.: TWENTY :.
...
Hermannstadt, Silvester 1769
As they slowly lowered the Duke's coffin into the ground, Irina felt Fiebe's fingers crawl across her knuckles like a comforting spider. The whole town had crammed itself into the snowy grounds of the cathedral to watch – the nobility in fine black satin and the poor in their rags – they all huddled around the grave like mournful crows shivering in the cold as yet another Governor was laid to rest far from home.
It had been barely a week since her father's death and despite Irina's pleas to the council to let her take his body back to Vienna – back home to be buried in the Brunswick crypt alongside her mother just as he'd always wanted – the town council had firmly refused. His body had still been warm – Folie and Scapino whimpering at his side – when the men came to take him away from the palace.
He'd failed to give his final confession, they warned.
His soul was in danger, they claimed.
It wasn't safe to let his body linger.
Irina had cursed Archbishop Sigismund when he swept into the room to perform the ritual for the dead, and she'd called Doctor Tarsus an animal and a monster when he came to prepare the body. She'd tried to fight him off; she threw herself over her father, and then kicked and screamed when the footmen dragged her away as the doctor hammered a silver stake through her father's heart and filled his mouth with cloves of garlic. It was a sensible precaution, the Doctor had insisted with bluster and thinly-veiled satisfaction, and Irina had sobbed in the corner with her arms limp around Folie's neck as they'd placed her father face down in his lead coffin and then nailed it shut.
She hadn't even been allowed to say goodbye.
She'd written furious letters to the Empress, knowing full well that they'd never make it in time. It was too late for an intervention now. Irina could only hope that when the letters did land on the Empress' imperial desk, she'd be equally as furious.
Irina scowled through her black, lace veil as the Archbishop commenced his final prayers. There were no more tears left to cry – they'd all but dried up, and her eyes felt stale and sore. She'd barely been able to dress that morning; she'd left her diamonds in her jewellery box and had swatted Fiebe's hands away when the poor girl had offered to arrange her hair. The only piece of jewellery she'd chosen were the black pearls – and that was only because she hadn't taken them off since getting them back. She'd always said that she wished she could wear black more, that it suited her better than any other shade. Still, having a piece of her mother with her offered her some comfort - even though when she brushed her fingers over them she found herself thinking more about Vlad.
"…Requiem æternam dona, Domine," Archbishop Sigismund chanted as he splashed holy water across the heavy coffin as the first grains of frosty earth were shovelled over the top. He crossed himself, "Requiescat in pace. Varde retro satana, sunt mala quae libas. Amen."
The crowd replied in unison; crossing themselves, clutching their prayer beads and muttering their own amen. They fixed their hostile gaze upon Irina as she stood there staring downwards as the earth swallowed up her father. They didn't care that he was dead – they barely knew him – and yet they somehow felt they knew her enough to blame her for his death. The mutterings around town were that she'd either murdered him herself – poisoning him in his sleep – or, that her scandalous behaviour had broken his heart and put him into his grave.
When Irina lifted her veil, Prince Lupesci met her gaze.
He was standing opposite her – at the other end of the grave – wrapped in a fur lined coat with one hunting boot propped up on the pile of the earth that would soon bury the coffin. He pulled his lips into a tight line and offered her a sympathetic nod. He'd tried to visit her several times since that night of his Christmas Eve Ball and she'd had the footmen turn him away every single time. She just didn't have the energy to tolerate him, and besides – Carmelia's words had chilled her. During those quiet moments of grief - when her mind wandered away - she wondered if anyone else knew the truth about Carmelia.
Speaking of which; the woman was nowhere to be seen. Her husband had turned up of course - just as the other members of the council had, all clustered around the prince as usual - but no Carmelia. Well, it was broad daylight after all.
Did Prince Lupesci know? The man who'd once claimed that he was working day and night to hunt down the man or monster responsible for the attacks and yet had failed to find or arrest a single soul?
Irina abandoned that trail of thought; it wasn't going to be her problem for much longer.
Archbishop Sigismund closed his prayer book and smiled. "Thank you all for coming," he said. "And do not forget that tonight's midnight mass will be held to celebrate the Feast of Saint Sylvester and the coming new year."
Irina sighed.
Last year she'd spent Sylvester with Amalia. They'd stayed at Schönbrunn and – since they both knew that they'd be leaving Vienna soon enough – they'd invited an old woman to their rooms at midnight to perform Bleigießen - to read their fortunes by pouring hot lead into cold water, divining the future by the shape the metal took as it solidified. Amalia's droplet formed the shape of a slipper, which the old woman foretold meant marriage and movement. When it was Irina's turn, the drop of lead had danced upon the surface for a moment before it suddenly pulled together into a ball and then sank straight to the bottom like a stone.
The old woman had reached into the bowl with withered fingers and pulled out the lump of lead. She'd held it up to her glassy, gleaming eyes for a moment before throwing it back into the cauldron to melt. She'd been frustratingly mute, and Irina demanded to know what she'd seen the old woman had held her gaze and said, "Go again. Sometimes we need a second try to accomplish what we couldn't before."
If only. If only she could go back and have a second try.
Irina scoffed; she'd heard and seen enough of the funeral, of everything. She shook her head, picked up her black petticoats and stomped away through the snow towards her waiting carriage. She couldn't bear to think of her poor father resting for eternity in such a barbaric place, and she couldn't wait to begin arranging her journey back to Vienna. As soon as the snow melted and the mountain roads became passable again, she'd leave and wouldn't look back.
Fiebe chased her down. "…Ducesa?" she said, pressing a hand to her mistress' arm.
"I'm fine," Irina insisted, shrugging her off. "Please don't fuss. I can't bear it."
"…Yes, Ducesa," she replied, holding back.
Fiebe had barely left Irina's side since that night. She'd always been protective, but the past week she'd practically made a pest of herself – constantly asking if she was alright and if there was anything she could do. For the first couple of days it had been endearing, but now it was becoming a little suffocating.
Irina hesitated before climbing into the carriage. "…I'm sorry," she told Fiebe, forcing a smile. "Look, I'm grateful for all that you've done – you've been so kind, even when I haven't been. But maybe you should go and visit your brother for a few days? Why not celebrate the new year with him - I doubt I'd make very good company."
Fiebe looked hurt. "My brother?"
"I hope he's alright," Irina said as she climbed into the carriage and slipped into her seat. "You haven't talked about him much and I haven't seen him since he took me to…uh, took me hunting. You haven't had a falling out, have you?"
Fiebe climbed in after her and sat opposite, her blue eyes downcast. "…He is safe – fine, Ducesa. And well."
"Look, I meant what I said about freeing him, you know – it's just that with my father no longer Governor, things might be a little bit more difficult–"
Fiebe nodded. "I understand."
"Look, I'll be returning to Vienna soon and – well, I wouldn't want to presume – but I had hoped that you both might consider coming with me," Irina said as she knocked the roof, signalling for the driver to go. It was barely a two-minute walk across the square to the governor's palace, but it was cold, the cobbles were slippery with snow and ice – and the people were even frostier. "Only if you want to, of course. I wouldn't want to steal you away from your homeland."
Fiebe blinked at her as the carriage began to roll away; she was practically breathless. She looked down and frowned, "Oh, Ducesa. You are so kind – and I…" she began to say but was interrupted when the door suddenly swung open and Prince Lupesci leapt inside, forcing her into the corner.
Irina glared at him. "…Your highness! What on earth do you think you're – how dare you!"
"Forgive me, Duchess," he said as he closed the door and beat his leather-clad fist against the roof. "But you've been refusing guests all week and I urgently need to speak with you."
Irina rolled her eyes and slumped back into her seat as the carriage clattered off again. "…I don't want to speak to anyone, your highness; I'm in mourning," she reminded him.
The Prince nodded. "I'm aware and I'm sorry for it – and that's exactly why I didn't want to force my presence on you, but–"
"And what exactly would you call this then?" Irina interrupted. "I mean, what could possibly be so important that you felt the need to barge your way into my carriage instead of doing the decent and respectable thing and allowing me my privacy – they just buried my father after all."
"–Irina, there are certain things that must be discussed," he told her firmly, his hazel gaze taking in her unmade hair – curling within the hood of her cloak – and the dark rings under her eyes. "Things that cannot wait."
Her shoulders dropped. "…What things?" she sighed, shaking her head. She was sick of fighting; she didn't have the strength to stoke her usual fire - it had gone from the roaring, spitting blaze to a dying ember.
Prince Lupesci raised his eyebrows as they bumped along through the snowy square. "We must discuss your future here."
Irina snorted; in spite of everything it appeared she was still able to muster a little of her usual scorn. "…My future? Here?" she repeated. She almost laughed. "Alexander, my future is in Vienna. The townsfolk here have made no secret of the fact that they hate me – that they think I'm a witch and a murderess and a whore – why on earth would I choose to stay? If I do, they'll end up throwing me on a pyre, or worse." She tutted as she peeled back the curtain and glanced out of the frosty carriage window – at the crumbling old buildings, their rooftops laden with snow and icicles. "…I don't belong here."
"…I strongly disagree," Prince Lupesci replied as the carriage slowly came to a stop. He opened the door and got out – his boots crunching into the snow.
Irina watched as he turned and offered her his hand, his fur-lined coat flaring as he spun. "Well, as touching as that may be, you're the only one," she reminded him as she slid towards the door and allowed him to help her out of the carriage. She smoothed down her skirts, "My father would want me to return home to Vienna, and that is exactly what I'm going to do. As soon as the spring thaw arrives, I'll be gone… and I doubt anyone will miss me."
The prince followed the hem of her velvet cloak as it trailed across the snow covering the courtyard. "Actually, your father had other plans," he said. "He wanted you to remain here in Transylvania; he even went so far as to make arrangements to ensure it."
Irina stopped and turned. "Arrangements?"
The Prince stepped alongside her. "Those arrangements are precisely what I wanted to discuss with you," he replied, his breath fogging the air between them. He gestured to the palace doors, "…Shall we?"
"Very well," Irina said as she forced her way up the steps and into the palace.
Once she'd greeted Folie and Scapino – who came bounding across the entrance hall towards her – she escorted the prince into the parlour, where they each took a chair within reach of the warmth of the crackling fireplace. Irina removed her cloak and gloves and handed them to Fiebe, whilst Prince Lupesci waved down a footman and ordered him to bring them some brandy.
"Well?" Irina urged as she settled her cold hands in her lap amongst the black satin ruffles of her mourning gown. "As his only child, I've been privy to the contents of my father's will for a long, long time – he made sure of it. Insisted upon it. I'm intrigued to hear what's suddenly changed."
Prince Lupesci cleared his throat before he spoke. "Firstly, I will be taking over as Governor of Transylvania," he said, placing his hand to his chest – the reflection of the fire dancing over his signet ring.
Irina scoffed; she wasn't surprised. "Of course you will. Temporarily, I suppose," she assumed, "until the Empress chooses a more suitable - more permanent - replacement?"
The prince almost smirked. "Actually, no," he replied, settling comfortably in his chair and crossing one snow-encrusted boot over his knee. "Your father sent my credentials to the Empress some time ago and recommended that – should the need ever arise – I would be a suitable choice to replace him."
Irina narrowed her brown eyes. "…The devil he did," she replied as the footman appeared with a glass of brandy in each hand.
He set them down on gaming table between them.
The prince scooped up one of the glasses and took a sip. He licked his lips, "You were right by the way, he did have a particular way with the Empress. His advice carried weight."
Irina was sceptical – after all, she knew Prince Lupesci had been forging her father's letters for some time. "And his signature, no doubt."
The prince savoured another sip, licking his lips. "You said your father was an ambitious man, well... just wait and see what I have planned, Irina. I think it'll make you reconsider the meaning of the word."
"…And I suppose the Empress has agreed to this?" Irina asked, reaching for her own glass.
The prince nodded. "Of course. I have the letter, if you'd care to see it… in fact," he told her, turning to the footman, "will you fetch the documents I mentioned earlier from the late Governor's study?"
The footman bowed his head. "Of course, your highness."
Irina blinked after the footman as he left the room - as if he was a dog that had suddenly learned to walk on its hind legs. She frowned at the prince, "I assume you'll be moving into the palace, since you already seem to be making yourself at home!" she snapped. "Perhaps you'd care to sample my father's bed while you're here; see whether it's comfortable enough for you!"
Prince Lupesci opened his mouth to reply but then seemed to change his mind at the last moment. He looked down and smiled instead. "…Which brings me onto the second matter."
Irina felt her stomach roll as she took a sip of her brandy. The liquid scorched its way down her throat; it tasted like swill compared to the stuff Vlad had given her.
"As his only daughter, your father was adamant - quite rightly - that you should be protected if something were to happen to him," the prince explained, gesturing with his glass. "He wanted to ensure a thriving future for his lineage, and that you wouldn't be alone–"
Irina held her glass a little tighter.
"–It seems that in the weeks before his death he was in the process of arranging a marriage contract," the prince went on, just as the footman reappeared beside him wrestling with a bundle of paperwork.
Irina narrowed her eyes. "…With whom?"
"Well, he was planning – he hoped," he said, his eyes settling upon her, "that you and I would marry."
Irina slammed down her glass and laughed. "…He mentioned no such thing to me."
Prince Lupesci shrugged his lips as he set down his own glass. "Strange," he replied as he took the papers from the footman. He began rummaging through them, "Because as far as I can tell, he'd been corresponding with the Empress on the matter for the past month – at least."
"…You did this," Irina accused, standing up and pointing a finger at him like a sword. "My father's barely been able to get out of bed this past month let alone arrange a marriage contract behind my back! I nursed him myself, he was delirious towards the end!"
The prince barely flinched. He plucked one of the papers from the pile, "I really don't know what to tell you, Irina; his signature and seal are all over these–"
"Forgeries!" Irina hissed. "Don't think I don't know exactly what you've been up to all this time! All those afternoons spent poking around his study and putting his seal and signature to whatever whim happened to be on your mind at the time. I've heard of some underhand proposals in my time, but this…? This is quite beyond the pale!"
The prince stared back at her.
"And anyway, it doesn't matter; the Empress would never agree to such an inferior match," Irina insisted.
He grunted as he placed the paper down flat on the gaming table. He slid it towards her, "She already has."
Irina blinked at him before she picked up the paper. Her eyes danced across the letter and attached contract as she saw words such as 'scandal' and 'shameful', as well as phrases such as 'given recent circumstances' and 'the best offer she will get' – and there - right at the bottom - was her signature and seal. Worse, she was threatening to withdraw Irina's rights (and her children's – if she ever chose to have any) to the Duchy of Brunswick – to everything her father had worked for – if she failed to comply.
"She thinks the match will do a great deal to bolster Austro-Hungarian relations," the prince drawled.
Furious, Irina balled up the letter and hurled it onto the fire. She chased it with the rest of her brandy and enjoyed the roar of the flames as they chewed it up. "There. Problem solved."
Prince Lupesci raised his eyebrows as he watched the paper burn. He chuckled, "It's all been agreed to, Irina," he remarked with a sigh. "It's done."
"Well, consider it undone because I certainly won't agree to it," Irina flared, storming away.
"You must do your duty as a daughter. As an Austrian."
She spun. "And what about my duty to myself – to my own happiness?"
"You have no such luxury," he replied.
"I disagree. For the first time I'm free to make my own decisions about my own life! And do you know what? I'm quite determined that it won't involve either you or this God awful place," she shouted as she headed for the door. Fuck waiting for the spring thaw, she'd pack and take her chances now.
The prince stood up. "Do you really think, Irina, you can just return to Vienna as if nothing has changed?" he warned her.
Irina ignored him.
"...After everything that's been said and written about you?" he said. "The stench of scandal isn't easily aired, after all. I think you'll find Vienna a city full of closed doors."
Irina stopped. She turned and scowled at him, but she knew he was right. Her tattered reputation would be there waiting for her; it would haunt her wherever she chose to go. If she chose to leave, she'd have to take her jewels and leave the Duchess of Brunswick behind. She briefly considered running to Parma - to Amalia, who would never turn her away. But she couldn't - wouldn't - tarnish Amalia with her disgrace. What was that peculiar Transylvanian saying? Something about doves that chose to fly with crows would find that their feathers turned black.
Prince Lupesci strolled over. "I mean, even the Empress – your own godmother – has washed her hands of you," he said as he stopped in front of her.
Irina slapped him. Hard.
When he recovered, he grabbed her wrist with equal ferocity. "As it stands, Irina, you haven't any other option," he told her. "If you break the terms of the contract now then you'd not only be betraying the wishes of the Empress, but of your own father–"
Irina struggled. "Like hell I–"
"You'd lose everything," the prince interrupted firmly. "Everything. And not simply your title. The Council have been pressing me to have you arrested - have you burned in the square for witchcraft, for murder."
She looked up at him fearfully. "You've no evidence-"
He held her gaze seriously. "The potions and poisons in your room are a good enough start-"
"Medicines!" she corrected angrily.
"They won't see them as that," he told her. "It'd be enough, and you know it."
Irina panted - her eyes as wide as a sow being led to the slaughterhouse.
Sensing her resolve weakening, the prince loosened his grip. He took her hand in his, "Now, consider this. If you marry me, you'll be protected and will at least have the hope of finding some redemption in all this. You will still have your title, and will live with all the finery and comforts you are accustomed to, and more. Your reputation will be restored – somewhat – and together we will rule Transylvania."
Irina watched as he lifted her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on the knuckle of her ring finger.
Afterall, the winner of a game Mariagenspiel must always kiss the loser.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Uh oh. It can only get better from here... right? Right...? :-| Vlad's back next week, at least. So take some comfort in that, I guess. I'm cruel to my leading ladies, what can I say?
As always, thanks so much for reading, following, favouriting - I'm totally bowled over by the response to this story both here and over on AOOO (you can find me at ink_magpie over there, in case you're interested) - you're all so kind! Thanks as well to Scarlet Empress, Anon and Noivocaine (Hi! Welcome aboard!) for the lovely reviews on the last chapter!
Historical/Language Notes:
Sylvester: The religious feast of Saint Sylvester aligns with New Year's Eve - traditionally it was spent partying and feasting, and then the old year was rung out at a midnight mass. In Austria, they used to walk pigs on leads through the streets to bring good luck, played games and read fortunes through Bleigießen (see below).
Schönbrunn: The Hofburg is the main Imperial Palace in Vienna, Schönbrunn is another just outside the city I believe (or what used to be called "outside" the city, anyway) - it was usually used as the winter residence.
Vampire Burials: So this is all real - this is exactly how they buried bodies they were worried would rise as vampires back during the height of the hysteria during the 18th century. And it wasn't just people they thought had been bitten, or whose behaviour suggested they might become a troublesome, pesky vamp beyond the grave - they suspected redheads, those who committed suicide, unmarried men and women, criminals and those who had been executed, and - here's probably the strangest one - the seventh child of the same sex born in a family. The bit about them putting the body face down in the coffin cracks me up - I mean, it's totally grim - of course - but it's such a ridiculous, obvious and kind of hilarious way of preventing a body from rising from the grave. I keep picturing this scene in my head of the vampire hunters all sitting around a meeting table racking their brains as they try to work out how to prevent vamps rising from the grave, and then upstart Vampire Hunter Dave suddenly snaps his fingers and goes, "Wait-wait-wait-wait! I got it, guys. Kind of controversial, but how 'bout we bury them face DOWN. Problem solved. Boom." *snort*
Bleigießen: "Lead Pouring". So, if you're a classic Simpsons fan then you'll probably remember Lisa and her mates performing a similar ritual with wax during a sleepover. It's a real thing, and people still do it around New Year to see what the year ahead might bring them. That's Carromancy (divination through molten wax), what Irina and Amalia engage in is called Molybdomancy - basically divination through molten metal. Traditionally "Silvesterblei" was used - Silvester Lead (no idea what makes it Sylvester-y, I think it's just bog standard lead tbh). These days we're more aware of the dangers lead poses - but back then they used lead for practically everything - including makeup. And they wondered why so many women died young! (Thank God for Revlon, eh?)