.: TWENTY-SEVEN:.
...
Hermannstadt, Ash Wednesday 1770
Dawn came early that morning; the bright, spring light streamed in through the windows and made its presence known, bleaching everything it touched – from the floorboards to the furniture, and even the dust and dog fur floating in the air. For the first time in a long time – and for perhaps the last time – Irina had risen with it; the bed had felt cold and lonely without the dogs, while the echo of Vlad's touch had kept her wide awake. She'd gone to the window to watch the sun rise over the rooftops as she pondered the day ahead of her and all she had to do.
When Fiebe came in to wake her mistress and make a start on her toilette, she was surprised to find nothing more than a tangle of sheets on the bed and Irina hunched over her writing desk near the window in her dressing gown – her quill fluttering furiously as she wrote.
"…Bună dimineaţa, Ducesa," she greeted from the door, her sewing basket balancing on her hip. "You are not sleeping…"
Irina carried on writing. "Good spot," she said, glancing briefly over her shoulder, "Come in, close the door."
Fiebe did as she was told and then made her way across the room, hesitating slightly as she waited for Folie and Scapino to come bounding at her as they usually did. When they didn't, she frowned and looked around the room. "…Where is dog?"
"Safe with a friend." Irina waved her quill as she searched for the right word, "Uh, ferit. Cu un prieten – inţelegeţi?"
Fiebe approached slowly, pulling a face as she noticed the lace fichu wrapped tightly around her mistress' neck – shrouding it from view. "…Ferit, Ducesa?"
"Da. Don't ask, it's not what's important right now; I haven't the time to explain it once in German let alone a second time in Romanian," Irina added as she dropped her quill into the ink pot and then briskly sprinkled salt over the paper and ink. "So let's just leave it at that."
Fiebe set her basket down beside the desk chair and peered over Irina's shoulder, watching as she blew away the salt, folded the letter and then scribbled a name across the front. "…For the eyes of Baron Benedict, The Card Sharp of Spittelberg?"
Irina smirked as she quickly sealed the letter with wax. "Yes."
Oh how she wished that she could be there to see Joseph's face when one of the Imperial Guards dropped the letter on his desk! He'd never been fond of that nickname – a private joke between them that had come about when one of Irina's old maids back in Vienna had spotted him creeping out of a notorious brothel in Spittelberg – and on more than one occasion. When Irina had teased him, he'd lied and told her that there had been nothing sinister about it – simply a card game – to which her reply – a raised eyebrow and a look that might have given his mother a run for her money – was more than enough to make him buckle. Since then, he'd become quite fond of his private title, and yet, she knew he'd be cross seeing it written out in front of him and would be tempted to watch the letter curl in a candleflame. She only hoped that once he'd looked at the accompanying documents and read the forwarding letter from his sister, he'd soon come to understand that the slightly cruel subterfuge had been necessary.
Irina set the letter down carefully on top of the one she'd already written to Amalia – bulked out with the incriminating documents she'd found in her father's desk.
She swivelled side-saddle in her seat, and looked up at Fiebe, "I need you to listen very carefully to me, Fiebe – asculta cu atentie," she said, tapping her ear. "Inţelegeţi?"
Fiebe nodded, "Yes, Ducesa."
Irina took her hand. "I need to trust you to do something very, very important for me," she explained.
Fiebe looked down at her hand and swallowed hard.
"The truth is, that you've become more than just a maid to me these past few months," Irina went on. "You've been a friend and a confident – uh, un bun prieten – which is why I know I can trust you to do this one thing for me."
Fiebe sighed and frowned. She shook her head slowly, "Ducesa, I not–"
"Come on, I need to show you something," Irina said, keeping a tight hold of Fiebe's hand as she suddenly stood up.
She hadn't realised that Fiebe's basket had been plonked down by the side of her desk chair however, and as she stood up, she managed to kick the basket – sending the contents spilling across the floorboards. When Irina's eyes fell upon a familiar looking jar nestled amongst the pin cushions and the scraps of lace and silk, she dropped Fiebe's hand.
"…Fiebe…?" she muttered as she bent down and scooped up the jar of Mercurialis Perennis – Dog's Mercury.
Fiebe took a step back and gulped as she watched her mistress handling the jar.
Irina chased her, noticing how her blue eyes were shifting and how she twiddled with her fingers. "…I've asked you twice already to get rid of this – do I really need to ask a third time?" she said, shaking the jar at her. "Once is understandable. Twice, I could put down to forgetfulness, but this? This is outright defiance."
Suddenly, Fiebe eyes were spilling with tears.
"…Why on earth would you still have it?" Irina asked. "I told you last night to get rid of it – to burn it immediately–"
"Ducesa," Fiebe stuttered, shaking her head.
"Answer me!" Irina demanded, suddenly raising her voice.
Fiebe immediately fell to her knees and cried out. "Please forgive me, Ducesa!" she begged. "Forgive me!"
Irina looked down at her friend's strawberry blonde curls and felt a gnawing feeling deep inside. "…For what," she snarled, tightly clutching the jar in her fist.
"I have choice none! They torture my brother – they torture Ferenc!" Fiebe admitted tearfully.
"Who?"
"Herr and Fraulein Carmitru!" Fiebe replied. "They say that if I not do what they ask they kill him!"
Irina felt a lump rise in the back of her throat. "…Do what?" she asked, her voice cracking away when she realised that she knew the answer already. "What did they ask you to do?"
When she thought back to her father's final hours – to the sudden vomiting, the swelling in his belly and the sallow, yellow hue his cheeks had taken on as he drifted in and out of consciousness – the symptoms all pointed towards poison – specifically, Dog's Mercury. It was so obvious; she couldn't believe she'd missed it.
Fiebe sobbed loudly and shook her head. "Please, Ducesa–"
"I asked you a question!" Irina barked as she threw the jar down between them, watching with some satisfaction as the glass exploded like a firework at her feet.
Fiebe flinched and cowered. "Please…"
Irina lunged for her, "I want to hear you say it!" she shouted as she grabbed a fistful of Fiebe's curls and forced her to meet her gaze. She reached down and snatched up a shard of broken glass, "And you will look me in the eyes when you say it!"
Fiebe looked up – her blue eyes full of fear and wet with misery. "…I kill him," she squeaked. "I kill your tata." She pointed to the jar – or what was left of it – the curled leaves spread across the floorboards around her. "L-am otrăvit. I put in medicine."
Irina tightened her grip and felt the shard of glass dig painfully into the palm of her hand, and for a split second – sick with her betrayal – she considered slashing Fiebe's face with it. But then she saw the scar – the slightly raised, slightly reddened patch of skin on Fiebe's pale neck – and stopped herself.
As soon as she'd shoved Fiebe away and dropped the glass, Irina broke apart.
There had been a moment where she'd refused to believe it; refused to believe that Fiebe – her friend – could possibly do such a thing – and after everything she'd done for her. But there it was, as clear as the bright morning light pooling across the floorboards between them – reflecting off the broken shards of glass.
Irina slumped onto her side and cried, and cried, and cried – cradling her hand as it pooled with fresh blood.
"…Forgive me, Ducesa," Fiebe whimpered through her own tears as she picked up some shredded muslin and crawled through the broken glass towards her, ready to bandage her mistress' hand to stop the bleeding.
At the sound of her pitiful voice Irina viciously backhanded her. "Forgive you?! I should make you eat the whole fucking jar!" she screamed.
Fiebe shrunk away, "I not want to do it!" she insisted desperately. "I will to hell for it! I not forget – I not sleep! Please, Ducesa–"
Irina scowled at the girl as she sat huddled among the broken glass and confetti of leaves. She was sick with anger, but the truth was that Fiebe was as much a victim in all of this as she was – simply a pawn, forced into battle at the behest of someone far more powerful. And when she wondered why Fiebe hadn't just gotten rid of the jar – of the evidence – and protected herself from being caught, Irina realised that the girl had been carrying the guilt with her for weeks – quite literally. She was far too kind-hearted to lie and to cover her tracks – she knew that she'd done a terrible, monstrous thing and had probably wanted to get caught – had felt that she deserved that.
Irina sat back for a moment, watching blood pool in the palm of her hand as she pondered her next move. Her whole plan going forward had hinged on Fiebe, and being able to trust her – something that barely minutes before she'd been absolutely certain of – but now? She realised that the sad truth was that she wasn't sure she had a choice – after all, the only way forward, was forward.
Irina took a breath and looked at Fiebe, "…No more lies," she warned. "Gata cu minciunile, inţelegeţi?"
Fiebe glanced weepy-eyed at her mistress. "Da, Ducesa. I never lie to you again."
"I should think not. You'll tell me everything," Irina said as she clutched her bleeding hand. She pointed a finger. "Every-thing."
Fiebe nodded. "…Everything, Ducesa."
They sat on the floorboards for a long time; as soon as Fiebe started telling Irina the truth about her father's death and everything that had led up to it, it unravelled from her and babbled from her freckled lips like a river after the winter thaw.
The truth was that not long after Ferenc had taken Irina to Poenari, he'd been seized by the Carmitru. They'd tortured him for weeks and threatened his life in the hope of using Fiebe as a pawn in their plans. To save her brother's life, Fiebe had promised to kill the Duke. They hadn't offered her a weapon or told her how to do it, but her newly acquired knowledge of herbs and the ready-prepared arsenal in Irina's bedroom had been more than enough.
Irina tucked her legs under her chemise and dressing gown and watched as Fiebe gently cleaned the wound in her palm and bandaged it up with a scrap of muslin. "You worked in the Carmitru household for a long time – you were Fraulein Carmitru's maid," she said, rubbing her forehead, "Did you ever hear them mention something called The Carpathian Conclave?"
Fiebe looked at her. "…Yes, Ducesa," she replied as she tied off the makeshift bandage. "Many times."
"Their reign of terror is over, do you understand?" Irina said as she sat back and stared at the leaves and broken glass – an addendum to her plan formulating in her mind. "…They're not going to get away with this. With any of it."
Fiebe began dutifully scooping up the broken glass – plucking the shards from between the floorboards and dropping them into her basket. "They are too strong," she said, shaking her head. "Too dangerous."
Irina helped her. "…We all have our weaknesses," she replied.
When the bedroom door suddenly creaked inwards, the women looked up and were surprised to find Prince Lupesci striding into the room unannounced, already dressed in his finest suit – an embroidered silver coat trimmed with brown fur (most likely from a bear), with matching breeches and waistcoat.
The door clicked shut, and then his brown boots came marching towards them. "Wife," he greeted, his lips curling into one of his almost smiles.
Irina staggered to her feet and quickly tied off her dressing gown. "A little premature, don't you think?" she replied, swallowing down the anger that was boiling to the brim inside of her.
Prince Lupesci's tepid gaze drifted downwards. "I simply wanted to see how the word tasted on the lips," he replied, holding out his hand.
"…And?" Irina replied as she dropped her hand into his.
He lifted it to his lips and kissed her knuckles – peering curiously at the bandage. "As sweet as it sounds," he replied.
Irina forced a smile. She was quietly pondering picking up one of the shards of glass on the floor and slitting his throat with it.
"…What happened here?" he asked as he turned over her palm and pressed his thumb against the muslin binding.
Irina shrugged, "Oh," she said, waving her other hand, "I was clumsy – one of my perfume bottles smashed and I cut myself on it."
The prince off to the side, catching Fiebe's red-eyed gaze as she carried on carefully gathering the bits of glass. He sniffed the air, "I can't smell anything."
"It was old… and almost empty. Never mind," she lied as she tried to steal her hand back – but the prince held on. She steered him away, "Isn't this unlucky?" she said, attempting to steer the conversation along with him. "I thought you weren't supposed to set eyes on your bride before the ceremony."
Prince Lupesci hummed. "I'm no slave to superstition," he told her as they strolled over to the mannequin near the window. "Besides, there's been a slight change of plan – I thought it best to come and tell you about it myself."
Irina felt her heart leap into her throat. A change of plan? Now? "…How thoughtful," she replied.
"As you know – with today being the first day of lent – Archbishop Sigismund has been quite strict about today's ceremony being performed only after sunset," the prince explained.
Irina nodded, "Of course."
The prince smiled. "Well, I managed to sway him; I've convinced him to change his mind."
"…You did?" she replied, feeling her blood run cold.
He nodded as he lifted her hand to his lips again. "You'll now attend confession at four and then meet me in the cathedral at five – just before sunset."
Irina hesitated. She'd planned to be on her way to Poenari by sunset – knowing that if anything happened or went wrong, she'd have Vlad's protection. "Before sunset…?"
The prince kissed her fingertips. "Problem?" he asked, nipping at them gently - tasting the tips.
Irina peered up at him through her lashes. "...Not at all," she replied, realising that her plans would have to shift slightly off course. "Did you manage to change his mind about the feast and ball too? It is supposed to be a celebration after all."
Prince Lupesci was pleased she seemed to think so. "Roast stag and wine. No music," he replied.
Irina sighed.
"I'm sure you'll cope," he said as he released her hand and reached past her to smooth his fingers along the blue, satin pleats of her wedding gown. His pupils dilated as he admired it. "…This I like, by the way."
Irina stiffened as his lips hovered near her ear – praying that he didn't look past her fichu and see the bite marks on her neck.
"…I can't wait to see you wear it," he whispered, brushing her hip with the back of his fingers. "…And I'm even more anxious for the moment I get to remove it."
Irina caught his heavy gaze as he pulled back. Her brown eyes flashed, "Well, I do hope you're patient, your highness," she replied softly, threateningly. "Because you're going to be waiting an awfully long time for that moment."
Prince Lupesci narrowed his eyes at her, a snarl on his lips.
"…Probably midnight, at the very earliest – by the time the wedding feast and ball is finished," she elaborated innocently, shrugging her lips.
At her teasing, he sent her a sour smile.
"...I mean," Irina went on, lowering her voice, "you're lucky Archbishop Sigismund isn't insisting you abstain from fucking me until Lent is over."
He scoffed; his eyes dropped to her breasts. "I'm going to enjoy that foul mouth of yours," he told her before stomping away.
Irina scowled at his back as he retreated from the room. Oh, how she longed to tell him that he'd never, ever get the chance to touch her – over her dead body – and even better, that someone else had beaten him to it – barely hours ago, in fact.
"…Five. Don't be late," he reminded her before he left, closing the door behind him.
Once he'd gone, Irina clenched her fists and took a long, deep breath. Time was no longer on her side and she was going to have to move quickly.
"Fiebe," she said, rushing over to her. "I want you to pack a bag full of my jewels, and another with clothes, underpinnings and shoes – enough for three outfits, and only three outfits. Oh, and a cloak." She stooped over and gathered up a handful of leaves – shoving them into the pockets of her dressing gown. "Understand?"
Fiebe stood up slowly, "Yes, Ducesa, but–"
"Don't pack the black pearls, leave them out on my vanity," Irina added as she made her way to the door, "as well as – oh, you know that silver necklace with the baubles? The little ones, like musket balls – uh, glonţ? Is that the right word?"
Fiebe nodded. "Da."
"That one. Leave that, and a diamond bracelet – I don't care which one," Irina went on. She touched her undressed ears, "Oh! And a pair of my diamond girandoles – the biggest you can find."
"But Ducesa–"
"Just do it, please," Irina said from the door. "And don't go anywhere – I'll be back."
Irina hurried from the room, tiptoeing her way down the corridor towards the landing – where she stooped over the railing and peered down into the hallway below. Prince Lupesci was hovering there, barking orders at the maids and footmen who were busy preparing the house for the wedding feast – switching candles, sweeping floors and polishing wine glasses.
"I want that carriage parked up outside those doors before four, is that understood?" he shouted as a footman appeared with his cloak and cane. "If she's late, I'll be seeking you out."
"Of course, your highness," the man said, dropping his head.
Prince Lupesci snatched his cloak and cane, and then he was gone – storming through the doors and to his waiting carriage.
As soon as he was gone, Irina rushed downstairs – leaping the final couple of steps and swooping past the ballroom and through a side door into the servant's corridor. She made her way through the chaos to the kitchens, where a whole crowd of servants were bumping around preparing a meager wedding feast. They seemed surprised to see the Duchess wandering among them in her dressing gown but were obviously too frightened of displeasing Prince Lupesci to say anything about it.
Irina approached a table where a dozen dusty bottles of wine had been set out. She picked up one of the bottles and brushed away the dust coating the label with her thumb, "Is this the wine to be served tonight?" she asked – catching the attention of a passing footman.
"Yes, Ducesa," the boy replied.
"This Austrian swill? Oh, no, no, no! Surely not!" Irina snorted, wrinkling her nose as she turned the bottle over in her hands. She shrugged, "I suppose it'll do for most of the guests, but it's certainly not good enough for my future husband, and he'd be absolutely furious if he knew that this was what we planned to serve him and other honoured guests – like the men from the council, for example."
The boy looked panicked at the thought. He reached for the bottle, "Oh, I–"
"Leave it to me," Irina said as she took the bottle and marched off in the direction of the wine cellar. "Wait here; I'll go and choose something more appropriate."
She squeezed her way through the kitchen and slipped through the door that led down into a small under croft and heavily stocked wine cellar. Under the vaulted ceiling, the shelves held close to a hundred bottles of red and white wine, and Irina's fingers danced over the bottles as she quickly searched for a good replacement.
Finally, her eyes fell upon a couple of dark green bottles of Bikavér – a Hungarian red wine known famously as Bull's Blood. The perfect choice for a Hungarian Bull. Her heart thumped against her ribs as she quickly switched the bottles, glancing over her shoulder before she pulled the cork out with her teeth. She pulled a handful of the dried leaves from the pocket of her dressing gown and then – before one more glance over her shoulder – shoved them down the neck of the bottle. She reapplied the cork and then shook the bottle up – glaring through the dark green glass and even darker liquid as she tried to spot the leaves floating there. Satisfied that they couldn't be seen, she shoved the bottle between her legs and then repeated the entire process with the second bottle.
She emerged breathless from the cellar and grinned as she handed the bottles to the waiting footman. "Here you go," she said. "I want this wine served to myself, Prince Lupesci and the mayor and his wife tonight – and no one else. It's a very rare, very special Hungarian wine bottled with herbs – just make sure you strain it through a cloth before pouring it."
The boy looked puzzled. "Strain it?"
Irina huffed. "Look, I'm personally putting you in charge of this," she said as she dusted off her hands. "And when my future husband – Prince Lupesci wants to know who to thank for serving such a fine wine for the toast, I'll be sure to point him in the right direction. Won't I?"
The boy grinned. "Oh! Thank you, Ducesa!"
Irina nodded and then practically skipped out of the kitchen.
When she returned to her bedroom, she found her bed draped in silk skirts and bodices from her wardrobe – a large trunk sitting open beside it.
Fiebe emerged from the wardrobe looking flustered. She held up a red satin gown and a pink one, "I not know which," she panted. "Which you want, Ducesa? What is for?"
Irina pulled a face. "I don't care, I'm not the one who's going to be wearing them."
Fiebe dropped her shoulders and stared after her mistress with a look over bewilderment as she crossed the room and made her way over to the writing desk.
Irina scooped up the letters and then turned to face Fiebe. "I tried to explain my plan to you this morning before… well," she sighed and shrugged.
Fiebe blinked at her.
"…Put those down and come here," Irina said, waving her over.
Fiebe gently flopped the gowns onto the bed, and then came strolling over – a strange look simmering in her watery blue eyes.
Irina held her gaze. "I need you to go to Parma – to the court of the Duke," she said. "His wife, Amalia is a very dear, very old friend of mine."
Fiebe looked down at the letters. "Parma? I not know this place."
"It's in Italy," Irina replied.
Fiebe's eyes widened. "Italia!" she gasped. "Dumnezuele! I not leave Transylvania! I not leave you!"
"Listen to me; I need you to go there, today, and I need you to give the friend I just mentioned these letters. It's very important," Irina explained, taking her maid's hand and placing the letters inside it.
Fiebe was unsure. "I not go – I not leave you with him, Ducesa," she insisted, trying to give the letters back. "I not do it!"
"You must," Irina insisted as she turned away and walked over to her vanity – where all her jewels had been placed into a small velvet bag. She reached into the drawer and pulled out her pocket pistol, placing it down next to the black pearls and the other jewels that Fiebe had set aside for her. "You owe me."
"…But, Ducesa – how I do this? How I get to Italia?" she asked. "Is prostesc! Crazy! I not lady like you. They not listen to me!"
Irina scooped up the bag and shoved it at her. "You are now."
Fiebe looked down at the bag full diamonds sparkling at her and practically dropped it. "Ce?!" squeaked.
"The clothes you've been packing are for you, not for me," Irina said as she made her way over to the bed. She rifled through the gowns laid out, "They might swamp you around the bust a little, but they'll do until you can have them altered. Or do it yourself, I suppose. If I were you I'd take the tansy-coloured evening one – it'll suit your hair colour. The pink polonaise will be good for travel – it's a long journey, it'll take you at least a week I'd say and you want to be comfortable yes, but elegant–"
Fiebe followed her in a daze. "Ducesa–"
Irina hummed as she searched for a third gown. She glanced at the mannequin near the window, "And of course, the wedding dress – you put so much work into it, it's only right that you take that as well."
Fiebe plonked the letters and the bag of jewels down onto the bed and then grabbed her mistress, "Ducesa! You must listen to me! I not do this!" she shouted, shaking her head. She sighed and dropped her head, "Nu merit acest lucru – not after what I did to you."
Irina took her hand gently. "I want you find Ferenc – I trust he's recovered by now?"
Fiebe nodded.
"Find Ferenc and ask him to be here before four – not too early, and definitely not too late," Irina went on. "You're both going to take my carriage, ride straight to Parma and do exactly as I've asked. You'll both be safe there, and if all goes to plan then I'll follow along in a couple of weeks. Do you understand?"
Fiebe let out a long, uncertain sigh before she nodded. "…Yes, Ducesa. I understand."
"Good," Irina replied as she slipped away and walked back over to her writing desk. She slipped into the chair and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment – smoothing it out in front of her. And then she took her quill, dipped it into the ink and began writing a final letter – to Vlad.
"But, Ducesa–"
Irina groaned, "Oh what else? I think I've been more than clear about what I want you to do, Fiebe!" she snapped, turning in her chair. "I don't want to tell you too much about what's going on – it's far too dangerous! It better you don't know what I've got planned."
Fiebe tutted. She pointed at the mannequin, "But, if I take wedding dress – then what you wear? Hm?"
Irina smirked at her; she brushed the quill feathers against her lips. "…I have something else in mind."
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Oh man, my heart broke when it came to revealing sweet little Fiebe as the one who'd poisoned Irina's father. It's ALWAYS the quiet ones!
Hope you're well reader and taking care during this totally surreal spring we've stepped into. I went down with a cough last week and so have been self-isolating (which is pretty much my modus operandi anyway since I work from home). I still have absolutely no idea whether it was the dreaded Coronavirus or not (testing in the UK here is really hard to come by, we're just being told to stay home and wait it out if we have mild symptoms) - but if it was, I seem to be pulling through it okay.
Anyway, thank you so much for reading, following and favouriting! Lots of love to my ever faithful reviewers, Scarlet Empress and Remember - love you guys!
Historical Notes:
"Bună dimineaţa": Romanian, "Good morning."
"Ferit. Cu un prieten – inţelegeţi?": Romanian, "Safe. With a friend - understand?"
"Nu merit acest lucru": Romanian, "I don't deserve it."
Spittelberg: Spittelberg was (and still is) a district in Vienna that was known for its bars and brothels - in fact there's a building there well known for its sign over the door advertising that Emperor Joseph was seen hightailing it out of there back in the day. Hehe! ;-)
Diamond Girandoles: Girandoles are a type of drop earring that was very, very popular during the latter part of the 18th century.
Bikavér: Bikavér is a type of Hungarian wine, and yep, it's fondly known as Bull's Blood.
