“I can handle taking care of you. You are not a nuisance. Well, not all the time. It is not you I am concerned about, but the occupants of this castle. I am a peasant girl. I am not experienced in dealing with people such as these. They are far more devious and clever than I am.”
“I know for certain you are quite clever,” I assure her. “And devious.”
She quirks a smile. “You are jaded by sisterly love. Hurry, dress. Let us be done with this place.”
I obediently pad across the cold floor to undress and bathe. Ágota prowls about the room, wringing her long hands and mumbling in Magyar. The water is lukewarm, so I rapidly wash my body before donning my new clothing. The dark brown color isn’t very pretty and it does not have embroidery on the hem and sleeves like the clothes my mother made for me. Nonetheless, I do see the wisdom of dressing simply like other poor folks. I roll up my blouse and dress and stash it at the bottom of my sister’s bag. Again, I notice that it does not appear any larger on the outside despite everything Ágota has stored inside. I ponder if I could hide within it.
Taking the bag from me, Ágota loops it about her neck and takes my hand. “We are leaving as soon as I have the letter for my father. My obligation will be satisfied. I do not trust anyone within these walls.”
Though I am quite lost in the maze of corridors and stairwells, Ágota guides me with surety. We pass servants and guards along the way, but none seem surprised to see us or attempts to stop us. Each room we pass through is more elegant than the last and it is far too easy for me to imagine myself as the lady of the house.
When we enter the great hall, I am even more impressed than the evening before. The gloriousness of the great hall was shrouded in the darkness when we had arrived. Sunlight streams through the high windows and illuminates the grandeur of sweeping arches, elegant columns, artwork, tapestries, and armor.
Wirich stands at the end of the long table talking with several men. He is taller than the others and I wonder if it is because of his fey blood. Dressed in a red tunic with a raven embroidered on his broad chest, he is just as frightening as the night before. Ágota stalks across the heavy rugs strewn across the stone floor dragging me in her wake. I stumble along for I am enthralled by my surroundings and crane my head to view everything veiled from me the previous night.
“Ágota! Archwitch of the Lost Witch World!” Wirich throws out his arms in greeting. “How nice of you to join me!”
The men he had been conversing with make a hasty departure through an arched doorway. Through another smaller door, several servants appear with trays of food.
“Thank you for your hospitality. We will be off now,” Ágota answers. “Can I please have the letter for my father?”
“After you eat,” Wirich says with a smile, but his comment is most definitely an order. He is a man who expects obedience. He seats himself at the end of the table where writing utensils await him.
I eagerly eye the fruit, porridge, and bread on the trays. I am famished and fear Ágota will force us to leave without taking advantage of the hospitality of our host. The stiffness of her spine and defiance in her eyes does not bode well for my hunger pangs.
“We have a very long way to travel, and it is best we start now,” Ágota replies.
“Yes, but you have a younger sister who is staring at the food like a starved beast. Be kind to her. Allow her to fill her stomach.” The dark eyes of the count meet my sister’s and he does not falter beneath her baleful gaze. “Sit down and eat. I insist.”
With an annoyed exhalation, Ágota drags one of the chairs out from beneath the table and nudges me toward it. I obey while she sits next to me. Of course, she has chosen a spot far from where Wirich resides. He appears to take no notice of her agitation and takes a quill in hand.
The servants move forward to set down the trays of food and I eagerly grab a pear. Biting into the fruit, I am grateful for the meal, for I know how keen Ágota is on continuing our travels to Transylvania. Every delicious bite makes me grin wider. My sister, meanwhile, spoons porridge into her mouth while glaring at Wirich. He ignores her while carefully writing on a piece of parchment. I look about for Albrecht, but he does not appear. I eat more than my fill and my stomach protests. Ágota stows several pears and some flat loaves of bread in her bag. If the count notices, he does not say a word. The scratch of his quill against the paper is the only sound other than the rhythmic tapping of Ágota’s fingers against the table.
Finally, Wirich motions to Ágota to approach him. “Read it, Archwitch, and tell me if it suits you.”
Shoving back her chair as noisily as she can, Ágota approaches Wirich while I watch. My sister moves with slow purposeful movements. I cannot discern if she’s
behaving like the predator or prey. Wirich’s gaze never leaves her as she nears him. There is respect in how he regards her, which surprises me. It occurs to me that I do not fully understand the undercurrents filling the room. Wirich does not have magic like Ágota, but he is not powerless. There is a certain aura about him that is intimidating. Is this the result of his fey blood? Or is it from years of ruling over his land with a sword in hand?
Bending over the table, Ágota peers down at the letter Wirich sets before her. Fingers flexing at her side, she silently mouths the words as she reads. I suspect she is weighing each one carefully, seeking hidden meanings. She finishes and starts over.
Wirich chuckles at this, settling back in his chair to await her verdict.
I watch him more than my sister. I have not been around many men. I was always sent away when my mother’s suitors arrived at our cottage. I am frightened of Wirich, but I also crave his approval since if I am to marry Albrecht, I would like to be in the good graces of his family.
It occurs to me that I have not seen Albrecht’s mother. The night before Dominique had presided over the table at Wirich’s side, but she cannot be Albrecht’s mother. Vampires cannot have children for they are undead. Perhaps, like me, Albrecht has lost his mother. The thought softens my heart even more toward the boy. Again, I look around the great hall, hoping to see him appear.
Ágota finishes reading a third time and steps back from the table.
“Is this acceptable?” Wirich asks, pointing to the letter.
“Yes, it is.” Ágota sounds certain, but I notice her hands twitching at her side.
Wirich places a thick finger on the paper and drags it to him. With great flourish, he folds the letter before sealing it with wax and the indention of his signet ring. The count pushes back his chair and rises to his full height to tower over Ágota. He bows over the letter as he hands it to her.
“Thank you, Archwitch, for your patience and for delivering this to your father.”
“Do not take my delivery as a sign of my approval.” Ágota drops the letter into her bag and holds out her hand toward me. “Now that we are done here, we shall be on our way.”