The vineyards smell of wine and rot. The baking sun amplifying the aroma so much that I gag. The black iron fence guards its borders, reaching to my waist as the scrap clothing of the scarecrows flap in the dainty breeze.
For a moment, the place seems, enchanting. The greenery of the vines twining along the wooden poles while birds chirp and caw about. Insects buzzing and cicadas droning all around as a butterfly flutters past me. So at odds with what might possibly be going on within its walls.
I can't afford to think about that right now. I won't let them see my fear, my hesitation.
I tilt my head towards the sky, gazing in awe at the castle's fog-enshrouded towers reaching into the sky like clawed fingers. It looked enormous down in the village. Up this close, it is gargantuan, a vertical city of stratified limestone towers and bridges, chambers and turrets, domed ballrooms and long, endless hallways.
My stomach sinks at the preliminary trekking of this place; I pray to Mother Miranda I don't get as lost as I expect of myself. I also try to remember that all of the previous servants started at the same position. I'll get the hang of it. I have to.
The shadow of the castle grows across the city – across me – like a hulking beast. As I round up the hill, my stomach sinks a little at the sight of the portcullis gate already open. Its sharp spikes make the archway look like the maw of an ancient beast, its throat narrowing into the large, ornate iron front doors. Golden lions rest at their center, rings clamped between their jaws.
The idea of knocking seems ridiculous. Who in the world would hear a knock in this grandeur of a place? Still, I lift a quivering hand and slam my knuckles into the metal. It echoes loudly and I cringe at the disrupted tranquility.
I wait for a heartbeat, wondering if I still have time to turn back, when the doors open on whimpering hinges. Beyond it, I can see the entrance hall bedecked in oakwood, with a long crimson runner, bordered in silver threading, leading towards a large oil painting poised at the back of the room.
I look left and right, but I don't see any sign of a person beyond. Still feeling unwelcome, I take a single step through the threshold and peek my head inside. There is no one on either side of either door. Knowing it would be worse to turn back than to be deemed as late, I step inside.
The doors close behind me, and the sound of metal locking has me whirling to find another portcullis gate has caged me inside. Turning back is no longer an option.
Quiet.
Everything around me stands really still . . . and quiet.
I decide it would be best to wait for someone than to wander this place. Taking the few steps further into the hall, I approach the painting tucked into an alcove. It sits in a border of opulent gold vines that wink in the candlelight.
The three women in the painting are quite lovely, each bearing curled, golden brown hair and matching eyes with rosy cheeks. I peer down to the plaque that reads: "Three Daughters: Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela"
I can only assume the names match the order of the three women – Bela being furthest to the left in a velvet gown of midnight black, her hair bound by a glittering pink flower. She looks off into a halting distance, as if anything were more interesting than the painter. Cassandra would be in the middle, her gown a steely silver and a dainty hand poised against her cheek. Daniela being the last, seems the loveliest as she peers at me. Her gown is of a delicate rose pink that reminds me of spring; its bow placed at the center of her chest matches the bracelet around her delicate wrist. Each of them is lovely and young and glowing, the color choices of their gowns seeming to tell a prophecy or a tale of its own.
Death and Life and Rebirth
Night and Star and Bloom
"You must be the new maid."
I yelp and whirl at the sudden voice to my left.
I find a woman of her mid-fifties, her greying hair pulled into a tight updo at the crown of her head. She wears a blouse of faded mulberry, and what might've been a salmon-pink skirt, dulled and dirtied through years use. But it's her hazel eyes that have me stalling despite my jackrabbit heartbeat. They're mostly green with flecks of brown around her pupil, and yet there is something so dead in her gaze, so defeated that she seems to be staring a thousand yards ahead of me. Looking at me, but also looking through me.
"You're early." She says by way of greeting, hands folded in front of her.
I hadn't even been paying attention to the time, and there's no clock in here to tell me otherwise. But it does spark a little bit of triumph in my chest.
Still, I'm so startled that I struggle to find words. "I – I knocked and no on answered, b-but the doors opened, and I figured I would just wait." I extend my hand with careful, approaching steps. "I'm Erika Pavel."
A terse dip of her chin. No exchanging pleasantries then. I bite back my ire as my vacant hand lowers. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, and I regain enough of my composure to straighten my back and square my shoulders.
After her examination, she says, "I'm Helga. Come, the Mistress is waiting for you."
Suddenly I regret eating a breakfast. "Mistress? Lady Dimitrescu?"
"Yes, Lady Dimitrescu. Did you think you wouldn't see her? You're going to be a new servant, and she likes to see them first-hand. I was requested to bring you once you arrived."
My arms become heavy and all thoughts eddied out of my mind except for a roaring silence in my ears.
Helga turns without another word, allowing no room to deny. She walks through a door on the left – likely how she got in here – and continues down a hall.
I can't breathe.
Nauseated, I follow her with wooden steps. I clutch the strap of the satchel until my knuckles are white, trying to calm my raging heart. I look out the windows that line the passage. I can only see the brick of the wall bordering the castle. It feels too tight – suffocating. Trapped.
I don't want to be here. I want to hide or be swept away to the servants' quarters like I had expected. Light is left minimalized to sconces and candelabras, with many windows having been draped in thick curtains, leaving the vast majority of the castle steeped in shadow and secrecy.
Somehow, I manage to say in a steady voice, "I wasn't expecting this upon arrival."
"You should have. The lady of the castle sees all of her help – old and new – as a means of keeping track. I don't know if her daughters will be there."
I feel like fainting.
Alcina Dimitrescu.
Helga leads me down a set of steps and through a door into a grand chamber with four headless angel statues poised in front of a bronze-colored door. Two more statues tucked in thin alcoves flank the doors. Open oil lamps and candles are the only source of light.
"This is the Hall of the Four." Helga says with a wave of her hand, as if knowing the name matters, and keeps walking.
To my right, an even grander staircase leads into the main hall where I can see a giant crystal chandelier and a sweeping wooden staircase on the left. I barely have time to note anything other than the chandelier before I'm forced to follow Helga, not wanting to be left behind.
I follow her through another doorway and another hallway of endless, polished wood thickened with clusters of antique furniture, small gatherings of intricately embroidered chairs, mahogany tabletops, and graceful ferns. A candle glows on every surface. Tall floor candelabrums with elegant flat bowls accent the narrow space.
My footsteps grow mute as they sink into plush gold and crimson runner. I hear a fly buzz in my right ear, and wave it away.
Helga opens double doors decorated in more of those golden gildings before we went a small foyer with an armchair and couch surrounding a low-lying marble table, a vacant fireplace to the far right, and another set of doors to the left. Helga finally pauses and turns around.
"When you enter," she says, "stop where I stop. Bow — low. When you raise your head, keep it high and stand straight. Don't look her in the eye, make sure you answer her questions, and do not, under any circumstances, talk back. You may work here, but they'll have you hanged if you piss them off."
I have a terrible headache around my left temple. Everything is sickly and frail. We're so close now, just another set of doors, and I'll be before this woman . . .
I'm having difficulty focusing on her face as I breathe in and out, in and out.
I hate my mother for putting me in this situation. I hate Luiza for making look like a sacrificial lamb. I hate Lady Dimitrescu. I hate this village.
Helga's brows furrow ever so slightly. Dare I say I see pity in her eyes. "You're pale."
I ignore her and try to calm my breathing, refusing to allow that shift in my scent – to let them smell my hear.
Helga approaches and places her hands outside my shoulders. She says with unnerving quiet, "Erika, this meeting is only to introduce you, and assign what you're to do." Her fingertips touch my chin, angling me to look at her. "You're not going to get eaten. You will not die today."
I'm baffled at the difference in the woman's expression – so much more focused, even determined as she stares at me. Could this be who she was before the denizens of the castle 'broke her'?
"Just play your part, and we'll be out of there before you know it." She whispers in my ear. "It will be unpleasant at some points, but just get through it."
I nod like a young child, my breaths becoming steadier, determined enough that I lift my chin, and stiffen my back.
Just get through it.
Helga nods and turns towards the double doors leading to an adjacent bedchamber. She knocks and a muffled voice gives permission.
From within, I hear Helga say, "My Lady, the new maid has arrived."
"Excellent. Bring her in." The Lady chirps, almost enthusiastic.
Helga appears in the doorway and motions me inside. I carefully follow her, feeling no less like entering a lion's den. Everything feels still. As if everything, even the stones, is holding its breath. As if it has been waiting.
The room is gorgeous with its high ceiling and gold décor. But it's not the carved oak furniture, or the intricate whorls of thread of the drapes and bedding, or the warmth of the fire that makes me stop dead. It is the dark-haired woman seated in a floral-patterned armchair. It might've been a couch for all I know with how wide its seat seems to be, yet she takes up its entirety.
I turn and face the woman of dreams and nightmares made flesh.
Alcina Dimitrescu.
Her ebony wide-brimmed hat shields most of her face, safe for her lower jaw. She smiles, revealing white teeth that are too perfect against her bloodred lips.
Slowly, she angles her head up. "Hello, Erika Pavel."
Her voice is one I've never heard before, low and cool - cultured. One infused with control; less like an angel's and more like that of a ghost, heartrending and full of mystery. It makes my bones crack and splinter, makes me feel the astonishing cold of a winter long since passed.
I'm struck dumb at her beauty, enough that I can't stop my mouth from gaping. I grip the strap of the satchel tighter.
Her beauty lies within contrast; with the sharp angles of her cheekbones and jaw, but softness in her snow-white skin, and burnt gold eyes. I've never seen anything like it before – it's haunting. The color so depthless yet writhing like smoke under glass. Even her pale white dress contrasts her black hat, her ebony hair coiled in tight curls. She wears a few strings of pearls all gathered under one clasp, matching the glittering studs in her ears. A black rose pinned along her left breast. Simple, yet elegant. Anything else would look eccentric, like putting glitter on a lion.
It makes her all the more petrifying. Fearsome in her perfection, utterly still, ethereal and calm and radiating with ancient grace. The only blessing is the absence of the daughters.
She lounges in the armchair as if it were a throne of gilded jewels. The neck of a crimson glass hanging between her fingers. The blood rushes from my head. I force myself to take a breath. And another. Then I take my skirt and do a perfect curtsey, my head low as instructed. "It is an honor, Lady Dimitrescu."
Her giggle sends my skin crawling. "Oh, how adorable!" she drawls. "I must say when I saw your letter, I was quite intrigued."
As I rise, Lady Dimitrescu remains smiling faintly. A spider with a fly in its web.
I had been so desperate at the time that I didn't bother to hide it in my application. My goal was to gain sympathy – speaking of my father passing and my mother falling into an alcoholic pit of despair; how I took on hunting, used as means to describe my skillset, and how I cared for my little sister – but now, I might've oversold my story. Painting myself as a feeble, petrified little girl who was desperate for a way out.
A part of me screamed not to include Lacy in the letter, knowing damn well anything I said could be used against me. My family, used against me . . . but I put enough exaggeration on my mother to pin their attention on her.
I could use this, perhaps. Lure them into a false sense of security and pathetic demeanor, enough so that they won't give me a second glance. Just – breathe.
Breathing, as it turns out, is rather hard when the woman known as the Village Vampire is observing every flicker of my throat.
"I am honored that you even considered. Life hasn't been the same with the passing of my father, and my mother just isn't really . . . there. The poor thing." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, my body bristling at even the thought of feeling pity for my mother. "No matter what I do, I can't seem to help her. But I refuse to give up on her."
Alcina cocks her head, the shadow of her hat casting over her shoulder. On anyone else, the movement would be contemplative. On her, it is the warning of a predator, sizing up prey. There is . . . something that hardens her beauty, some kind of permanent sneer to her features that make her allure seem contrived and cold.
Run. Every instinct roars with the word.
"My condolences about your father." There is no sympathy behind her words, her voice flat. Bored, even.
Alcina rises from the chair, placing the crimson glass on the large oakwood desk that might as well be a low-lying coffee table compared to her!
I refuse to balk, to shrink at the sheer size of the woman, but she towers over me as if I were no bigger than a toddler! Her shadow stretches over me, my body wanting to shrink. I fist my skirt in my hands to keep them from trembling, barking at my body to follow my commands.
She picks up a piece of paper from the desk – my letter, I would assume – and paces towards me, her gait casual. "Now, you mentioned in your letter that you hunt."
I try to block out the heavy thumping of her footsteps, the pressure of her approach on my right. "Yes madam. My father taught me at a young age, regularly. And when he passed, I perfected the craft as means to provide coin for my family."
"So what changed?" she muses with a spider's smile.
I keep staring ahead. "There is only so much a merchant will pay for pelts and a small portion of meat. I mostly relied on the fur since most of the meat went to feeding my family. I had hoped that I might be of better service here than in the woods."
Her presence slowly moves behind me. The skirt of her dress hisses along the carpet and wood. "Do you have any other skills besides killing?" she drawls.
"Give the variety of game that I've caught, I have knowledge on preparing many types of animals. I can also cook menial dishes, but am willing to learn anything new, even beyond the kitchen."
The steps move to my left, my spine tingling as though someone tickled it with flower petals. "Given you became the primary caretaker, I presume you had to prepare your little sister's clothes?"
"Yes. I can wash, iron, and fold clothes. And I kept the house as clean as I could despite my mother littering bottles and clothes everywhere." I didn't feel bad for one heartbeat throwing my mother to the wolves.
"I see." Lady Dimitrescu finishes her circling, returning to my front. She places a leather-gloved hand on her hip. "Well, I always start everyone in the same position. As if right now, you're a scullery maid. You'll help in the kitchen and do the expected chores as assigned. If you prove competent enough, you'll move up the ranks into different stations."
I bow my head. "Thank you, Lady Dimitrescu, I am most grateful."
"Helga will give you a tour of the place before showing you to your quarters. Know that I expect perfection and punctuality here. There is no grey area."
"Yes, My Lady."
"If there are no questions," she says in a tone that suggests asking questions will only earn a trip to the gallows. "Then you may leave. I'll expect you to serve dinner tonight. Be gone, both of you."
Helga, whose existence I've completely forgotten about due to her standing quietly by the door, steps up to me and presses a hand to the small of my back. She guides me out of the room, through the foyer and turning back into the long hallway.
It isn't until we round a corner that I let out a deep breath and wipe the sweat from the back of my neck. Now my hands are shaking, thoroughly.
Helga doesn't say anything either, even when we turn left once entering the Hall of the Four, and up that grand staircase into the main hall.
We turn another corner and Helga stops, folding her hands in front of her. She looks to me with grim satisfaction. Dare I say even surprise. "Well, you survived longer than most of the other ones."