Had she not burned to death beneath the charges of murder and witchcraft, Edda might have convinced herself that her thoughts were nothing but a delusion—seeded after months spent in isolation and torment, birthed from the terror of her death and the futile days she had spent in its aftermath. Had she not, just hours ago, cowered before the omniscient red eyes of a witch’s messenger, perhaps she would have allowed herself to forget the terrible possibilities she now considered.

  She wished to. My, but she wished to. But she would not be allowed to, this time, would she?

  Even now, there were still other dreadful realizations awaiting her, lingering on the edges of her consciousness. Eager to be known after she had turned away from them so long; deceiving herself into acceptance, fooling herself into ignorance. It had been easy to do so when those around her had not batted an eye to it. It had been especially easy to do so when the reward had been a life that would never have been attainable otherwise. She had been a Countess.

  Silly, stupid Edda had blindfolded herself, that she might pretend to be a Countess.

  “Miss Belten, are you quite well?” Lady Novak’s voice emerged, gentle with concern.

  Edda’s eyes blinked open in surprise, shaken from the thoughts that had begun to consume her. She still sat amongst the other women with her embroidery hoop abandoned in her lap. It was no time, now, to lose her composure. “I am, my lady,” she said quickly, with a small smile that she hoped did not seem forced, “I was just taking a moment’s rest.”

  Lady Novak smiled with her usual sweetness, “It does take a spot of endurance, doesn’t it?” She returned to her work with a nod, and—after shooting her an irritated look—Suzsanna, who had paused to observe the exchange, returned to hers as well. The parlor fell quiet once more, with only the soft shuffling of fabric on fabric or skin. And Edda’s thoughts, despite her best efforts, continued to spiral, writhing along with the pain of her wrist.

  The afternoon of embroidery and idle chatter gave way to the evening meal, and the drumming rain to a miserable, foggy drizzle. By the time they were seated at the table, Edda’s exhaustion had made her heavy—laden with the memory of the crow’s words and the memories of her decade of wilful obliviousness. The weight dragged her thoughts down, closer and closer to her dreadful suspicions.

  The meal did not help, of course. It took her considerable effort not to mindlessly eat herself into sickness again, when the food before her offered the most potent distraction. Listening and even occasionally contributing to the mundane conversations at the table only worsened her fatigue. And as she followed along, nodding and smiling and carefully picking apart her food, a tight ball of frustration and anxiety pulsed within her.

  There was so much at stake, and yet here she was putting on a fa?ade of normalcy, reliving the same drudgery that had killed her and Marta and—she feared—possibly others at this very table.

  The final dish, a dense, jelly-like confection of boiled apples, honey, and cinnamon, was served. It had been one of her favorites, a specialty of Cachtice Castle’s cooks, but Edda did not join Cintia and Suzsanna in the chorus of compliments that were to be relayed to the kitchens. It took the last of her self-control to pause between each spoonful of the thick, sweet dessert, when she felt rather more like bringing the bowl to her lips and gulping it down whole. By stuffing it all in, to leave no more room for her dread to grow, for her every sickening thought to expand and take shape.

  It was a horrible, horrible thing to consider.

  And yet, as she and the other girls bid their polite and grateful goodnights to Lady Novak, she realized how naive she had been to think otherwise. Not for the first time, she trailed behind the group on their way back to the South Tower, studying the backs of the three young women before her. Contending, yet again, with a possibility she had refused to consider the first time around. The shadowy, cramped corridors seemed to close in around her; each winding step narrowing her field of vision until all that was before her was what she had been terrified to admit.

  Perhaps, whatever evil lurked within the walls of Cachtice Castle did not prey on servant girls alone.

  She’d had her fears already, of course, about at least one other person whose life had found its untimely end at Cachtice Castle. Indeed, Marta’s death had been too sudden and too convenient. But in her mind, Marta’s fate had been linked to her own; entirely separate from the matter of the missing servant girls. If Edda was not to become the Countess, then Marta would live, and if Marta lived, then Edda could not become the Countess. As long as this was true, she had assumed that she and Marta would be afforded the same protections as the other guests.

  It had not occurred to her to question how safe the other guests had been.

  It was overwhelming. Far, far too overwhelming to realize just how many self-serving assumptions she had made and never questioned. A decade of them, slotted together like the pieces of some awful puzzle, each a testament to her ignorance and denial. The perfect foundation for the betrayal that had killed her. She swallowed thickly, barely able to squeeze out an acceptable farewell to the other girls as they reached their rooms. Barely able to look at their faces, lest her fear and self-loathing consume the last of her fortitude.

  Pushing open her chamber door felt more burdensome than ever before, but at last, after what felt like an excruciating eternity, she hefted the door closed behind her.

  “Miss Edda?” Marta called from where she was crouched over near the writing desk. Turning her head to regard Edda, she explained, “Blasted inkpot fell over again,” before straightening, and placing a carefully arranged bundle of dirty rags atop the desk. “Let me fetch you a cup of water. I know you will say you are well, but you do not look it.”

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  Edda collapsed into one of the settles with a groan, hardly fit to hold herself up let alone muffle the unladylike sound. She felt like she had been wrung entirely dry and, as Marta thrust a cup of water into her hands, her eyes stung with unshed tears. She pinched the bridge of her nose, determined to hold them back. It would not do. It would not help her now.

  Ever attuned to her distress, Marta sat down beside her, reaching a hand out to cover one of Edda’s. “What’s happened, Miss Edda?” she asked softly, soothingly.

  The question was almost enough to undo her, as such questions are. But somehow, Edda kept herself balanced on that tenuous brink; the urge to throw herself, sobbing, into Marta’s arms held at bay by the disgust she felt at her own stupidity. What had happened? What in the name of the blasted mother and the bloody maiden had truly happened? Perhaps, far more and far worse than Edda had been prepared to face.

  But she would have to. This time, she really would have to. And the first thing she needed to know, increasingly for herself as well as for Gretel, was what had befallen the missing girls. And, right now, Marta was the only way she had to find out.

  “Have you heard anything of the servant girls?” Edda asked, her voice trembling slightly.

  Marta’s hand tightened on hers just enough to be felt. “I overheard some talk, just today,” she admitted. She seemed almost hesitant to continue, but at Edda’s expectant look, she kept on, “The one named Varga helped in the kitchens, I heard. Ran off nearly three months past on one of the supply wagons from Tice. Apparently, it hasn’t been back since.” Releasing Edda’s hand, Marta closed her eyes and reached up to her temples. As though fighting off an aching head, she began to move her fingers in small circles. “Each fortnight when the wagons come, they wager whether the driver will be back.”

  Edda frowned. “And nothing of the other?”

  “No,” Marta said slowly, shaking her head slightly, “I haven’t yet mustered the courage to ask.”

  There was a sliver of relief amidst the frustration that Edda felt at this information, or lack thereof. The servants’ words seemed to corroborate the story that Varga had run off with a lover, regardless of what Gretel believed. Even so, that left the mystery of where Olah, the other missing girl from Ecsed, had ended up. Until she knew for certain what had happened to them both, she could not rule out that something terrible had already taken place at Cachtice Castle.

  She could not rule out that something terrible might happen again—not just to a faceless servant girl, this time. Perhaps, she herself would be in danger far sooner than the decade she had been gifted before.

  Edda shuddered, wanting to resist the idea, but unable to. “You must ask, Marta,” she pleaded, voice quavering, “We must be sure.”

  Marta sighed, dropping her hands from her face. “I’ll listen, Miss Edda. And I’ll ask when I feel I will be answered.” She shook her head, as though to dislodge a thought from her mind. “I dearly hope the villagers are wrong. Dearly.”

  Edda wished for that to be the case, too. For their superstitions to remain just that, and nothing more. For her own suspicions to be just as ungrounded; for both Olah and Varga to be alive somewhere. Because then, perhaps she might be convinced that Agneta, Cintia, Suzsanna, and the dozens of other young women who had been servants and guests at Cachtice Castle had survived, too. Then, she might be able to stifle the damning thought that she had lived as a Countess while they had died, right where she might have seen them had she cared enough to look. Then, most of all, she might be able to convince herself that her actions so far had saved her instead of putting her directly into harm’s way.

  The evening drew to a close, with the rain at last lifting to reveal a clear, black sky. The waning moon hung bright and low, but its cold light offered no comfort. Outside the flickering candlelight, the night seemed watchful, expectant, and, even as Marta assured her that the salt still lined the doorway, it felt as though something had crept in with the setting of the sun.

  Remorse and terror plagued her in turn, and the familiar routine of preparing for bed bordered on menacing. It was as though each humdrum step portended the crow’s demand. You must listen to the whispers, the beast had beseeched her. It had given her no choice, taking the sleeping powder as well as any control she might have had in the matter with it. She would have to listen, whether she wanted to or not.

  But maybe the whispers needed to be heard. She despised the thought of heeding, again and again, the advice of a witch’s messenger. But the crow’s words had helped her already—at least, she hoped it had—and perhaps it once again offered her something of use. A hint for how she might alter the course of events, just as she had when she changed her appearance. Or maybe even a way that she might learn of the events that had happened already and that might still come to pass.

  So, she would listen, though she could not fathom and did not wish to imagine from whose lips the whispers would come.

  Reclining upon her pillows with the bottle of lemon balm clasped in her fist, she watched as Marta fussed about in search of the lost sleeping powder. Despite her resolve, she was reluctant to end the woman’s needless search. Some part of her wished to prolong it until morning, that she might keep the candles lit and Marta awake to face the night with her. But neither the brightness of the chamber nor Marta’s colorful swearing soothed her any; only the smooth, cool bottle of tincture rolling against her palm seemed to ease her agitation, just barely.

  Alas, Marta threw her hands up and announced the powder misplaced. “Will you do without it?” Marta queried, discontent with the outcome she had been forced to accept. She wrung her hands anxiously. “I can sit up while you sleep, Miss Edda. If it will help you rest.”

  Edda considered the offer greedily. Almost instantly, she thought to throw out her plans, whispers be damned, for even a few moments to lose herself in sleep and forget about the fears frothing within her. But it was not to be. Not tonight. She took a deep, shaking breath, and shook her head, “I will do without it, Marta.”

  Intuitively, she knew she would not be able to find a restful sleep even if Marta climbed into bed and held her like a babe. Without the sleeping powder, her mind raced from one terrible thing to the next—and as soon as it calmed, the memories of her prison cell and of her death would be there to greet her. She would not sleep this night. She would not even attempt it.

  She understood, then, why the crow had taken with it the sleeping powder. If it had been left behind, she would have taken her dose without hesitation like the coward that she was. She ground her teeth together, once again stifling her miserable tears. She would not cry.

  But as Marta readied herself for bed as well, Edda had one last thought, “Would you leave a candle burning beside me? And open the bedcurtains?” It could not hurt to have some light, and to be able to see across the room to where Marta slept. Perhaps, once she was sure Marta slumbered, she might even distract herself with the books still hidden in the sheets beside her.

  It was not an unwelcome prospect, and it was perhaps the first she had had that day. Yes, she could read. When the whispers came, she would listen, but until then, she need not sit alone with her thoughts.

  And so began her first night facing the darkness she had avoided since returning to life.