Wirich bursts into boisterous laughter. “You are a clever witch, but I promise you that it will be merely a letter of introduction.”
Ágota sits back in her chair and taps her fingers on the table. At last, she says, “Very well. I will deliver a letter to my father in exchange for safe passage through your land.”
“I am glad we are agreed. Now, Albrecht, lead the young ladies to the bedchamber next to yours. That’s where they will sleep tonight.”
“I am not a servant,” Albrecht protests.
“No, but you are my son and you will obey.”
With a snort, Albrecht stands and gestures for us to follow. “Come on then.”
As Wirich trails after Dominique, we scurry behind Albrecht. The boy obviously isn’t too pleased with being tasked with our escort and walks so quickly he is soon far ahead of us. I am glad to have a few more minutes with the boy. Despite his surliness, I rather like him.
Ágota slows me with a hand on my shoulder and leans toward me to whisper, “Do everything I say and do not falter. Despite their hospitality, all is not well here.”
“Because of the vampire?”
She shakes her head. “Did you see the boar’s head?”
I nod. “It is really frightening.”
“Did you see anything wrong about it?”
“I noticed something was amiss, but I could not sort it out,” I confess.
Ágota glances back toward the fireplace and sucks a breath through her teeth. “It has the eyes of a human.”
“What does that mean?” I gasp.
“It means we are not safe here.”
“Are you coming or not?” Albrecht barks at us from down the corridor.
Gripping my hand tightly in hers, Ágota guides us deeper into the castle.
Chapter 8
Reality blurs around the edges. I shift between the world that once was and the one I inhabit now.
Am I wrapped in my sister’s embrace, attempting to sleep in a darkened room in a strange castle?
Or impaled on a bier in a mausoleum, watching shadowy figures moving about me through half-closed eyes?
“Who are you?” I whisper through cracked lips.
No one answers.
My mind flits back and forth from the present to the past, pain swelling to nearly unbearable intensities before it recedes.
I feel Ágota’s fingers combing through my hair while another trembling hand bathes my face and neck with a damp cloth.
I am both ravenous with hunger and full with a warm meal.
I am small and delicate in my sister’s embrace and shriveled and weak on the bier.
I hear bones rattling as they are swept from the mausoleum, and the wind howling against a narrow window on the far side of an elegant castle bedroom.
I feel safe and loved, and afraid and alone.