Being called a problem was something I had gotten used to.

When it was spat by my mother, or whispered among the villagers, it never really bothered me – because I knew I wasn't the actual cause. Because it wasn't my fault.

But after seeing the Dimitrescu family fight, to see Cassandra's face twist with such emotion . . . the image still burns in my mind as I patch up Bela's arm. I finish wrapping the gauze, securing it as the fire crackles behind us. The cuts were deep, but not enough to warrant stitches.

The two of us sit on the couch in my chambers, Bela having grabbed and guided us back once Alcina and Daniela excused themselves. Well, more like Alcina ended the gathering and ordered Daniela out – the youngest daughter staring between the door from where her second sister had left, and from where her eldest sister stood at my side. She left without a word, but her gaze still lingered over us until she stepped through the doorway.

Bela's hand rests in my lap, and she doesn't take it away. I don't know why, but I trace my thumb over her palm, my fingertips resting on her bandaged wrist.

"You're awfully quiet." She mutters, almost afraid to disturb the silence of my suite.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Everything. What will happen to me. To you, your sisters."

Bela finally lifts her hand and rests it in her own lap. "We'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" I look to her, and those golden eyes glitter like a sun-cast pool.

She folds in her lips. "If this is about what Cassandra said, don't let it bother you."

"You say that," I stand and begin pacing before the fireplace, "but what am I supposed to do – supposed to think – when I am the cause for your tension?"

"You're not. Cassandra is."

"That's not what she said."

"That's her opinion."

"But your family didn't deny it. You didn't deny it."

Bela clamps her mouth shut and sighs, shaking her head and running her fingers through her golden hair. She leans forward, resting an elbow on her knee, chin in hand.

I step up to the arm of the couch, wanting to keep a distance from her. "Have you really changed that much since we met?"

A shrug of her shoulders, her hair curtaining her face. "I guess."

"You didn't know?"

Those golden eyes find me. "Of course I didn't know. What I do know, is that your singing awakened something in me. From the very moment I heard you in the laundry room. And it was, magical." She turns to me, tucking one leg beneath her as she adjusts herself on the couch. "The melodies you created, the lyrics you spoke, the emotion you gave . . . it was something I've never felt before. And have been trying to feel again since."

I am going to try to be happy.

I shift on me feet. "Well, I hope I haven't disappointed you."

"Not at all. It's just, you haven't sung that song since then."

I fiddle with my fingers. "It's a rather, personal song. I would sing it to my little sister all the time. It was a form of comfort, and at that time, I was still getting used to the castle." After a heartbeat of silence, I then say, "And don't think I didn't note what Cassandra had said."

Bela stiffens. Her gaze hardens as she fists her hands.

Quietly, I say, "You've really killed people."

I don't know if it's a question, or a statement. But Bela simply says, "Yes."

A fruitless effort, but still I ask, "Why?"

It has always been something that was connected to this castle, but there was always this sense of . . . denial in my mind. Of course, I never had the time to properly contemplate such events, and a part of me just wondered if it was simple conspiracy anyway. Even with the evidence, things can happen – my father being one of many who perished during the sickness that raided our village two winters ago; and Mother Miranda had sent out the same notes to all of the families who lost loved ones. Every word had been matching safe for the names of the victims and the insurance money that accompanied it.

If these women truly were killers . . . the amount of bodies that are probably piled in that infamous dungeon . . .

For a moment, as I gaze into her golden eyes, I don't see anything.

She's not looking at me. She's looking through me.

Her eyes blink as her soul is pulled back into her body, and she inhales deeply. "It's all I know how to do. And, I need their blood for sustenance."

I blink. Then she blinks.

I was, in darkness, for a while.

You and I are nothing alike.

"Bela . . ." The eldest daughter looks to me, as rigid as a statue. As if she could sense my next few words. I can feel my own heart pounding, but not from fear, but curiosity. Anticipation of a possible answer. "What is Alcina Dimitrescu?" My breath quivers as I inhale. "What are you?"

She looks at me, then down, and away. Something darkens in her eyes, the slightest narrowing of them has me regretting my question.

Not because I'm worried about getting killed . . . but because I elicited something deep within the eldest daughter. Something she's thought about before, but considered it better to be buried than contemplated.

After a slow exhale, her eyes find me again. With an assassin's quiet, she says, "I don't know."

I don't know what I expected. Or why I feel disappointment weigh heavy on my chest.

In reality, I have no right to know what she is. And she has no reason to tell me.

Were it not for the pain – and fear – still lingering in her eyes, I would've called bullshit. But even she doesn't know what she is – who she is. Instead, she had been told to accept it.

If she isn't human, what is she to be called? I think back to the whispers I'd heard among the village: monster; murderer; freak; demon; witch.

I always thought the stories of the Lords of Mother Miranda had been . . . exaggerated. Truths spindled with lies to make interesting and terrifying stories for kids and adults alike. But there is something more to this family, and likely more to the other Lords of the village.

And suddenly Castle Dimitrescu seems like one of the safer places to be working.

If people had taken work with Lord Heisenberg –

"Erika," Bela barks, snapping me from my thoughts. I hadn't realized I'd been staring at the floor, "are you okay?"

A moment of silence, my heartbeat in my eyes. "I don't know. But I'll survive." I turn to head towards the bathing room. "If you don't mind, I need to prepare for bed. I have to serve The Mistress tomorrow."

Hurt briefly flashes across Bela's features, hardened behind her mask that she wears so effortlessly. Still, she lifts her shoulders, "You're kicking me out?"

I bristle at the familiar cockiness, aware of her attempt to lighten things after the complete shit-show that had transpired.

But I am not in the mood.

"Yes. I am." I coldly say.

I don't allow her another word as I walk towards the bathing room. I close the door soundlessly behind me.

Mother Miranda is standing at the foot of my bed.

Some deep, innate part of my brain had awoken me to goosebumps crawling along my skin, while a shiver seared up my spine.

I could smell her: death twined with lilacs and baby's breath. Alluring and deceiving. A beautiful trap.

"Hello, sweet child." Her voice croons, so soft and seductive.

I gasp as I rocket up in bed, scrambling back until I'm plastered against the headboard. I sneak my hand under my pillow and clutch my knife to my chest as I stare.

She stands in a shaft of moonlight cutting through the darkness of my chambers. Shrouded in ravens' feathers, I can only see her glittering mask, fashioned like a bird's beak. Her headdress sparkles like a grotto of gold coins, the depthless eye at its apex staring into my soul.

"That won't be necessary, and frankly, wholly ineffective."

Behind her, my fireplace is empty. I thought I had thrown some logs on it before bed –

She steps closer to my bed, and I hold the knife aloft, regardless of her words. I'm frozen like a deer, my heartbeat the loudest thing in my ears. Showing fear among the Dimitrescu family means certain death, but what happens if I show fear around Mother Miranda? Does she not care? Is she more used to it?

Closer her steps come to my bed, and as she passes before the windows, her gown of feathers begins to move, shift. They spread open into multiple, lovely wings. Silhouetted against the glass, she becomes the paragon that led the village to elect her leader in the first place. Powerful and intimidating, yet beautiful and dark and regal.

I scoot myself across my bed, retreating as she advances. I don't know what to do.

A dream – this has to be a dream.

Her wings shrink; withdrawing behind her, leaving only her ornately embroidered black dress and pearl shall draped over her shoulders. Feathers cascade around us like snow. The dress hugs her body in such a beautiful way, brimming with elegance while leaving something to the imagination with the skirt draping along and sleek.

"What do you want?" I command, but I keep my voice quiet.

"I'm merely here for a visit, darling." She purrs, and I bite back a sudden tingle in my core.

I nearly tumble as my foot slips from my bed, but I catch myself and continue my retreat, following the direction of where I think the door is. Dream or not, every instinct in me is screaming to run.

The noodle thin strap of my sea-foam colored nightgown falls off my shoulder, but I don't touch it. The skirt finishes emerging from beneath my blankets and snaps around my legs. I keep my gaze upon Miranda.

"What do you want?" I repeat, keeping my other hand behind to so I can feel for the door handle.

Behind her golden mask, I can see her smile. Slowly, in a lover's whisper, she says, "I came to see you, dear."

There's a knock at my front door, and my eyes blink in a reaction of fear.

Within those seconds, Mother Miranda is gone.

The moonlight floods into my rooms and my breathing quickens.

My hand touches cloth, and I back into something firm yet soft. I gasp in fear as I whirl around, my feet shifting their direction of retreat. But a hand both warm and cold clutches my wrist, and a searing heat blazes its way up my wrist. Like someone had dragged a hot blade across my skin.

I yowl in pain, dropping the knife on reflex as I try to yank my wrist away. But the grip is unyielding.

"You seem quite special." Mother Miranda says as I feel her fingers tighten and pull me to her. Her other arm wraps around my waist like a lover's embrace, her lips trailing along the shell of my ear – as light as a butterfly's touch. "A fire burns behind those lovely eyes. I can see it."

"I'm just trying to survive." I grit. A gathering of my hair falls over my shoulder, shielding half of my face. Suddenly I'm overwhelmed with emotion, and my eyes begin to water, my chest beginning to hitch. In a child's whimper, I add, "It's all I know how to do."

"I know my sweet child," her fingers pet my head, and I feel pins and needles spread across my scalp. "Such a strong heart. Such . . . determination."

I know I should be flattered – honored, even that Mother Miranda had complemented me, things I'm worth something.

But that little pocket at the back of my mind still screams to run. To fight and break free and find Bela or Alcina –

Mother Miranda releases my wrist, but her other arm stays wrapped around my middle. My gaze had dropped to the floor, staring at the tips of her shoes and my toes, and her golden clawed fingers take my chin and force my eyes up.

I watch as her hand lays upon her mask, the black lace of her sleeve blending with the chains of her golden nails.

My body grows heavy in her arm. My shoulders drop, my knees give out forcing my body to press into hers. My feet are limp, toes slightly curled. The only reason I'm still standing is because of her. She smiles as she removes her mask –

Great Black God – she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Such unfathomable beauty with her turquoise-colored eyes, her soft, porcelain skin gleams like glass while her pale chamomile hair disappears within her black veil.

"You may be the one." Mother Miranda hums, her knuckles brushing along my cheekbones.

And then I feel that shift . . . and the surge . . . A wall crumbling within my mind.

A great sleeping, ancient beast opening an eye.

I feel it stir — like it will lunge for me.

I gasp as I feels a sharp sensation pierce my chest – my heart. My hands grapple along my chest, but there is nothing. No physical weapon.

Miranda continues to hold me close. "But I will allow myself a little play beforehand."

My blood, my very body grows as cold as death. Yet an arousal slithers along my blood. I can feel it, sense it. A black snake wending through my mind and blood. It sniffs for me. It hunts for me.

My light. My fire. My spirit.

I feel as if my limbs have been locked in ice. I can't even move my fingers, blink my eyes – at the mercy of Mother Miranda's will.

Oh, gods.

A breath on my nape, the tip of her nose gliding up my neck to that sensitive spot of skin just beneath the hollow of my jaw.

"Home," she whispers to me. "You are Home."

I refuse it. Refuse her touch, her hollow embrace.

And yet, my body strains; arching into her touch, her sweet nothings. Deep within the chasm of myself, I can see it. Golden and glittering.

It's not bright – the luminosity as soft as twilight sky. It flickers deeper within my darkness.

Not smothered, just, further in. Not hidden but . . . slumbering.

The essence of Mother Miranda's magic seems to see it as well, for she wends deeper within my chest – a snake of shadowed mist drawn to that golden light.

Not like the wick of a dying candle flame, but . . .

A heartbeat. My – heartbeat.

Panic seems to make my body strain, but still not move.

I squeeze my eyes shut and bring down a wall of obsidian in my mind – as glittering as the night sky, and strong as steel.

There's a deep, bone-shivering growl, and Mother Miranda spears into my heart again, punching through my mind's inner wall and lashing down my spine so hard I scream.

She's going to kill me.

"Struggle all you want, little mouse. I like to play games." My breath escapes me when I feel the cold tip of her tongue trance up my neck and to my ear. As she nibbles on my lobe, she continues, "I will have my fun with you before your use for me expires."

The black snake slithers under my back, another piece around my throat. Across my stomach. I can't even flinch at the proprietary touch.

Its head slithers up my body.

Eyes of bloodred crimson stare at me. Born of cruelty and arrogance.

Its jaw unhinges and sinks into my shoulder. Its cold venom – Miranda's venom – coursing through my veins, sputtering my fire into droplets.

My heart. She wants my heart. Will burrow into me as if I were no more than carrion –

Power. A terrible, deadly power that threatens to rip my very self in two –

Erika, a voice bellows through the darkness.

Dark, clawed hands grasp my shoulders, and I buck and thrash against them.

"Erika, wake up!"

Suddenly it's like my soul snaps back into my body, and my eyes – my true eyes – fly open to stare at the gold filigree ceiling.

"Are you . . . " someone says beside me, and I jerk.

Where am I?

"It was a dream," says Helga.

I stare at her, then look around the room, running a hand through my hair. The castle. I'm back at the castle — that's where I am.

I am sweating, and the sweat on my back feels uncomfortably like blood. I feel dizzy, nauseated, too small and too large all at once.

An odd draft from somewhere in my room kisses my face, smelling strangely of lilac. I look over towards my windows.

The drapes have been pulled. . . and the windows are wide open.

I scramble from my bed, tumbling like a newborn lamb as my feet catch in the sheets, and shove all of my bodyweight into slamming the glass shut. I'm surprised it didn't crack.

The glass is cold from the autumn night, a thin veil of frosted dew coating the leaves and grass. The sky has become tangerine orange, mingling with streams of pale pink clouds and a periwinkle horizon.

My breath still quivers, my entire body trembling with effort and panic. I lean on my shoulder while I move to press my back into the glass.

"Erika. It was a dream," Helga says again. "You were screaming." She gives me a shaky smile. "I thought you were being murdered."

I place my warm hand on my forehead, my lip curling as it is moist; strands of my hair plastered to it.

"I was . . . I was . . ." I shake my head to remove the memory from my mind. "What are you doing here? It's not even dawn." I cross my arms, flushing slightly.

"I was coming to prepare you for serving The Mistress. It's been long enough since you've had 'proper chores' I wanted to come and refresh you."

I hardly acknowledged her presence during the argument between the sisters, and having her here now still feels like a dream. I hadn't forgotten about the information she kept secret from me. Despite her reasons and her own damn rights, I still feel hurt. Betrayed. From the beginning I'd assumed she knew many secrets about this castle, about these people. I trusted her to protect me, and in doing so, I thought she would tell me ways I could survive.

But then again, would I even have believed her?

"I think I can handle serving the Lady."

"I'm taking no chances."

I roll my eyes, finally tucking my hair behind an ear. "Is she aware of this?"

Helga shrugs her shoulders. Dare I say even a playful smile is on her lips. "She expects it."

I don't really appreciate the timing of her humor, given my life seems to have spiraled into a living hell, but a part of me warms at the companionship.

I throw some more logs on the fire before changing into my dress. I decided to pick one of a berry plum color; one of the more outstanding colors of the eleven that Luiza bought me. in truth, it does feel like a while since I've worn a dress. Hard to believe it was only a few weeks ago. Nearly four months I've been at the castle now. And with almost nothing to show other than a few new scars and a little more coin. The thought reminds me to mention my letter to Lady Dimitrescu.

Helga allows me to quickly rinse myself off – best not to have my head cut off simply for smelling bad. Even if Alcina's scent probably consists of blood and mold and perfume. She runs me through my posture, gives me a list of Lady Dimitrescu's favorite foods and wine flavors, along with a list of the Mistress's daily routine.

It's a hell of a lot more to memorize than Bela's – and I am grateful for the opportunity to learn. Not that I'll ever admit that to Helga. And that her training has me gritting my teeth in irk. It reminds me of the early days with my mother, even before she fell into her pit of despair. But unlike her lessons, this is for my survival. I make a mental note to memorize each letter of the words on the list right down to the punctuation marks.

After an hour of 'refreshing' my lady-in-waiting skills, Helga combs my hair and braids it along the crown of my head. As we're leaving my rooms, I follow closely behind Helga. Would've held her arm if I didn't expect ridicule. But as we pass by a window, I pause when I spot a raven posted on the windowsill.

I stop dead in my tracks. The bird cocks its head to me, looking at me with both sides of its head.

Then it taps the window with the tip of its beak. I flinch – actually flinch – at the sound, my hand clutching the neckline of my dress.

The raven taps again, and I hurry my steps down the hall to catch up to Helga. I could still feel the eyes of the raven upon my back.