Castle of Sighs Page 6

  I place the jar back upon the shelf with a shaking hand.

  Familiar items come to view, relieving me. There are several muslin pouches of bark, while Heartwood, Red Ochre and glass vials of Linseed Oil don the remaining shelves. I touch a small round plate of half-moon shaped shards but recoil when I realize they are fingernails. Scrolls of the moon’s phases are tucked between the cobwebbed herbs. I find a jar of teeth, both animal and human, as well as a hawk’s feather and a vial of blood. I close the cupboard door. I do not understand the use for such things but they thrill me all the same.

  By the glow of a fresh candle, my heart is light as I thread my way back to the kitchen, hopeful that somehow Matilde has sought me out to continue my lessons from across the barrier that divides the living and the dead. I follow the corridor, my mind continuously replaying all I’ve seen and touched, and a feeling of satisfaction washes over me. I had been quick to relinquish my bloodline, yet this discovery is welcome. In fact, I am itching to return to the room to discover more where, perhaps, I can work a little magick of my own to rid the fears that have plagued the children and myself of late. Perhaps, with a little practice, I can be proud to claim my right as a witch of Pyrmont.

  The kitchen door stands ajar when I reach it, but when I approach, my heart seizes with dread. Someone stands on the other side. I feel their heart beating. I feel the draft of the open door. My thoughts rush to the children and I yank it open.

  Chapter 15

  “Laurentz!”

  The door clatters against the wall and I hurl myself into his arms. He smells of the forest and I bury my cheek into his wool coat, drawing the tang of pine from him. “Are you really here?” I pull away, looking him over. This moment is heaven—that he is standing here. In Pyrmont. And I am finally safe in his arms.

  He laughs, but I need to convince myself he is real. My hand sweeps over the fine hairs sprouting from his chin, evidence that he’s been on the road for some time. His boots are scuffed; his coat smells of fresh air and horse, and his eyes are weary. But he is solid and my heart is overwhelmed with joy.

  He removes his coat, and I take it from him, hanging it next to my cape on the hook by the door, and then he sweeps me into his arms once more. I press against his chest and succumb to his warmth, my arms entwining their way around his neck, locking tightly.

  We stay like this for several minutes. Not speaking, only breathing. I close my eyes, savoring that he is here with me and it is as if he’d never left. His thumb brushes beneath my chin, tilting it and then a sweet, gentle warmth floods me as his lips press against my own. I give into it, wrapping my arms around him, and the world melts away.

  “You’ve missed me?” he says at last and I nod, suddenly shy over my zealous welcome. “And have you and the children kept busy in my absence?”

  “We’ve had our share of adventure.” I pull away and begin to fuss about, stoking the fire to warm his weary limbs. The sky through the window tells me it is still quite early, that the children will not wake for some time yet. I busy myself, spreading candied currants across a thick slice of pumpernickel for him. “Rune.”

  I turn at the warm timbre of his voice. My composure is on the verge of shattering and I rush to him, burying myself in his arms again. “There is so much to tell you,” I spill. Do I tell him the good, or the bad, first? I opt for recounting what he will easily swallow. “Margret fell ill with fever, but is much better. And Niclaus…”

  I am sure he expects me to tell him my young charge has gotten into all sorts of trouble, for that is what boys do. “Niclaus is quite the charmer.” I say with a broad smile. “Believe it or not, we’ve grown used to one another.”

  “But there is more that you’re not telling me.” He gives me an all-knowing look, one I’ve never been able to escape. The fire crackles, illuminating his chestnut locks. He is handsome, as much as the day I tumbled out of the thorny hedge bordering my home from the village. Ever since the day I was accused of being a witch, Laurentz has been my advocate, my ally, and so much more. Had it not been for him, I would have stayed in Bamberg—my execution an ugly example of the bishop’s vengeance. My heart stammers while he waits for me to divulge all that has occurred in his absence, but I skirt the matter and motion that we should sit beside the fire while he eats.

  “What of your excursion? Did you and your father find the witch?”

  He catches my tone, the one that implies I have tremendous doubt there was ever a witch, but simply an accused woman. A shadow passes across my heart, for while Laurentz has been absent I’ve come to realize there is indeed darkness, and it takes many forms, sometimes, no form at all. Still, a part of me would like to entertain the idea that others, like me, do exist.

  “No,” Laurentz sighs heavily. “There was no witch.”

  “Am I alone then?” I whisper. Laurentz leans across the table and gathers my hand in his. “You’re not alone, Rune. You do know that, don’t you?”

  His eyes reflect the same heaviness I feel in my own heart. These are such dark times. They are “burning times,” as I’ve heard his father mention.

  “You know what I mean.” I try to smile, to not allow the weight of the conversation crush our reunion. “I fear I am the only real witch in all of Germany, that I am an anomaly. Yet there are dozens still accused for what I carry in my blood. My heart bleeds for them, Laurentz. They have endured so much distress and yet…” I catch the concern in his eyes and hold it, releasing it like a breath from my lungs. “Is it wrong for me to want another like me to come forth and let herself be known? To ask another to take such a risk…” I hang my head and stare at my hands in my lap. “How incredible would it be to find another like myself? A true witch. A blood witch.”

  This very idea has me torn in half. My kind has been the reason for entire villages to burn. My family’s line has been the reason countless innocent women were sent before judges who never once believed in their innocence. Thousands have been burned at the stake, pressed…drowned. “I am indeed evil-born to wish someone like me walks this earth.”

  Laurentz reaches his hand out to mine and covers it protectively. “You, my love, are not alone.”

  “Then why do I feel I am?” My heart is so weary but it beats against my ribs, echoing how he has just called me his “love.”

  “I’ve brought you something that might cheer you.” The legs of the chair scrape across the floor as he rises and crosses to the door to fish for something within the depths of his coat pocket. When he returns, he places a small book in my lap. “You made such tremendous progress before I left. I was hoping you’d like to resume your reading?”

  I let my fingers caress the textured cover, constructed of layers of pulpy paper affixed to a thin board. The interior has been sewn together with sturdy thread, and its pages marked with short phrases, all in Latin. “It’s seen better days, I’m afraid.” Laurentz gives an apologetic shrug as I quietly begin sounding out the first word in my head. “It was Freidrich’s long before it was passed down to me.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, as my mind turns to the bottles well below our feet, treasuring the gesture he has shown me, for to give up such a token that had once belonged to his beloved brother shows he trusts me. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  “Now, tell me what has happened here. I know better than to assume you and the children filled your days with nursery games while I was gone.”

  I stretch my senses beyond the walls of the kitchen, out into the castle until my soul stands outside the nursery door. The sigils have proven strong, the room lies undisturbed and I feel the rise and fall of tiny breaths within. “They still sleep. Come.” It is my turn to trust Laurentz with something precious from my past, and I take him by the hand and lead him to the secret passageway. “There is much to show you.”

  Chapter 16

  I follow at the witch’s heels as she leads the way into the darkness. Time slows, adopting the likeness of shadows, for in darkness my world and hers are interchang
eable, melding into one. Let my breath be the unbidden kiss at her throat, the yearning her skin feels in the night.

  I am here.

  Chapter 17

  I cup my hand around the thick candle, avoiding the draft, as I motion for Laurentz to open the old door. The passageway welcomes us with dusty silence. His eyes seek the opposite end, finding a wall of impenetrable black.

  “What is this?” he asks. I sense his reluctance and grab his hand. Pulling it along, we begin the long trek into the depths of Pyrmont Castle.

  “This corridor called to me for days. I’ve finally had the courage to follow it.” The flame’s glow bounces yellow light along the stones as we walk along. “Is there anything like this at Berg Eltz? A dungeon, perhaps? A secret annex?”

  He reaches ahead to swipe away a filmy cobweb before my hair passes beneath it. “Not that I’m aware of, and I’ve lived there my entire life.”

  The passageway stretches long. I tighten my fingers around his firm hand. While I know what waits for us at the other end, the dark is astounding. It plays tricks on my senses and there are moments I am fooled into believing I hear footsteps following at our backs, that I smell a rancid breath inches from my face. But no matter how unnerving our plight, we do not cease our walk.

  “The air is strange here, Rune.” He stiffens when the path bends and the walls feel too close, when the darkness becomes overwhelming and thick and there is nothing but the heaving ache of our breaths. The stones begin to drip with moisture and I know we are close to the steps hidden within the floor, and I am relieved that Laurentz does not insist we turn back. His trust in me is tangible.

  “The children and I went exploring the other day.”

  Laurentz stops dead in his tracks. “You brought them down here?”

  “Goodness no! I took them outside for some fresh air. Niclaus was eager to find treasure to share with you when you returned, but instead, he uncovered a piece of Pyrmont I’m not quite sure we were supposed to find.” Now that I am about to tell him of the small finger bones that filled Niclaus’s basket and the bone in the snow, I am not sure that is the better adventure after all. I sense he is alarmed, so I purposely leave out that the bone has mysteriously vanished since then, that what lies in the ground, instead, is nothing but a large hole filled with fresh earth staining the snow. I leave out that I cannot shake an unnerving feeling that someone has come too close to Pyrmont and tampered with the dead.

  I switch the conversation to tell him of the bellermines hung in the trees—of the trinkets at the bottom of the bottles—of Matilde’s hair. It is when I inform him of the vision Niclaus had that Laurentz’s feet refuse to move any further. He takes my hands in his, and the urgency in the shadows around us quivers like a living pulse. I don’t have to tell of the foreboding shadows I feel watching in the wings. I am certain that with what I’ve just told him, Laurentz feels them for himself.

  “Promise that you’ll leave this place once the children wake. That you’ll return to Eltz with me.”

  I shake my head, not sure how visible my expression is in the dim light. I am sure he takes my silence as consideration, but the truth is, I simply cannot leave Pyrmont. He won’t understand until I show him what waits for us. Until I show him what I’ve found deep beneath the main part of the castle. “I won’t leave Pyrmont. Not yet.”

  “I thought the forest ran through your veins, not old stones and rotting timber. It was always the forest, Rune—the trees, the wild mosses—the cottage.”

  “Don’t speak of the cottage.” Only my whisper comes out harsher than expected. He steps closer and the flame sways, distorting the light upon our faces. “This place has you bewitched, Rune. I swear it.” His gentle hand wraps about my own to comfort me, only I cannot find any sort of relief in this stifling darkness. There is a hot breath at the back of my neck and it makes me dizzy and uncomfortable. I imagine if I were to turn and shine the candle against the quiet, I know I might see another face there, and then Laurentz would cart me and the children off to Eltz within the hour.

  “You seem,” he pauses, tilting his head, “different.”

  “I am different,” I admit. “I am trying to find my place here, within these walls. I have nothing to return to, Laurentz. The cottage is gone. Matilde is dead. My life has changed.”

  “This place isn’t right. I feel it, Rune. Tell me you and the children feel it too.”

  “After convincing me that I should reclaim my birthright, now I am to give it all up?” My brow knits in frustration. “And what of the children? What of Niclaus and little Margret? The bishop’s witch hunt left them alone and orphaned. Was I to let them live here on their own then?” My promise to Margret’s mother finds its way to the tip of my tongue but I don’t allow it to come forth. I fear I will say regretful words and ruin Laurentz’s return.

  I raise my free hand to my face and close my eyes to the bitterness this has turned to. Have I not been scared out of my wits since he left? I painted Bind Runes and appealed to the Sacred Mother that the children and I would be protected from the unexplained circumstances building around us. Did I not feel my skin prickle in fear? And yet here I am, refusing to leave. “Then perhaps I am bewitched.” I say out loud, finally, my own voice an invasive presence to the quiet. Shadows gather in thick swells. This is a dismal place I’ve brought him to, I realize, and I know he won’t agree that it is worth staying for until I show him the room.

  I let go of his hand.

  “Rune,” Laurentz whispers after me. He has no choice but to follow and I hear how he stumbles paces behind me, and then, he pauses as the secret staircase opens before us and a mighty gust of rank air wallows up from the ground. “What is this?” He reaches for me. Despite the tension our conversation has started, he is ever protective of me.

  “Come, let me show you.” I show him where to place his hands in the wall, then slowly descend. His height hinders his agility to find his footing upon the narrow steps and he moves with care, taking his time as he follows behind me. At last we reach the bottom where the air presses thickly against us. I am the one to reach for him first. It is part in apology to my abrasive declaration and I breathe relief as his fingers entwine with mine and tighten. This small gesture is forgiveness and I squeeze back.

  “What is this place?”

  I feel for the skeleton key deep within my pocket and insert it into the lock. Unlike the other day, the door swings open with ease. Taking Laurentz by the hand, I hold the candle high and step inside.

  The darkness slips away as I light more candles. The breath at my neck does not cross the threshold but remains outside the door, and instantly I am lighter than a feather, circling around, my arms open in a wide arc. “This room belonged to my mother. I can feel it.” Barely touching the ground, my feet carry me around the perimeter of the room. From the large wooden table at its center, to the shelves stacked with tomes and journals, vials and jars of glass and pewter. I am so giddy and eager to show him every inch of the chamber that I am a whirlwind, flitting to and fro. But one look at Laurentz’s face and I see he does not share my enthusiasm. His expression is pinched and grave, and he lingers in the door frame as if dreading stepping even the toe of his shoe into the chamber.

  “This room has been hidden beneath Pyrmont, left to decay and rot, but imagine all the wonderful things that happened here. Beneath blankets of dust and dirt, tears and heartbreak, this room is one enormous treasure.”

  “Perhaps that is best. Let it rot, Rune. Leave it. There is no good in what has been left here.”

  He looks at me as if he does not know who I am, and I can see that he is not eager to share my vision. I remind myself that I, too, had needed time to take it all in—the room, the past, the fact that I am witch-born.

  “Can you imagine what it must have looked like all those years ago? Spells and potions boiling in pots, the candlelight shining across the vials. Everything must have gleamed with magick!” I step slowly toward him, hoping he will see the n
ewfound light that surely shines in my eyes. Perhaps it will cause what so clearly appalls him to disappear.

  “Not all witches are dark. I know that.” Laurentz’s hand grazes my cheek and lingers, flooding me with warmth I feel all the way down to my toes. “I have no choice but to keep an open mind where you’re concerned, don’t I?”

  Despite how uncomfortable he appears, he steps further into the room and I breathe a silent sigh of relief. For if Laurentz cannot fully accept my past, how are we to ever have a future together?

  “Are you sure these things belonged to only your mother?” He touches the scale with the tip of his finger, as if contact after all these years could ignite an unfinished spell to revive itself. Laurentz sifts through unbound papers left upon the table, and I watch as he digests the contents, waiting for his eyes to soften and accept the possibilities this room holds, as I do. But perhaps I am too hopeful.

  “This is Alchemy,” Laurentz’s voice cuts the silence in half. “Does it not chill your blood to learn the man who killed your mother spent as much time here as she did?”

  “I’d like to think their moments together were happier times. Before…”

  “Before he destroyed her life?” Laurentz’s voice sounds hollow.

  Leaning against his arm, I let my cheek press to his sleeve, mindful that the memory I’ve wanted to share has worked against me. It has, instead, dredged up a more sinister recollection of his own. Not only did the bishop destroy my mother, but Laurentz’s as well. The murder of my mother’s coven still haunts the Black Forest, as does her execution for a crime she did not commit.