.: TWENTY-TWO :.

...

Irina sat at her vanity table gazing at her reflection as she dragged a brush through her hair. The curls crackled like the candle in front of her as it licked the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks and kindled in her brown eyes. As she chased the brush with her fingertips – smoothing the brown curls - she wondered whether she'd soon recognise the face staring back.

Everything was going to change, and there would be no going back.

"What you think, Ducesa?" Fiebe asked as she held up a blue stomacher freshly embroidered with black flowers, flecked with blossom white pearls.

Irina took a passing glance at it through the mirror.

Fiebe hovered behind her, smiling hopefully as she held the stomacher up against her chest. "I finish for you this morning. You like it?"

"It's... very fine," Irina replied, her voice flat. She was quietly wondering whether she could get away with wearing black; after all, she was technically still in mourning.

Fiebe's shoulders dropped as she looked down at the bodice. She'd worked on it for days, squinting by candlelight to finish it in time for the wedding. "…It will look beautiful, I think. Blue is your best colour," she said as she carried the stomacher over to the wooden mannequin near the window, stepping over the limp bodies Folie and Scapino as they snoozed side by side on the Turkish rug.

Moonlight trickled into the room through cracks in the curtains and cast an eerie pall over the swathes of blue satin, their colour reflecting onto the floorboards like a puddle.

"What I do with your hair?" Fiebe asked. "I put flowers in for you?"

"It's too early for flowers."

"…Not for some. I see sofran growing in snow outside of kitchen this morning."

Irina set down her brush. "I really don't mind, Fiebe," she sighed as she rested her head in her hand. "Do whatever you want."

Fiebe frowned as she reached down into her sewing basket and plucked out a few pins.

Her mistress had always been so particular about her hair and about what she wore. But in the weeks after her father died she seemed to be more comfortable in her chemise, mules and dressing gown than any of the collection of expensive and enviable manteau in her closet. She hadn't touched her diamonds or dressed her hair or rouged her cheeks. It was as though she'd given up on being herself.

Fiebe sandwiched the pins between her lips, "You know, it is lucky you will be married tomorrow," she carried on cheerfully as she began pinning the stomacher to the bodice of the gown. "Tomorrow is Dragobete – the day the birds are to be married also. The first day of spring; of a new beginning."

Irina's eyes settled on her mother's string of black pearls, curling like a viper on the surface of the vanity. She reached out and touched them, brushing the tips of her fingers over the obsidian orbs. It certainly didn't feel like a new beginning; to her it felt like the end.

"My Mamă say that on Dragobete is lucky to take the last snow, melt it and drink its magic," Fiebe explained as she admired the finished gown – brushing down the pleats falling from the waist. Pleased with the finished gown – her finest yet – she scooped up her sewing basket and strolled to the bed. "I will bring you some, Ducesa; it will give special power to your medicines," she suggested as she set down her basket and then began to peel back the coverlet and arrange the pillows.

"There won't be any more medicines or infusions, Fiebe," Irina groaned as she stood up and walked over to the bed.

Folie lifted her head as the hem of Irina's chemise brushed over her. She yawned and then eased up onto her paws.

"I told you. That's done with."

Only a few days ago Irina had ordered Fiebe to get rid of all the herbs and infusions cluttering the shelves in her bedroom. She'd intended to have them distributed to the serfs living at the foot of the steps of the lower town – as well as among the women of the Capota de Trandafir – but every single vial was refused; no one wanted to touch what they believed were simply poisons and potions – the products of witchcraft.

When Prince Lupesci had found out about her attempt to make use of them he'd ordered the contents of every last jar to be burned on a bonfire in the courtyard – all the while claiming that he was doing it for her; that he was trying to help her, to protect her. Irina had watched the bonfire from her bedroom window in horrible turmoil; she knew she'd escaped a similar fate herself and yet she couldn't seem to ignore the sinking feeling that she'd simply swapped one kind death for another.

Perhaps the most painful part of it all had been the fact that Doctor Tarsus had inherited all her medical books, and her microscope. It wouldn't have been so terrible if he'd taken them with the intention of actually using them to help his patients, but Irina knew that they'd simply be gathering dust – he'd only taken them to annoy her, to relish the look on her face as they were boxed up and spirited away.

The smell of the smoke had lingered for days; the shelves were a constant reminder of the changes that were underway.

Fiebe frowned and shook her head; she couldn't bear it, "But, Ducesa–"

"No. My future husband has made himself quite clear on the matter. We are to be on our best behaviour," Irina insisted. "…Everything will be different after tomorrow."

The prince had made himself very clear on several matters – not just on the subject of medicine; in fact, the whole month had been one long negotiation – with court lawyers and accountants from Vienna arriving to oversee them. Prince Lupesci had emerged with a bride, the Brunswick estate in Saxony, a townhouse in Vienna and a veritable fortune, whilst Irina had emerged with an overbearing husband, the added title of Princess (which wasn't nearly as illustrious as it sounded), and what remained of her reputation pieced back together like a shattered ornament. She would have to stop doctoring, stay in Transylvania, and be a dutiful wife and mother; that was the price to pay.

There would be one small victory however; the Empress had insisted that the prince would not be allowed to call himself Duke of Brunswick. That title – as well as their combined inheritance – would be reserved for their first-born son.

Irina was surprised when Alexander had seemed to shrug off that small stipulation – especially after the way he'd bragged about his bounding sense of ambition.

Fiebe moved to help Irina shrug out of her silk dressing gown. "…Ducesa," she sighed as she neatly folded it over the back of a chair. "You not have to do this... you not have to marry Prince Lupesci–"

"Yes, Fiebe. I do," Irina replied firmly. As soon as she said the words, she laughed, "See? I've already memorised my lines. I shall give a mesmerising performance tomorrow."

Fiebe looked pained. "But this is not play, Ducesa – is not opera," she warned as she watched her mistress slide her feet from her mules and climb into the bed. "You must write your own lines."

It was certainly starting to feel like an opera - a tragic one, where the lead soprano suffered a mournful death. Admittedly, they used to be her favourite - but now, she would have given anything for her life to mimic a lighthearted opera buffa. One act of madness and laughter followed by an 'all's well that ends well' ending.

"Society doesn't care for women who ad lib, I'm afraid. In fact, they burn them," Irina replied. She couldn't help the small smile that spread across her lips as Folie leapt up onto the bed and flopped in a ball beside her. She reached down and stroked her velvety ears. Thank God Prince Lupesci had nothing against dogs - although she did worry how his own hound, Demon, would get on with hers.

Fiebe looked confused. "Ad lib? I not know this word."

"It means to speak off script, to improvise–" Irina shook her head, "It doesn't matter. I shan't be doing it anymore anyway."

"Ducesa, I not like Prince Lupesci," Fiebe blurted.

Irina blinked at her surprise. "...Where's that suddenly come from?" she asked. "I thought you were just as brainlessly beguiled by him as the rest of the women in this ridiculous town?"

Fiebe looked down and frowned. She counted the stitches in the coverlet for what felt like a long time before she shook her head and said - in a firm voice, "I not like him. He is not good man."

"Well, count yourself lucky that you don't have to marry him," Irina scoffed. "...And pity the poor woman who does."

Fiebe's blue eyes danced nervously as she neatly arranged the covers around Irina's waist – her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Something was hanging on the tip of her tongue.

"What is it?" Irina asked.

Fiebe looked at her. She bit her lip, "Is nothing."

"Out with it," Irina insisted.

"…The man," Fiebe said. "The one from the Capota de Trandafir."

Irina looked down. "What about him?" she asked as she folded her hands over top of the coverlet.

"…I know you go to see him," Fiebe told her.

Irina blinked angrily at her.

"Please – do not be angry; Ferenc say nothing," Fiebe insisted quickly as she perched on the bed beside Folie.

Irina raised an eyebrow. "Then how did you know?"

Fiebe chewed on her lip. "You wear rouge that night," she explained as she smoothed a hand down Folie's back. "Rouge? To go hunting, Ducesa? At night time? Is strange, I think."

Folie stretched out her paws and rolled onto her side, sighing heavily as she leaned against Irina's thigh.

"Ferenc try to keep secret, Ducesa," Fiebe went on, gently scratching the dog's belly. She shrugged, "But I worry – so I ask him, and he cannot lie to me. Is impossible."

Irina rolled her eyes and sighed.

Fiebe fixed her gaze on her mistress. "…This man," she went on. "Ferenc say he is dangerous. He say that you went into castle with him, and whatever happen inside it make you cry the whole way back to town. He say this man try to kill him–"

"He wasn't expecting us – he wouldn't have harmed Ferenc," Irina insisted, jumping to Vlad's defense in spite of everything. "Look, he lives alone… he doesn't have guests very often."

Fiebe raised a coppery eyebrow. Her smile was slow, "You love him."

Irina scowled suddenly. "Love him?" she snorted as she shuffled down under the covers. When she found her pillow too lumpy, she sat up and thumped it so hard that Folie sat bolt upright. "…What a ridiculous thing to suggest."

And it was. Love was a big word; its true meaning continued to elude her. She knew she was attracted to Vlad; she could feel it in her blood and in her bones. She'd wanted to know him, wanted to be with him… but love? She wasn't sure. And was even less sure since finding out that he'd lied to her.

Fiebe didn't believe her. "I see the way you look at him that night," she insisted. "The way he look at you."

"…It's complicated, Fiebe," Irina replied. "He's…" A liar? A cheat? A scoundrel? A Vampire? The Vampire? And yet, "There's a lot more to it than that."

"You should go to him," Fiebe said, reaching out and touching Irina's hand. "Before is too late."

Irina tutted as she slipped her hand out and curled onto her side. "It already is."

Fiebe stared at her for a moment, then nodded. "…I let you sleep."

She smoothed the covers as she stood up from the bed, but as she stooped to blow out the candle beside the bed she accidentally kicked over her sewing basket which turned and spilled its contents across the floorboards beside the bed. She cursed under her breath as she quickly fell to her knees, scrambling to scoop everything up before the pins dropped between the floorboards or the cotton reels rolled under the bed.

Amongst the needles and the bobbins of thread, a small jar of dried herbs suddenly tumbled out from between the bundles of scrapped satin and rolled across the floorboards towards the bed. Irina reached down and scooped it up; her murky brown eyes narrowed as they passed over the label – over the handwritten words and scribbled skull accompanying them.

"…Mercurialis perennis," she read aloud. "This is Dog's Mercury…"

Fiebe wrung her hands in her skirts as she knelt amongst the contents of her basket.

Irina looked at her. "Fiebe, why do you have this? I thought I told you to get rid of all the herbs."

"…Yes, Ducesa, you did – and I did, but–"

"Well, what's this doing in your basket then?" Irina asked, holding up the jar. "You do know it's poison, don't you? Otravă, you understand? It's dangerous."

Fiebe nodded briskly. "Of course, Ducesa," she replied, sweeping the rusty curls from her eyes. "I remember now, I find it on floor behind trunk… I put in basket to keep safe and must have forgot."

Irina held out the jar. "Alright, but it needs to go – Prince Lupesci was very clear," she said. "Not to mention what might happen if one of the dogs got into your basket – you know what Folie's like, she'll eat anything. Get rid of it please – safely. Burn it outside - tonight, please. Don't let anyone catch you with it."

Fiebe took it. She looked down at the jar, her blue eyes heavy with guilt. "Yes, Ducesa… I will," she promised.

Irina watched as she threw the jar into the basket – smothering it under scraps of lace and silk – before hurrying to the door, blowing out the last of the candles as she went.

The room immediately fell silent and the rest of the palace followed soon after; the footsteps of the maids and the footmen fading into the night as they completed their final chores for the day. But Irina struggled to fall asleep. An hour limped by – the clock on the mantle chiming ominously – and she was still wide awake, curled on her side and staring at her wedding gown.

She tried to saddle her mind, but it kicked and bucked against sleep like a wild horse – refusing to relent. She knew marrying Prince Lupesci was the sensible thing to do – perhaps the only thing to do – and yet, she felt a sense of dread creeping over her unlike she'd ever felt before. And anger; she knew she'd had a part in backing herself into the corner she now found herself in. If only she'd kept her head down and had behaved like a good Duchess – just a bundle of agreeable petticoats in the corner without thoughts or opinions.

But she hadn't; she couldn't. She'd made her bed and now she had to lie in it. Even if sleep was intent on evading her.

When she realised that if she'd still had her herbs she could have whipped up a little something to calm her nerves and help her sleep she wanted to scream out in frustration.

It was not long after the clock had chimed two when Folie suddenly sat bolt upright – her nose twitching.

Irina – still awake – sighed as she smoothed a hand along the dog's back. She hadn't heard anything herself and a quick look down the side of the bed revealed that Scapino hadn't either; he was still sleeping soundly on the Turkish rug. "What is it?" she asked.

Folie's ears pricked and turned forward. She gruffed, then suddenly sprung off the bed and padded towards the bedroom door.

Irina groaned as she threw back the covers and slipped out of bed – embracing the cold and the darkness. "…What did you hear?" she whispered as she quickly snatched up her dressing gown and followed the dog's stealthy black shadow to the door.

Folie whimpered; she was looking up at the handle and scratching her paw against the grain.

Oh. Irina rolled her eyes, "Do you need to go out," she said as she reached for the handle.

Folie looked up at her, panting impatiently – her brown eyes bright.

As soon as Irina opened the door the hound bolted into hallway and bounded down the stairs – her paws skittering and sliding on the floorboards. Irina blinked at her in surprise as she quickly pulled on her silk dressing gown and then hurried after her – padding barefoot down the stairs. She made it to the entry hall just in time to see the pointed end of Folie's whip-like tail slipping through the doors to the ballroom – open barely a crack.

"What's gotten into you?" Irina muttered impatiently as she tiptoed after her.

The ballroom was empty and in darkness. Moonlight poured in through the large windows and painted the floorboards. The servants had been decorating the room all day ready for tomorrow's wedding breakfast and ball, hanging garlands of fresh foliage over every window and door frame, and wrapping them up the pillars to the minstrel gallery above. There must have been a hundred fresh candles in the sconces and chandeliers and tucked in among the garlands – all waiting to be lit.

Irina swallowed down the lump in her throat as she stepped inside. The sight of it all made her sick.

Folie didn't seem bothered by it; she swung her tail from side to side as she sniffed her way across the room, weaving in and out of the shadows until she suddenly stopped and sat down – panting as she stared into a corner of the room in full shadow.

Irina huffed as she stomped over. "…Folie, leave it. It's nothing," she hissed. "Come back to bed."

But when nothing suddenly stepped out from the shadows and into the moonlight, Irina stopped – her breath caught in her throat.

She watched as Vlad's hand smoothed a path between Folie's ears, his lips curling as the dog leaned fondly into his touch. He was dressed like the shadows around him – black coat, shirt, waistcoat and boots – darkness incarnate, and he'd come seeking his dawn.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Happy Friday! You're going to kill me for that cliffhanger - I know - but I just couldn't resist. I promise to redeem myself with the next couple of chapters ;-) How are we all? Hope you've had a lovely week. Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me - I hope you're enjoying and excited for the home stretch! xxx

Historical/Language Notes:

Blue Wedding Dress: Contrary to what most people think, white wedding dresses weren't traditional until Queen Victoria wore white to her own wedding and kind of brought it into fashion. Mary Queen of Scots wore white to her wedding back in 1559, but only because she loved wearing white and thought it suited her (white was actually the colour of mourning for French Queens - so that one caused a bit of a stir). Before white became synonymous with brides, lots of different colours were used. The main idea was to show off the wealth and standing of the bride's family - so the focus was more on the quality of the fabrics, furs, jewels etc. rather than on the colour of the gown. Historically, certain colours of fabric were more expensive than others - especially blue (Also, the Virgin Mary is usually painted wearing blue for "purity" - so not that far off a wedding shade as you might think!).

Dragobete: A traditional Romanian holiday celebrated on the 24th February, Dragobete is the celebration of the start of Spring (hence "The Wedding of the Birds" because it's around that time that birds start scouting for nests). It's also kind of a Romanian Valentines Day where boys and girls pick spring flowers for each other - particularly "sofran"/snow drops.

Opera Buffa: Hopefully you caught it in context, but an Opera Buffa is a Comic Opera. Originating from Italy, they were the complete opposite of the lofty, often tragic and oh so serious Opera Seria (which were very much created with the Classics-obsessed nobility in mind) - they usually depicted the every day trials of common folk, sometimes using the characters from the Commedia dell'arte. Rossini's The Barber of Seville and of course Mozart's Marriage of Figaro are both examples of Opera Buffa. :-)

Mercurialis perennis/"Dog's Mercury": This herb was mentioned in an earlier chapter where Irina prepares an analgesic (pain relieving) balm to help a woman suffering from severe menstrual pain. Topically, the juice from the plant is fine - but eating it is a definite no-no. It's HIGHLY poisonous - hence Irina worrying about one of her dogs getting hold of it. I mean, dog ownership is basically just asking "What have you eaten?" over and over and over again.