and then flirted with through the second act from behind her fan – none of them had looked at her the way he had that night. His arrogance, coupled with that charming smile and slippery gaze had infected her with a fever so fierce she felt she might burst into flames at any moment.
And yet, her brown eyes had flashed nervously at the silhouettes and shadows dancing on the other side of the curtain before she dared to meet his eyes. "Very well," she'd whispered as she lifted her wrist – weighed heavily by a gold and diamond chain. "…You may kiss my hand."
She'd never forgotten the way he'd blinked once at her hand before he took it, nor the way he'd held her gaze as he lifted it and turned it over – exposing the fine blue veins along the inside of her wrist. He'd traced the pale skin there with his lips – slowly – watching her eyelashes flutter in surprise and her breath stick in her throat. When she'd offered no objection, he'd gently reeled her in – pulling her arm over his shoulder and slipping one hand down to her bodice. The other had cupped the back of her neck – his thumb sweeping along her jaw and disturbing the diamond chandelier swinging from her earlobe.
And that was how – for just one night – she gave in to darkness.
Irina leaned back against the medieval walls of the Lupesci great hall, teasing the black pearls around her neck and briefly closing her eyes as she remembered how Vlad had suddenly drawn her in and teased his lips against hers – a soft, all too brief kiss before he pulled back and danced them just out of reach. With that kiss, he'd coaxed the temptress from the very cellar of her soul, and in the end she was the one who finally closed the gap, frowning as she threw one arm around his neck and held his face with the other – rising onto her toes as she seized his smirking lips with her own.
She'd inhaled sharply, inhaled him – the musk of his skin, his hair, his clothes – woody and wild – and after a clumsy first touch she'd quickly settled in – moving her lips firmly against his. It had been like plunging into a dark lake; after that first, hesitant step into the blue she'd waded deeper – becoming more confident with each stroke – until she submerged herself fully and willingly sunk down to the misty depths.
The thoughts in her head – all those fears and misgivings – had all at once been drowned out.
He'd kissed her thoroughly – one hand in her hair and the other tangled in the laces of her gown as he matched her fevered pace; he'd beat the breath from her lungs when he forced her back against the stone wall of the cloister. And when his hand had swooped down the arched column of her neck and traced the outline of her collarbone and the lace fringing along her neckline, she'd wondered how such a simple touch could illicit such a sensation deep within her. She'd ached for more, and when he palmed the swell of her breast within her bodice she'd moaned into his mouth.
Vlad. She'd told him to stay away from her and yet, she couldn't seem to get him out of her head. As it turned out, he'd always been lurking there – a faceless specter, half forgotten that she'd resurrected every now and then when she needed to feel the darkness again, when she needed to comfort herself with its presence.
"…Duchess?"
Irina glanced up and blinked at Liesl Fleischer, who was standing in front of her with a bewildered look on her face. She pushed away from the wall and smiled politely, "Fraulein. Fröhliche Weihnachten – Merry Christmas."
Liesl curtseyed, elegantly bowing a powdered wig glimmering with diamond stars. "Fröhliche Weihnachten, Duchess," she replied with a fretful smile. "Are you… well?"
"I'm fine, all things considered. Thank you for asking," Irina replied with a nod, her eyes flashing nervously across the great hall and towards the gaggle of guests who were sending pointed looks in her direction and gossiping over their glasses of wine.
Despite Prince Lupesci's reassurances that she was very welcome to attend the Christmas Eve Ball in his home, his other guests hadn't felt quite as at ease with her presence. Gossip about her was as fresh and as fragrant as the roast boar being served up – shot by the prince that very afternoon – and the town feasted upon its flesh with much the same fervour as they gorged on the stories circulating about her. Stories spread that painted her as a witch and a whore and a murderess – a dangerous woman.
It was getting out of control; two windows in the Governor's palace had been broken by angry peasants that very week, and her carriage had been mobbed on the ride over. Only her patients – the women she'd helped – knew the truth, but unfortunately, they were far too scared to raise their voices over the rabble.
Liesl fanned herself impatiently; she wanted to remind Irina that she hadn't forgotten her kindness but was clearly desperate not to linger for too long. "I do love your gown, Duchess," she remarked with a smile, gesturing to the waves of teal satin cascading from Irina's bodice. "…And those pearls. Quite unusual."
Irina thanked her; she was grateful for the gesture at least. "...They belonged to my mother, the late Duchess."
"Oh, that reminds me, how is your father?" Liesl asked.
"He's… much improved," Irina lied; if it had been true he'd be standing beside her instead of languishing in his bed.
When she poked her head in to check on him before leaving for the ball, he'd been drifting in and out – and when his eyes fluttered open for the briefest of moments – enough to take in her pearls and fine gown – he'd smiled and called her by her mother's name. Irina's only solace was that Fiebe had promised to sit with him – with Folie and Scapino curling up close by. She'd be back before midnight, she'd promised.
Liesl looked relieved. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear it!" she said, glancing once over her shoulder before she leaned in and lowered her voice. "…He's lucky to have a daughter like you, because – and I don't care what horrid lot are saying – if there's anyone who's capable of performing a miracle, it's you."
Irina bit her lip and nodded. If only that were true, she thought to herself.
"As soon as he's on his feet he'll put a stop to these treacherous lies, I know it," Liesl said with a wink.
Irina tacked on a brave smile. "…I know," she said. She waved her fan, "You should go; my disgrace is probably contagious."
Liesl offered her a sympathetic nod, and then – having done her duty – turned on her heel and returned to the mob, who immediately swarmed around her.
Irina rolled her eyes as she turned away from their disapproving glares and wandered the fringes of Transylvanian society and the great hall – gazing up at the medieval weaponry and artwork adorning the ancient stone walls.
The Lupesci Kastélya was practically a fortress; a crumbling, red building adjoining the town fortifications – including one of the towers. The hallways were as cold and as unwelcoming as Prince Lupesci himself, while the décor was fanatically traditional – from the carved wooden ceilings, to the iron chandeliers and threadbare tapestries. There were weapons from the Turkish wars decorating columns and archways, while a dusty pack of stag heads – with glazed, black eyes and slack jaws – looked down on the hall. While the other guests appeared to find it all a charming throwback, Irina found that it gave her the chills.
She fiddled with the bones of her fan as she stared up at a portrait of – undoubtedly – one of the prince's long-dead ancestors. It could have easily been Prince Lupesci; the two men seemed to share the same judgmental look in their hazel eyes, and the same pointed nose and snarling lips. There was something in their shape and stature too; the man in the portrait was thuggish and firm, domineering in presence with his chin and sword raised proudly, whilst he wore a bristling, grey wolf hide as if it were a coronation mantle. The only difference was the fashion; the velvet doublet and black hose were a little fifteenth century.
The portrait was completed with the Lupesci family crest; a shield displaying a wolf. Irina had seen it everywhere that evening; on the gates of the courtyard, above doorways, and on almost every portrait – not to mention Prince Lupesci's signet ring.
Below it was a Latin inscription that read; LUPUS AD TENEBRAS NON TIMEBAT.
Irina's lips murmured soundlessly as she translated, "A wolf is not afraid of darkness."
"My four times great grandfather, and the last true King of Hungary," said the prince, his voice growling suddenly from behind.
Irina startled and turned to face him. "Your highness," she sighed, catching her breath.
"I frightened you," he realised, gesturing for her hand.
"Hardly," Irina scoffed as she placed her hand in his and watched as he pressed his lips to her curled knuckles. She pulled away and returned her attention to the portrait, "An ancestor of yours? I was just admiring – uh, studying – his portrait. You look just like him."
The prince seemed pleased to hear it; his lips cracked into one of his near smiles as he followed her gaze and glanced up at the portrait. He stepped alongside her, "He was a great man; a great King."
"I'm sure," Irina replied politely, side-glancing him. "Although, I'm afraid my history isn't very good when it comes to dead Hungarian Kings. What was he known for?"
"Well, among other things, he was a fearsome warrior," the prince explained. "He ruled Hungary peacefully for many years – fending off the invading Turks and standing up to Austrian demands – but he also made it his duty to protect his homeland – this land – from a long line of pitiless rulers."
Irina looked at him. "Pitiless? How so?" she asked.
Prince Lupesci smiled, "Even if your Hungarian history isn't very good, Irina, I'm certain you've heard stories of that murderous Wallachian warmonger known as The Impaler?"
"…The uh, moniker certainly rings a bell," she replied, clearing her throat a little.
"Well, my four times great grandfather was the one who brought the beast to heel and imprisoned him after he slaughtered his own subjects and allied with the Turks."
Irina frowned; it wasn't exactly the same version she'd heard straight from the source himself. "That's not what I heard," she muttered, and when the prince's gaze turned on her with suspicion she looked away. She cleared her throat, "I mean, there are so many different versions to the tale of Vlad Țepeș – the tale of Dracula. How can we know which one is the truth?"
The prince snorted, "The one told to me by my father. The one told to him by his father," he replied before continuing with his history lesson. "In that story, eventually – and without the support Austria had promised – the Turkish Janissary broke through and seized my great grandfather's legacy – splitting his lands. The Habsburgs took the north, the Turks took hold of Buda and the low-lands, and the home of my ancestors – Transylvania – became torn between the two."
Irina nodded along politely, all the while warring with Vlad's slightly different interpretation. "…Fascinating."
"My family were given two options," Prince Lupesci continued, "either to bring Transylvania under Habsburg rule, or to buy back the throne from the Turks and become their subjects. They chose – in their mind – lesser of two evils and continued to rule Transylvania for many years, fending off Habsburg interests until the might of Turks began to decay at the end of the last century."
Irina's lips curled, turning to face him. She whipped open her fan, "Ah yes," she sighed. "The Turks moved out and we moved in."
Prince Lupesci looked down at her. "…Perhaps someday we'll have the place to ourselves again."
Irina raised an eyebrow. "Vienna would have to melt into the Danube first," she threatened. "...And I think actually, neither of us have a claim to these lands."
He chuckled humorlessly. "…Ah. I almost forgot," he said suddenly, snapping his fingers at a footman who had been waiting in the wings. "I have a gift for you."
The footman hurried over, and – draped across his arms – he carried a long pelt of silver fur, the fibers shuddering as he marched. It was beautiful, and Irina stared as it was handed it over to the prince.
Prince Lupesci smoothed the stole with his rough hand. "I tracked this one for two weeks after our hunting trip," he said, strolling behind her. "I finally caught up with it in the forests near Avrig. Determined fighter, but no match for my crossbow."
Irina froze as he wrapped the stole around her shoulders. As the soft fur tickled her skin and the guests all stared, a lump swelled up in her throat that she seemed unable to swallow.
His hands settled heavily on her shoulders. "…As I've told you before, I always win in the end," he whispered in her ear before stepping in front of her. He lifted her chin to meet his gaze – his signet ring chilling her skin.
Irina shuddered; the town was already ablaze talking about her, and now Prince Lupesci had added fuel to that fire. Giving a gift to a lady in public was sign of intent – he may as well have signed his name upon her forehead. "…You really shouldn't have."
He shrugged his lips. "I couldn't resist."
"You ought to have tried a little harder."
The prince held her gaze. "Well, it is the season of giving after all," he replied, waving a hand. "Besides… You wear it well."
Irina looked past him and noticed the envied stares of the women hovering on the edge of the dance floor. "…I'm overcome. Will you excuse me for a moment?"
The prince politely stepped aside. "Of course."
Irina forced her way through the throng of guests like scissors through silk – without a care when she tore between couples in conversation or disrupted the steps of the minuet. She just kept moving - she had to - until she reached the doors leading out from the great hall and away from everyone and everything. She swung herself out into the corridor, her fingers clawing at the walls as she stumbled into a dark alcove and sagged against the wall, panting for air. She wrestled the stole from her shoulders and threw it at her feet.
"Fuck," she breathed.
She shut her eyes tight as she attempted to catch her breath - imagining herself anywhere but that dark alcove. When she did she found herself back in Vienna – back in that stuffy cellar – when, for one night, no one knew who she was. She wished she could be that young woman again – selfish, angry, unrestrained – more wild-thing than woman.
Irina turned and pressed her cheek against the cold wall as she remembered how Vlad had lured that woman out of her - how she'd sighed when his hand had gathered up her skirts and blindly felt its way over her diamond garters.
He'd looked down at the band of sparkling stones around her thigh and smirked. "...I told you that you had more jewels than you had places to wear them," he'd purred as he cupped the back of her knee and hoisted it roughly over his hip. He brushed his thumb over the diamonds, "Whose eyes are these meant for Eos, hm?"
She'd dropped her head back against the wall and took a breath. "…Certainly not yours."
"Oh really?" he'd whispered against her throat as his lips climbed towards her jaw - his teeth grazing the skin along the way.
"…Really," she'd replied, her voice lost within a heavy sigh. She gulped, "And, you've already taken my mother's pearls so–"
He'd smirked at that – she'd felt it, and then she'd seen it in his eyes as his wicked gaze met hers. "...Your mother's pearls," he'd tusked.
The way his lips curled at that had infuriated her; she'd quickly smothered them with her own. "...Mm. So don't even think about setting your sights on my diamonds," she'd warned, an audible shake in her voice as she felt his fingers smooth over her thigh and then suddenly delve between them.
He'd held her fevered gaze as he whispered, "Actually, I have my sights sets on a higher prize," and then dragged his fingertips through the damp folds of her sex.
She'd felt her cheeks burn as he touched her, his thumb flicking and rolling over the tight bundle of nerves at the juncture of her thighs until she was nothing but a sore and shaking lump of satin. She couldn't remember feeling more aroused - more body than brain - like a wild animal; aware of nothing but the blood pulsing in her veins and that entirely new kind of ravenous hunger - that throbbing ache between her legs and the sudden desperate need to soothe it - satisfy it - no matter the cost. She'd gasped and gulped for air – gulped for more – as his head dropped from her lips to the slope of her neck – gnawing at it until her thighs shook and she cried out – partly in pain, partly in pleasure.
Before she could sag against the wall, he'd scooped her up - bracketing her legs around his waist and linking her ankles at the small of his back as he carried her and her voluminous weight of skirts over to the chaise. When he fell backwards into it she'd tumbled after him - colliding and washing over him like a roaring wave over a rock. She'd gripped the back of the chaise as it wobbled, trapping him between her arms as she smashed her lips against his in a bruising kiss - desperate, determined.
She could never explain - even to herself - why in that moment nothing else beyond that cloister - beyond that rickety chaise, even - seemed to matter. Not the voices beyond the curtain, not the late hour, not even Amalia - who she'd later find out had been searching frantically for her - not even the pearls or her own name. Like a thunderstorm rumbling in the night she'd bottled herself to the brink of destruction - and now she was tearing the sky over her head and scorching the ground under her feet, relishing the clamor and carnage of it all. Every strike was spontaneous and experimental; she'd bitten down on his lip just to hear that low growl in the back of his throat and she'd rolled her hips just to feel his cock harden between her thighs - just to watch those cool eyes of his spark with desire and his grip on her backside tighten. She'd leaned over him, and - as he busied himself with kissing her breasts - she'd plunged her hand into the pocket of his coat, thinking herself clever as her fingers fumbled for her mother's pearls.
But no sooner had she felt the tip of her middle finger brush across the surface of a single pearl, he'd snatched up her wrist - pulling back and eyeing her sternly from within his mask. "Nice try," he'd tutted before dragging her hand from his pocket and swinging her down onto her back - pinning her hands above her head.
Any tremble of trepidation she'd felt at the entirely new feeling of a man lying on top of her - his erection only slightly muted by the layers of satin bundled between her thighs - was quickly soothed by the way he'd looked at her. His hands had slipped from her wrists; he'd leaned down on one arm - his hand resting in her hair - while the other smoothed along her thigh and anchored it over his hip. His eyes had danced back and forth over her features for a moment, then he'd released a soft groan and said, "Tell me... Tell me your name."
Her lips had curled at that; she'd risen slightly to taste those pleading words on his lips. Her gaze had flit upwards to meet his as she'd replied, "Don't spoil it now," her hands moving between them - tugging at the waistband of his breeches.
He'd released an impatient sigh, pressing his forehead against hers as he reached down to help her - freeing himself and roughly bunching her skirts up and over her waist. She'd held her breath when he lowered himself over her - hoping he didn't see the flash of fear in her eyes or the shame painted on her cheeks as the cool air within the stone cloister lapped at her wet and swollen flesh. She remembered how loose strands of his dark hair had fallen and brushed across her face as he looked down between their bodies for a moment before pushing forward and filling her – slowly, but purposefully – with a heavy groan.
She'd hissed at the sting she'd felt as her body stretched to accommodate him and had instinctively opened her legs wider - throwing one over the back of the chaise and dropping the other onto the floor. And then there was panic. Panic at the sudden realisation of what she'd done, what she was doing - what she'd lost - and for a few thrusts she simply lay there gripping his arms as he settled himself inside her. It had been uncomfortable - painful even - and all the warmth and desire that had been boiling within her had suddenly evaporated away. Almost as if it had never been there in the first place.
But then... Oh, but then. The pain ebbed away like the tide and was instantly replaced by a sensation much stronger. When his hand slipped between their bodies, that flutter of warmth had quickly been stoked into a full on blaze. She'd opened her mouth and released a sound – halfway between a sigh and moan – and had dropped her head back onto the seat of the chaise, eyeing him through her mask as he moved above her.
He'd grinned; his face - his fevered gaze - hovering right above hers the whole time, savoring every pleasured look and every sound he coaxed from her. Minutes before she'd been so close to throwing him off and now suddenly she couldn't seem to get him close enough; she'd locked a leg around his back, gripped his arms, his neck, his hair - lifting her hips to meet every thrust and arching her spine just to feel the weight of his body against hers.
"...Shine for me, Eos," he'd panted, driving deeper, faster.
And with one final pressured roll of his thumb she did - throwing her head back with a strangled cry.
He'd buried his face in her neck - sucking down on it as he rode out her orgasm. And then finally, he'd joined her - his hips stuttering and the groaning sound of his own release muffed within the crook of her neck.
The silence afterwards had been deafening; the distant noise of the gaming tables had cut through the soft sound of their shallow breathing and immediately reminded Irina where she was, who she was and the gravity of what she'd done.
At the time she'd been sick with regret - with shame - but now? How she wished she hadn't shoved him away and run off into the night.
When Amalia had gasped, pointed to the bloody smear on her neck and asked her what on earth had happened to her, Irina had been confused. She'd thrown a hand up to her neck and felt her heart lop into her stomach when her fingers came away painted in blood. Hurt and embarrassed, she hadn't been able to decide whether she was more angry with him or with herself. And yet, she'd still been able to feel him inside her; not just inside her body, but inside her head - his words, his smile, his scent echoing there. She'd smothered the wound under her velvet cloak and shrugged it off with a wave of her hand and a simple lie: that she'd tripped over a table leg in the dark.
In the weeks that followed, she'd hidden the strange marks under a strategically placed fichu and lace collar until they healed and she could get on with forgetting the whole thing. Pretending that it had never happened. At the time she hadn't thought of them as anything more than marks of passion.
The Count, though – Vlad – he'd been a little trickier to shrug off.
Irina released a frustrated sob. "Fuck."
"…Sparrow?"
"Melia?" Irina gasped, peering around the corner to find Carmelia strolling towards her down the corridor. She was wearing an extravagant satin gown in a shade that seemed to be shifting constantly between purple and black and had powdered her blonde hair into an intricate updo.
Carmelia practically laughed when she found her cowering in the corner. "Is everything alright?" she asked, her sharp blue eyes glancing down at the fur stole lying limp and lifeless on the flagstones between them.
Irina dragged herself to her feet, gripping the wall for support. "…It will be," she replied, touching a cold hand to her clammy forehead and cheeks. "I just needed a little air, that's all."
"…Don't take this the wrong way, darling, but why on earth did you even come here tonight?" Carmelia asked. "The whole town is saying the most appalling things about you, you know–"
Irina rolled her eyes. "I'm aware. I'm ignoring it." ...Or trying to, at least.
"They've been saying that you've been bottling dead babies and whoring yourself… and now they're saying that you've bewitched Prince Lupesci–"
Irina couldn't help but erupt in laughter. But of course they were saying that! "Well, wagging tongues never seemed to stop you from attending a soirée," she snapped without a second thought.
Carmelia looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. She scooped up the stole, folding it neatly over one arm and smoothing her gloved hand across it. "…Well, yes, but then I never skulked around making potions and stomping on important men's shoes, did I?"
As Irina stared at the cruel twist in Carmelia's lips and the ice cold look in her eyes, she thought about what Ferenc had told her on the road to Poenari. "…Why didn't you tell me that Fiebe was one of your serfs, Melia?" she demanded.
Carmelia batted her eyelashes innocently, "It never came up."
"...I find that a little strange," Irina went on. "After all, she's your property – is she not? – and yet you haven't even attempted to claim her – not even once. Why?"
Carmelia waved a hand and rolled her blue eyes. "Because, honestly, one serf's as good as the next," she replied. "Really, Sparrow, my husband and I find ourselves tripping over them, we've so many! They're dispensable; I'm hardly going to lose sleep when one goes missing. In fact, it's almost a blessing when they do!"
But Irina wasn't convinced; she brushed past Carmelia and glared at her back. "…But Fiebe wasn't dispensable, was she? She's a talented seamstress after all – such a rare thing in these parts," she said, gesturing to the intricate floral embroidery across the bodice of her own gown – Fiebe's Christmas present to her. "It must have been quite a blow to lose her… especially while you've all those Italian silks just waiting to be made up."
Carmelia looked bored as she spun – her skirts swirling. "Well then. Consider her a gift – from me to you, my dear. Besides, it doesn't matter anyway; I have a new girl now," she sighed. "She's a little slow, but she's… learning."
Irina felt her blood run cold. "…I do hope you're treating her with kindness and patience."
Carmelia's smirk was slow. "But why on earth would I do that? Fear always adds a little extra flavour, don't you think?" she replied as she took a threatening step closer – the perfume of her skin, her clothes, her hair powder invading Irina's space.
Irina felt her body become rigid as Carmelia lifted the fur stole over her head and wrapped it gently around her shoulders. She inhaled slowly as she did so; there was something unbearably familiar about the scent of her hair powder – that sweet and almost leathery perfume. Lavender and Orris Root. Unmistakable. "...Flavour?" she repeated, curious at her choice of word.
Carmelia nodded as she adjusted the stole, plucking an errant strand from the fibres. "We all have a taste for something," she told her with a smile as she reached out and tucked a loose thread of brown hair behind Irina's ear. "There now. There's a blizzard coming… I wouldn't want you to catch your death," she said as she flicked her chin with her gloved fingertips.
Irina held her breath as Carmelia suddenly leaned in and kissed her lips – a soft, threatening caress. And when she closed her eyes she was back in that alleyway, feet cold and drenched in snow, her face slammed into a stone wall. The speed, the otherworldly scream, the scent of her attacker.
No wonder they'd never found him. It wasn't a him after all.
Irina's eyes widened.
Carmelia's blue eyes danced knowingly around her freckles for a moment before she pulled away and grinned. "…You're ever so lucky to have Prince Lupesci prowling after you, you know. He's quite a greedy hunter, once he sets his eye on a quarry, he simply refuses to share even a scrap with anyone else," she said, her gaze dropping to the pale flesh of Irina's neck as it vanished under the stole.
Irina shuddered visibly.
Carmelia sighed heavily at the sight. "I wouldn't fight him off so fiercely if I were you – just look where that gets you," she warned pointing to the stole as she took a few steps backwards and then walked off down the corridor - casting a furtive glance back.
Irina blindly fumbled for the wall.
She slumped against it just as Fiebe came rushing around the corner. Her footsteps slowed a little when she passed by Carmelia heading back into the great hall; their eyes met for a short, intense moment before they went their separate ways.
"…Ducesa!" Fiebe shouted, hurrying over and grabbing her hand.
Irina reached out to her. "Fiebe? What are you doing here?" she asked, fear gripping her. "You shouldn't be here; you know very well what they do with serfs who–"
"Ducesa, forgive me, but you must come! You must come now!" the girl insisted as she tried to drag her away from the wall.
"Wait, who's taking care of–"
Fiebe looked stricken. She bit her lip and looked down. "…Your father, Ducesa," she cried. "Please, you must come quickly!"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Tada! Did you guess? If you sense Irina getting backed into a corner, then you'd be right. Long Chapter, I know - I just couldn't find a way to cut it down - but hopefully you enjoyed it and didn't mind all the flashing back and forth. I've been tweaking it and tweaking it and... I'm still not happy with it. But meh, too late now :-) Thanks again to everyone who's reading, following, favouriting - I see you! Thanks so much! Big love to Scarlet Empress and Remember for such lovely reviews each week!
Historical/Language Notes:
Fröhliche Weihnachten: German, "Merry Christmas".
Fichu: More historical clothing; a Fichu is basically kind of a scarf or shawl that was worn by women. It was usually made from a light fabric - either muslin, cotton or lace - and was tucked into the neckline of a gown. They could be worn for modesty reasons or reasons relating to the temperature or time of year (...or to conceal Vampire bites...).
Lavender and Orris Root Hair Powder: Wigs, hair pieces and just big hair in general were "in" throughout the 18th century. They were actually mostly worn by men - women usually just made do with extra hair pieces to create the big coiffed styles that come to mind when we think of Marie Antoinette and other famous eighteenth century ladies. Of course, no L'Oreal Elnett back in the day and so they had to fix their do with something else. Most used hair powder made from starch that was scented with either lavender or orange blossom, and orris root. Once the wig or hairdo was in place - the powder was kind blown through bellows onto the hair to fix it (there's a great scene at the very beginning of Dangerous Liasons - GOD I LOVE THAT FILM - where Valmont and Mertuille are both seen getting ready, and Valmont wears a long cone-like mask as his wig is powdered. I think that's probably one of the best scenes in film when it comes to showing how men and women dressed back then... and the scaffolding underneath! But also, great film!). Of course, all these elaborate dos should have come with a health warning - big wigs could catch a flame from a candle, and they often made a lovely home for lice. :-)