Castle of Sighs Read online

  I’d waited at the window for her footsteps and the blood in my veins marveled at her bravery. For she will prove to be true.

  The bones do not lie.

  She shivered when I opened the door and beckoned her inside, closing it quickly behind her should the living watch from the trees. Her face paled at my transformation, for just hours before I’d been a much different sight.

  I’d been beautiful. Young.

  I’d warned her that one must give up such things when the Mother calls them to service, but I don’t believe she fully understood until she’d seen for herself.

  But despite my terrifying appearance, my wrinkles, my bent bones, Adelaide came into the cottage. She sat at my feet by the fire and stoked the flames for me whilst I felt every ache and woe from my newly-aged bones.

  For hours, until morning, I told her of the mystery that paints the forest Black—of the whispers that follow at your heels—of the screams that caress your skin as the sun is swallowed by the trees.

  And then, Adelaide knew. She KNEW.

  And the fear in her eyes told me she would never breathe a word.

  Let it be known, the darkness that falls upon this land is a sinister force most profound.

  It is evil.

  Through fears of children, of grown men and women, it worms its way into the minds of those who wish to slumber without harm.

  It does exist.

  I stare at the X until my eyes tear and the tiny symbol blurs beyond recognition. It is Matilde’s symbol. Her mark. Her words forever upon this paper, kept safe by a veil of magick and by an oath of one capable and trustworthy enough to keep them. I shiver as the name repeats itself inside my skull. Adelaide. The nursemaid employed by the bishop. The woman employed by the Elector of Eltz.

  The very woman minding Niclaus and Margret. I continue reading as a icy breath steals itself upon me, swaying the herbs that hang from the ceiling, flickering the candles’ flames.

  Today, this evil will exist no more.

  Let it be known that I have broken the darkness and have banished it to the darkest corners of Bavaria so that it may rot for all eternity.

  I have offered the most reverent sacrifice so the innocent may live.

  Let the price paid fool those who gaze upon me—that my beauty shall scar with age, my bones bend, my skin wither. Let me slip from the memory of men who know only want and repulse he who lays eyes upon my hide. Let my skin be the trade for containing such evil. Let no man nor witch trespass upon the sacred ground that keeps it, for the earth shall be soured there and the black blood spilt shall rise again. Let this be my oath.

  Let my soul honor My Lady by keeping her child as my own.

  Let me protect Leise, and one day her own child, and hers, as well.

  The words shake me to my core, leaving in their wake memories I have pushed away deep inside me. I stare at the X that signs the bottom of the page. It begs me to acknowledge it, telling me to face the truth. These are Matilde’s words. This is her secret.

  And what a secret it is. My eye gazes back to the name scratched in black ink. Leise. Such a sacrifice for one to make… For the woman who was my mother. For me.

  Chapter 28

  Somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, a voice sings out, “Maid…Mother…Crone.”

  It is a line from a story Matilde once told at bedtime. The stories were always of the forest—that damned place—always of the whispers between the trees, of vaporous beings and their evil intent. Cautionary tales to keep me safe and warm in my bed. Never the truth. Always make-believe.

  It was no coincidence that my mother sought help as she fled from the bishop. Nor was it coincidence that Matilde raised me, protected me.

  It was more than a promise.

  My blood was hers to keep safe. Her oath.

  “Oh, Mutti, what did you do?” My voice startles me, echoing throughout the chamber. As long as I could remember she’d been a frail old woman. Had I never noticed that she never grew older?

  Had it only been the illusion of aging? My hands fly to my face, feeling the supple skin stretched across my bones, the wisps of hair at my temples. How does one transform so perfectly that they become someone else entirely?

  I hold the parchment to the flame of the nearest candle and notice that something peeks between the fibers of the handspun pulp. Quickly, I flip the page over, revealing the backside that slowly comes out of its enchantment and into view. I lay it flat to inspect it closer.

  It is a map of Pyrmont and all her land.

  With my finger, I follow a crudely drawn line. It begins at a tiny marking, a castle, marked with a red X the same size and slant as Matilde’s mark. The line stretches a bit toward a cylindrical shape, much like a protruding structure, that stands alone.

  “The keep,” I whisper, and my heart quickens.

  Haphazardly strewn upon the table are the bishop’s papers, scribbled with strange symbols. They are much like runes, only more defined, and sprouting from each is a line connecting to an image he’d penned upon the paper’s surface. I am intrigued and reach for a long-discarded instrument, a thin rod of metal, and lay it across the map of Pyrmont in an effort to replicate the simple configuration. I lay one end on the X marked “Pyrmont” and align it with the tower I’d visited earlier. The opposite end of the rod rests on the next X, also marked in red.

  Burg Eltz.

  “Pyrmont, the keep, and Eltz are perfectly in line with one another,” I say this out loud to the dusty ghosts that keep me company, calling to mind the dark figure that stared back at me from beyond the keep’s window.

  I slide a candle closer for more light, searching with haste now for clues upon the map. There! Another X marks a small stone structure west of Eltz. And a monastery is clearly marked with a fourth X. When I’ve scoured the entire parchment, making sure I have not missed another marking, I sit back and chew the end of my thumb. Is it possible these markings have anything to do with the dark force Matilde mentioned?

  My thoughts are distracted by a heaving sigh at the open door and I raise my eyes. The doorway stands empty, but like before, the air appears to undulate as if something has stirred it. The sigh comes again. Mournful and lonely, it tugs at me until I feel my body step away from the safety of the table. I cross the chamber toward the rippling void that presses against the opening of the doorjamb and I realize…the room is charmed. Whatever hovers at the threshold cannot enter.

  The pull of it draws me closer, and I stop just at the old, rotted wooden arch of the door. If I dared, I could slip my arm through the gap and touch this anomaly. And I almost do. My hand raises slightly, on the brink, but just then, the rustling of paper revives me and I pull my hand to my side.

  The air is angry. It whips and thrashes, enough that my hair is loosened from its comb, but it cannot touch me.

  And then, it is gone.

  The grimoire’s pages turn and flip gently by themselves at my back and the smell of Wolfsbane and Sulfur fills the air. I turn to a soft humming of words I do not understand, flowing freely about the chamber from invisible lips. It is a guttural language of strange syllables and phrases—spells. The voices morph into phrases, broken and distant, then sweeping past me like soft caresses.

  But I take care at the words, their urgency assuring me they are full of warning.

  “…prisoner…map…broken…” I don’t understand at first. The moment my ear hears the word “prisoner” I think of the fingernail stuck in the wood of the keep’s window. Had someone been kept there? But I am caught in the tide of the voices’ lyrical flow, their sounds continuously filling the chamber. “…broken…dormant…until now…until you…”

  My hand brushes against a glass vial and sends it crashing to the ground. Fragments lay upon the packed earth at my feet and the murmurings cease immediately.

  Pausing.

  Waiting.

  And it comes to me.

  The darkness is not whole. Suddenly, I understand the sacrifice Matilde m
ade to protect my mother, to protect our kind, the witch-born. To protect me. My eye strays to the now-quiet door as the truth embeds itself into my soul. It was not only the bishop my mother sought to hide me from, but something more malevolent.

  I swipe my hand over the parchment, watching the words disappear behind their magical glamour for safekeeping. I fold the parchment carefully and tuck it into the pocket of my skirt. The candle in the lantern has melted to a flattened nub of wax, leaving me to choose a pillar to light my way back through the murky corridor.

  Alone in the dark, I clutch the grimoire to my chest and make my way back through the corridor. The only sounds are my footfalls toward the kitchen door. My safe haven. I push aside the thought of the sweeping dark, of long-dormant evils come to life, of stale breaths upon my skin as I hurry through Pyrmont’s long passageways. When I reach the kitchen, at last, I build up the fire in the hearth until its flames roar with life. I build it so the shadows in the corners slip away, letting the blaze chase every ounce of fear from the room until it soon resembles the glow of daytime. It is so warm and I am so weary that I soon rest my head upon the thick red book and fall asleep.

  “Rune…”

  I step toward the voice, its seductive cadence luring me deeper into the forest. Over my left shoulder is the lichen-covered roof of the cottage. It stands unharmed and my heart swells that I have returned home.

  I’ve wandered for so long—for days, it feels. I ache. I am weary.

  “Rune.” It comes again. I cannot reach it fast enough. Wanting it. My feet crunch with each step and I look down, expecting the familiar carpet of twigs and leaves, but to my horror there are bones beneath my feet. I look ahead upon the path. It is a sea of human limbs, scattered and strewn upon the ground. My throat is slick but I continue, knowing it is the voice I must reach. With each step the appendages change, deepening, becoming mottled and dark with age…with old blood and hacked wounds. Some lie draped with rotting flesh. Each step creates a rumbling as they knock against one another, reminding me of the swaying witch bottles, but I am far from the edge of the forest—far from Pyrmont. And I am glad.

  Pyrmont is not safe. This realization stills my blood and the brutal winter settles in.

  The glow of the cottage calls louder now. I am almost there… almost…

  I step beneath the trees, swipe the snow-laden bough from my cheek and stare at…

  The Keep.

  Looming before me, dressed in nightly shadow, is the tower, a soft glow emerging from one of the windows high above. Frantic, I realize I’ve wandered outside. I am cold and wet. Suddenly awake.

  I must have walked in my sleep, left the comfort of the kitchen and wandered. There is a heavy flutter in my heart. I’ve never done such a thing before. I hug my arms about my shoulders and circle around. The night is eerily dark and the way back is unclear. Instead, the strange glow in the window is oddly comforting and I creep forward, stealing inside the watchtower’s door.

  Up the stairs I sneak, determined to find the fire that surely burns inside the room at the top of the stairs. It is the only explanation my mind comes to—that someone has sneaked inside and has made a warm little haven for themselves.

  Perhaps a vagrant or a traveler. Perhaps… I reach the top, stepping lightly should a warped plank of wood announce my arrival before I’ve had the chance to watch from a distance. The door is ajar, sending a flickering glow that seeps toward my snow-soaked feet. I lay my hand upon the door and push.

  The room is empty.

  It is dark.

  There is no fire. There is no light at all.

  Chapter 29

  I press my hand to my forehead. Surely I’ve been under sleep’s spell. I’ve wandered out into the night and have imagined that someone could be inside these walls, but this room is as cold as the field I’ve trudged through. My mind is made up that staying here alone is not the best decision I’ve made.

  Tomorrow I will ride out to Eltz. Tomorrow, which I hope comes sooner than I truly believe it will. Pyrmont has too many secrets.

  I turn to leave but my skirt catches on something and I bend to free it.

  My fingers make contact with the old leather, and I go still. “It can’t be.”

  The red cover is the deepest black in the dimmed light, and the brass corners catch some of the muted starlight.

  “It’s as if it followed me,” I shake my head. No. It’s as if it has led me here.

  I have a sudden desire to strike a flint and set the thing ablaze. It must be cursed! I reach for the grimoire, then recoil as the book opens on its own, slowly at first, as if it gauges my reaction like a living thing. First the cover, lifting on its own accord and flipping over. The pages rustle, coming to life before my very eyes…over and over, turning wildly, and a soft glow fills the room. Bending toward the open page, the light seems to come from behind the words themselves, illuminating each phrase so I may see it clearly. I read slowly, holding each word in my head. The passage begins on the handwritten word boy. It ends on the word create.

  Brows pinched together, I scan the selection between the words, then slam the book closed. I don’t know how long I sit in the dark but it is long enough that my legs grow numb and I am forced to stand. Stiffly, I inch my way toward the window.

  The forest is so quiet—the exact opposite of my mind at this moment. I come to the conclusion that Laurentz and I made a grave mistake in uncovering the grimoire. It was meant to be hidden and I regret finding it. I thought, at first, the book was a link to my family—perhaps something left behind by my mother—something meant only for me. Like a gift.

  But I’ve only uncovered curses within its pages, reasons to believe my family held morbid secrets that were best left buried. My family—and now Laurentz’s.

  I’ve uncovered the most horrifying secret of all, and I’m not sure how I’ll ever tell him.

  Part Two

  “For every gift a curse.”

  Matilde

  December 1595

  Chapter 30

  “Bring more water!”

  The flurry of nursemaids rivals that of a buzzing hive, but I have neither the mind nor the strength to ask for their silence—I know what hangs in the balance. The very air of the bedchamber contains a charge. As if the imminent birth of my Lady’s firstborn is not urgent enough, there is a profound excitement among the maids who busy themselves at the midwife’s side, folding clean cloths, filling jugs of fresh water, making sure all is ready.

  With the help of Adelaide, a young maid, I lift my Lady so that she may rest comfortably upon her elbows, holding onto her arm. She shakes against the seizing pain with such force, I fear she will collapse if I let go of her. I motion to the girl to wipe her face with a damp cloth while I reach beneath her back to steady her.

  Although young, Adelaide is a loyal girl, proving herself time and again to be at my Lady’s beck and call since the death of her own mother. And for that I am grateful and willing to train her all I know of the Craft. Pyrmont honors a different sort of magick, one my own mother warned me to be wary of. Regardless, my Lady has taken a liking to me. She trusts that I come from an old forest family that, to this day, protects the land Pyrmont nestles against. My family’s magick is true and has always honored the Sacred Mother, as does my Lady. This makes me happy to instill the olde ways in the young girl, so she will be able to choose her own path once she is no longer in service to the castle.

  My Lady’s cries match the pain upon her face. If she had the strength to speak she would shout at the girls with such ferocity that the entire castle would quake and those within would live in fear.

  As if they do not already.

  But today is for other things. Today, she must concentrate with all her might to bring her own into this world, for the child will be a force like no other.

  “My Lady,” Adelaide whispers at her ear. “You must find the strength to push. You must. Or…”

  Mortality holds new meaning for her, and so our
Lady does as she asks. Her fingers grip Adelaide’s delicate arms, enough so she is able to lift herself from the sweat-soaked bedsheets, arching her back as another forceful contraction takes hold of her insides. The midwife calls upon two more maids to hold her feet, wrapping the bed linens around her ankles in restraint.

  And then, the searing slice, the bone-splitting spasm comes—and there is silence. Each one of us holds her breath and Adelaide clenches my hand as we wait. Agonizing stillness—and then—the midwife rises from her perch at the bottom of the bed, the milky-coated babe in her arms. She hands her to me first, all slippery sweet, but the midwife’s face is serious and worry tightens my heart.

  The exhausted woman upon the bed appears so very fragile, not the willful woman I know her to be. She keeps her eyes closed and nods, not needing to look upon the babe to know she has birthed a stillborn child.

  With tears in her eyes, Adelaide hands me a damp cloth to wipe the child clean. I wash the birth from her crown of wet, black hair, between her fingers and toes, her tiny ears. She lies perfectly still in my arms even though she now has the ability to squirm without the restraint of her mother’s womb. The longer the silence, the quicker the child’s skin takes on a bluish cast.

  Seconds pass and the women attending begin to gather around to admire her, to mourn her, and the chamber falls dark.

  “On this Solstice, shall my child be blessed by the Mother.” With great effort, my Lady reaches up toward the babe I hold out to her, only murmuring interrupts this profound moment, and I turn my head sharply meeting the frightened stare of the midwife, whose scornful mouth hangs open.