Roses of the Moon: Book One: Dark Reliquary

By Alyne de Winter

Roses of the Moon: A Tale of Gothic Horror
Book I: Dark Reliquary Series
Gothic atmosphere so thick you can cut it with a glass scimitar.

For all of her young life, Lady Mara has been plagued with nightmares brought on by strange, frightening noises echoing up through the stairways and vaults of the labyrinthine Castle Szeppasszony in the depths of night. When, at age 16, she finally discovers their origin, the bloodcurdling secrets of the castle's beautiful lady, Countess Orzsebet, are dragged out into the light of day. Revealing these horrors brings down curses, chaos and war, opening the way for the long-exiled Dragon People, the evil Royal Zsarkany, to return.

How does Lady Mara survive when all she loves is torn from her, and a dark and terrible future is all she sees?

Clairvoyance, occult powers, narcissism,sacrifice, politics and religion engage in the ageless struggle between good and evil.Can love survive the fire of wickedness in high places, to must it too be consumed in the flames?

Enter the remote castle nestled in a green crater on the Mountain of the Moon in war-torn 17th century Royal Hungary. Threatened by Ottoman armies without and sorcery within, Mara refuses to be seduced by evil’s dark splendor.

Mara moves through lush, mysterious, highly imaginative settings, spinning the tale of her strange, dark life among the magnificent chambers, labyrinthine corridors, and secret gardens of Castle Seppasszony. Unpredictable twists and turns lead Marya and the reader unawares toward the horrific core of the mystery.

This book was largely inspired by elements of the Goth scene in London, and my interest in the 16th-17th centuries in Europe. I have written many stories based on fairy tales for adults that have been published in many fine e-zines and in print

An enormous amount of research on crux of the 16th-17th centuries in Hungary, religious and political conflicts, the magical arts, even the timing of the phases of the moon, went into this book. It took 5 years to write.

I feel there is a great deal in this story to entertain readers and give them food for thought on issues of power, good and evil, and the forces that clash within us. The setting is highly imaginative and strange, and full of surprises. It draws on similar energies to Bram Stoker's Dracula, Mervyn Peake's Ghormanghast, and other classics of the grand old Gothic tradition. The Roses of the Moon series carries the reader where the veil is thin, and the powers of darkness rise to the light.

Lovers of Anne Rice, Angela Carter, E.A.Poe, Bram Stoker, Grimms' Fairy Tales,Tanith Lee should enjoy this tale of Gothic Horror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alyne de Winter
• Release date: Jul 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301267675

Alyne de Winter

Alyne de Winter is an author of Gothic Mysteries and Occult Thrillers featuring tormented beauties, eerie settings, night religions, secret histories... After years of drawing and painting, by a fluke ended up as an English major. She wrote and published award-winning poetry but always wanted to write fiction. The stories did not come to her until she went to Europe, then they flooded in and still haven't stopped. She loves the tradition of the writer establishing themselves with short stories while building the novels, so you will find many short stories on her page. The short story requires intensity of focus, economy of language (so every word must be effective) and must keep the plot lines tight. She likes to think of the short story as poetry's second cousin. Major influences: Grimms' Fairy Tales, Complete Works of Shakespeare, Angela Carter, Tanith Lee, Daphne du Maurier,Charles Dickins, Anne Rice, Theophile Gautier, Edgar Allen Poe, the films of Barbara Steele and other 1960s horror films. (Not a gore fan) Religion, History, costume, Ancient dance and folk cultures, and witchcraft. The Gothic novel has always been a love letter to the past, a grieving for lost beauty and an elegy to the soul.

Book preview

Glossary

Book One: Royal Hungary

Book Two: The White Queen

Book Three: The Scarlet Queen

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood

but against principalities, against powers,

against the rulers of the darkness of this world,

against spiritual evil in high places.

Ephesians —6:12

Glossary

Szepasszony: A taboo word. In Hungarian folklore, it is the name of the Fair Lady, a beautiful woman with long hair and a white dress, a female demon who seduces young men and comes out to dance in storms and hail-showers. To step into the platter of the Szepasszony means to fall under her spell. A sick child was being suckled by the Fair Lady. Water dripping from the eaves to form puddles and pools are the platters by which the Szepasszony casts her spells. It is considered bad luck to step into a circle of short grass surrounded by taller grass or no grass at all, since it may be the circle where the Szepasszony dances.

Parta: Unmarried maidens wore their hair wrapped in rich a decorative headdress called párta: a highly decorated swath of fabric arranged in the shape of a crown bordered with lace.

Krampusz: A devilish creature. According to legend, Krampusz accompanies Saint Nicolas during the Christmas season to punish bad children. When Krampusz finds a particularly naughty child, it stuffs the child into its sack and carries the frightened child away to its lair, presumably to devour for its Christmas dinner.

Saint Ignacius: (Hungarian spelling) Originally a pagan called Ignat, Saint Ignacius is a Christian orthodox saint. On his feast day, November 20th, a pig is ritually sacrificed, cooked and eaten on Christmas day.

Book One

Royal Hungary

1599

Winter

Sometimes the devil doth assume a pleasing shape.

William Shakespeare

I

An army of white towers rose up against the dark forest. Circled by ravens, crags and three lofty, white curtain walls, Castle Szepasszony was a baroque pearl nestled in a vast, green cradle on the Mountain of the Moon. At the very center of the castle, deep in the inner yard, was an oak grove, and in the midst of the oak grove was the wall-without-a-door that compassed about a single tree called the Lucifer tree, and its garden. The castle itself was built in a great O; all its towers and houses were connected by parapets above and corridors below, by secret passages between and enclosures beneath where things took place that one must never mention for fear of being called over-imaginative or mad.

If you stood on my balcony at the top of the Trefoil Tower, built into the castle wall, you would see, just below and to your left, the main gate and the road snaking down through the plum orchard to another gate in the first curtain wall. Beyond that gate was a large park called the killing field, though I had yet to see anyone killed there. From the road, a lane branched off eastward, up through the woods, to our small but productive vineyard, and another forked west toward an ancient herb garden with crumbling walls and plants rooted so deep into Faerie that the air was thick with spirits.

Beyond the gate in the second curtain wall, the land tumbled down in terraces to the edge of the chasm. Below, the River Kigyo roared like a dragon chasing its tail around the nether regions of the castle.

On the other side of the river was the third curtain wall with its drawbridge and spiky, turreted barbican.

Out in the valley, the village of Eiliria knotted itself for safety around the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. Its fields and orchards were all bound round with sagging rock walls that had to be constantly reinforced to keep the forest creatures and hungry night spirits out. Deep in the valley forest, beyond the village walls, the Stream of Tears meandered south like a thread of light, toward the dark foothills of the Carpathian Mountains.

We were indeed well fortified on the Mountain of the Moon, safe from our enemies, the Turks, who ravaged the lands around us but had not as yet dared to enter our realm full, as it was, of enchantments.

At nine years old, I was a religious child. A walking icon of the Holy Virgin, dressed in dark blue, red, silver or black, my dark hair in a long plait down my back under a crown-like jeweled and velvet parta. A large, ornate crucifix, chains of saints’ medals, scapulars, and rosaries shielded me as if my young, innocent soul were on the very brink of Hell. We were Roman Catholics holding out against entrenched Orthodoxy, Protestant incursions, assaults by the Ottoman armies of Mohammed, learned heretics, and witches that charmed the trees and birds and other wild things of the forest. Castle Szepasszony was the last bastion of God’s Glorious Word teetering on the edge of doom.

One winter evening, I was in a small, cobbled courtyard with a doll that was no plaything, but a protective shield, meant to take any harm that might come to me upon itself. I was admiring how the ice-cold waters in our unicorn fountain froze in the air like silver ribbons when I heard a mysterious, golden voice ringing down an eerie minor scale. The voice captured me, and like a net, drew me into the forbidden wing of the castle, to a door that was always closed to me. Red firelight streamed under its lower edge, a snort of dragon’s blood incense seeped out. The beautiful voice took me under its spell, then slowly faded away. The emptiness was filled with a chorus of deeper voices, chanting.

Crushing my doll to my heart, I reached for the knob and pushed the door open just wide enough to see clouds of gray smoke scintillating with brilliant fires of candle flame, and through the smoke, disembodied faces, white and stark with shock, staring at me.

A shrill, imperious voice erupted from within, cold in its fury:

Mara! Get away from the door!

I fell back, and as if lifted by a whirlwind, spun down the corridor until the points of my shoes caught in the hems of my skirts and tripped me to the floor. Lying winded for a moment, I glanced around for my doll. She was gone! I looked back and saw her small dark shape lying in a wand of firelight that flashed along the upright edge of the door, wedging it open upon the private chambers of the Countess Orzsebet.

I crept forward thinking that I might have time to quietly retrieve her, when someone in the room snatched her up.

There was a flicker of silence. Then, the door slammed open, and in that shaft of light, the profile of a elfin mask appeared, surrounded by an elaborate circular neck ruff. A glimmer of bright fabric rained down from the mask to the floor, and a single hand curled around the handle of a long whip. The mask slowly turned to face me, its eyeholes stared in my direction, and the ruff fanned out around its head like the neck feathers of a great bird of prey. The figure drew swiftly back into the room and out of sight, only to reappear and gaze at me again.

Captured in the beams of what I knew were the Countess’s eyes, I froze like a mouse in the witch grass waiting for the descending hawk. She walked toward me with a smooth, gliding step that reminded me of the serpent that slithered into my chamber in the night and hid beneath my bed to escape the winter cold. The eyes behind the holes of the mask bore down upon me, baleful and fiery blue.

She towered over me holding the bloodcurdling cattail aloft. As if she carried the fire within her, the mask glowed hot, motes of light sparkled in her red-gold hair, her jewels twinkled like dragon’s eyes, and her ruff stood out around her head like the rays of the rising sun. The voice of this glowing creature was hollow, distant, and cutting as the north wind.

Mara, you are forbidden to enter here. If you tell anyone what you have seen in my private chambers, your fate will be thus.

She snapped the whip. I shrieked. She threw my doll at my feet, wheeled around, and floated back to her chambers. The long train of her gown was stained crimson and left a faint odor of blood in the air.

The corridor was dark and very cold. My doll lay face down on the tiles like a fragment of torn shadow. Her dark hair was tangled, her dress that was copied after mine, was draggled and ripped. My gaze still fixed on that fateful door, I picked her up and beheld a dire warning.

Someone had plucked out her eyes, and burned the sockets black.

I picked her up and ran as fast as I could down the rest of the corridor, almost slipped down a flight of wide, snow-glazed steps, crossed the courtyard of the unicorn fountain, and plunged through the vaulted arches into the dim winter light of the castle forecourt. My steps echoed as I raced across the flagstones, alarming the doves that scattered around me like a storm. When I arrived at the tall, heavy doors to my wing of the castle, the guard flung them open and stepped out of the way as if to avoid a leaping cat.

Once inside, I slowed my pace. Finally I arrived at the grand staircase that swept up to the galleries. My legs were heavy as I climbed into the gloom. The message of my doll’s blinding was painfully clear to me: if I eve breathe a word of what I'd seen in the Countess’s chamber, she would blind me.

I pressed the tip of my tongue against my teeth to calm my stampeding heart. Why was I afraid? I was a Vadfarkas. A warrior. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was locked in eternal battle with Countess Orzsebet, my mother.

I continued up to the landing. The floor stretched before me to the foot of an enormous tapestry that concealed the entrance to my tower. On either side of the tapestry were two stained glass windows that sparkled for a moment, and then dimmed, telling me that the sun had just fallen below the rim of the Carpathians.

Stepping through the tapestry into a rounded stairwell, I spiraled up the steps through a haze of candlelight glowing from our icons of the Holy Virgin and Saint Katherine at her wheel. Hiding my doll in the folds of my skirt, I went softly into my rooms.

The full moon had just risen above the windowsill to look over the shoulder of my nurse, Katalin, winding her spindle and humming an odd, Gypsy tune. Her aging face in its immaculate white wimple was serene, her downcast eyes lost in a dream. When I shut the door behind me, she looked up quickly and smiled.

Good evening, Mara. I wondered where you were.

I wanted to tell her what had happened, but I could not speak. I simply held up my doll for her to see. She uttered a small scream, and dropped her spindle in the dried flowers we had scattered to scent the room. She did not bend to collect her spindle, but instead knelt down to look into my face and that of my blinded doll.

Who did this? Answer me. She searched my face with her soft, dark eyes.

Mother, was all I could say.

I looked away from her and gazed at the strand of moonlit thread unraveled in the weeds. Katalin frowned, picked up the spindle and tried to shake the tangles out. Sighing, she put the spindle back into its notch beside the wheel, and glanced out the window at the moon.

Katalin, I whispered. The moon was over your shoulder, watching you spin. I crossed myself to ward off any bad luck the Devil might have sent along those snarling, moonstruck threads. It shall bring chaos upon us.

Oh, Mara, you take things too seriously. The moon has barely arisen. I was just finishing up. She glanced back at the moon and crossed herself. Then she smiled. This thread is especially for you, child. It is for your Christmas dress. Do you see how pretty that will be when it is woven? I will have the seamstress cut your gown a little longer in case you grow suddenly. She laughed, for I did not seem able to grow.

Katalin’s brow creased as she fussed with the spindle. Oh, this thread is all tangled up and dusty now. Well, never mind. It’s time to stop anyway. She looked up at me. What were you doing wandering around after sundown? Where did you cross paths with her ladyship?

Tears spilled out of my eyes as if to spite me. I couldn’t talk. Katalin held me to her side. I buried my face in her rough linen skirts that smelled of lavender and tallow. Her hem was covered with the dried petals of red gillyflowers, reminding me of the bloody train of my mother’s gown. I let go of Katalin and backed away.

Come, let me put you to bed, she said. It is cold and the wind is beginning to blow down from the Mountain of the Moon. I must close the shutters to keep us warm. Would you light the candles, please?

There were a great many candles in our chambers, especially in our shrine with its icons and candle branches housed in a niche with a blue, starry ceiling. As I replaced the low, guttering tapers on the altar, I gazed up at our icon of the dark-eyed Madonna with her gentle, smiling baby, and thought how lucky the Christ Child was to have such a loving mother.

On the table was Katalin’s most prized possession, a small icon of black-faced Saint Sara that she’d carried all the way from Wallachia where she'd been stolen from the Gypsies to be wet nurse to my father, Count Vadfarkas Adorjan Nyek.

We shared the top of the most beautiful tower in all of Castle Szepasszony. It was not round, but bowed out on three sides like a three-leafed clover. Because of this, it was called the Trefoil Tower. Katalin and I lived in a large space with three alcoves that fit the clover-leafed shape and extended out onto large, bowed balconies held aloft by writhing man-beasts with strong arms, long wings and fangs. The balconies, in turn, were sheltered under the brim of a steeple roof with horned chimney pots and many strange downspouts ending in gargoyles’ heads. The gargoyles’ necks were very long so that when the water from the drains and gutters gurgled down their throats and spewed out of their mouths, it splashed beyond the balconies to water our magnificent gardens. But since it was winter, their jaws were frozen, their whiskers were ice and the water coming through them gurgled, clunked, and spat.

After what I’d seen behind my mother’s door, I needed a lot of light. Soon, almost our entire chamber was glittering with candle fire. Then, gripping my single lighted taper, I faced the northern alcove and contemplated the utter darkness.

The walls of the northern alcove were covered with heavy tapestries, and the windows were shuttered under thick, embroidered bearskins to keep the howling night winds out. But sometimes drafts snuck in and buffeted the hangings against the walls, making the shadows dance. Out in the dark, beyond the shutters, the northern balcony jutted out over a row of houses and a lane that led to the inner courtyards of the castle. If you stood on that gloomy ledge, you could see all the way back to the highest peaks of the Mountain of the Moon where the Old Gods lived. And if you could bear it, you might glimpse the golden crown of the Lucifer tree shining above the rim of the wall-without-a-door. That side of our apartment was so lonely it made me shiver. Things moaned in the night and called out. I never went there unless I had a good reason. I had to venture there now, to light enough candles to keep the nightmare that I was certain lay in wait for me tonight, at bay.

I lit the candles of the northern alcove quickly, and then hurried back to my bedchamber where the fire burned brightly. Katalin was on my balcony looking out at the snowy garden. When she heard me enter, she came inside, closed the double doors and lowered a heavy tapestry over them. She closed the window casement nearby, and lowered the bearskin over it. Then she went around to all the windows and did the same. The moon’s bright eye was shut away, and gradually, the outside world vanished into darkness.

Katalin helped me out of my skirts and bodices, and then pulled my nightgown on over my head. While I knelt at the side of my bed to say my rosary beads, she released my wild, dark hair from its plait. I prayed that the things I had seen behind my mother’s door would not haunt me that night. I whispered a petition to Saint Aquilina that dead things would not haunt me, that I would be safe in my tower chamber though the winds beat hard against the walls. I begged God that my mother would forget that I had caught her doing something wicked, and that He would end her ways forever.

Once under the blankets, I reached out for my doll, but Katalin would not give her to me.

You should not sleep with this doll any more. She sat on the edge of my bed and looked solemnly at me. It will bring bad dreams, and you know what happens when you have a nightmare.

I walk. I will walk, I said. In my dream.

Though I didn’t like being denied my doll, Katalin was always wise. I turned away from her and pressed the tip of my tongue against my teeth.

Good night, Kati.

Good night, my little one. She stroked my back and sang a lullaby passed down from my ancestors about the roses of the moon.

Katalin went to bed, but I had trouble sleeping. I watched the flickering candlelight on the walls and gazed up into the vault above my bed where the Angel of the Last Judgment blew his long horn in the shadows of the boss. Souls ascended and descended the sides of the dome, mesmerizing me into a deathlike slumber. Then I slept so deeply that even the sounds of unsecured shutters banging against the walls outside, and the slates hurtling off the roofs and smashing on the rocks below, could not disturb me.

But the voices did. I dreamed of the gargoyles whispering in the night. I heard them in the gutters and in the corners of my room, gurgling with the sounds of slow running water. The room was growing colder, and I knew it was snowing heavily outside. The shadows were hazy with lowering candlelight. The Angel in the dome blew his trumpet and the souls gazed at me as if they knew I was to join them, going up and down forever.

The gargoyles spoke in whispers about me.

Lady Mara, something is wrong . . .

I tried to shut it out, but they would not let me.

Lady Mara . . . They were burbling in the drains and whispering.

What did you see?

I sat up slowly. The play of light around my bed curtains was so blurry and full of voices that I wondered if I had been bewitched. I looked over at Katalin’s alcove. It was bright with candlelight and the pale curtains were drawn around her bed with the air of sanctuary.

No! I did not want to see what I had seen in my mother’s chamber through hypnotically swirling clouds of incense smelling of mugwort and hag’s tapers: two girls crouching naked in the center of a black cloth embroidered round and round with a circle of red thread, scattered over with the signs and sigils of magic. Their hands and feet were bound with red cords, and their backs striped with bloody lashes from a whip that my mother held in her gleaming, silver-gloved hand. Flames juddered and smoked, lights flickered over the satin-clad figure of my mother in her glowing, elfin mask. Two other masked figures leaned out of the darkness into the fire-lit haze. One wearing black robes and a death’s head with a high, glistening crown, I knew as my mother's elderly personal maid, Atia. Crouching in the shadows was Atia's son, a hobbled, dog-faced dwarf called Mano.

Atia reached across the circle’s edge with a long white wand to poke the open wounds of the girls while Mano held a goblet beneath to catch their dripping blood. All the while, my mother sang that ghostly, falling tune that had lured me, and dark chants rose out of the smoggy darkness. The girls wept helplessly, fixing their wild eyes on an open cauldron and a cross of knives. I put my hands over my ears to block out the memory of their screams.

No! I did not want to see. I did not want to remember.

Still dreaming, I rose from my bed and floated out over the floor. I must have lost my footing, for the carpet rose up before me. I reached for the spinning wheel to break my fall, but my hand drifted up, striking the wheel, tilting it away. Sinking down, I drew back the carpet, uncovering the circle of white chalk that my nurse had drawn on the floor to protect us against evil spirits. Within a ring inside a ring, sigils and portents were inscribed around a seven-rayed star with the Name of God in the center. The circle glowed whitely, fencing the darkness in.

I looked above my head at the stone-carved bestiary that danced around the bottom of the dome: animals with lost souls in their jaws, small dragons, and bird-footed men clung to the masonry and watched me.

Lady Mara, What does the Countess do? they insinuated on the walls with their large, lidless eyes and frog mouths.

I do not wish to remember, I said.

The moonly horse, carved by my father above the archway when I was born, galloped in place and gazed at me with burned-out eyes.

I went to the window, pushed the bearskin aside, and opened the shutters. The sky was black and dusted with glittering stars around a cold and distant moon. Wind whistled around the corners of the walls, blowing a layer of snow over the stones like a frayed winding sheet.

Shivering with cold, I withdrew and dropped the curtain on the outside world once again.

I found my doll on the bench below the window, carried her to the chalk circle and placed her in the center with God. Then I wavered slowly back to bed where my body lay waiting for me, sleeping.

II

"Mara, it’s time to wake up, Katalin called. Oh! Why have you uncovered the pentacle? What if one of the servants was to see it? You know how they talk. Do you want me to be burned for witchcraft?"

I curled up, and pulled the blankets closer.

Mara?

Pentacle? I murmured. An image of a pentacle came to mind amid candle flames and blood.

Something scraped, crashed. The darkness under my eyelids lit up, and a blast of cold air struck. I jolted up, blinking. Merciless Katalin had thrown open the windows. Sunlight streamed through my open bed curtains straight into my face. Katalin looked down at me, frowning. I shut my eyes; opened and shut them again. When I reopened them she was still standing there with her arms crossed, shaking her head disapprovingly.

Katalin, it’s freezing! The sun is too bright. Please close the windows.

I snuggled down under the blankets again and pulled them over my head.

Katalin began humming to herself the way she always did when she was angry. I peered out at her and saw her tugging the edge of the carpet over the chalk circle.

You have no idea how dangerous this is, Mara. She stood up and arched her back, which hurt her.

What do you mean?

You uncovered the pentacle.

I didn’t remember doing it. I sat up and stared at the carpet and tried to recall moving it, but nothing came to mind.

You must have been walking in your sleep again. Katalin banged the windows shut and closed the curtains at the foot of my bed.

If you’re so worried about someone seeing it, then why did you put it there?

She was invisible behind my bed curtains, humming.

Fire crackled in Katalin’s grate but it was not hot enough to reach my bedchamber. Refusing to leave my bed in the freezing cold, I stayed where I was with the blanket wrapped around me, waiting for her to light a fire in my alcove.

Mara, she said in that singsong voice she always used to make up with me.

She opened the bed curtains, smiled and held up my warmest dressing gown. I wrapped myself into it, and wavered sleepily over to my chair beside the fireplace. Katalin knelt down and coaxed the old fire out of the embers, feeding them with dried birch branches that we kept in bundles beside the hearth. Small, fragrant tongues of flame shot up. Before long the fire was so hot that I had to pull my heavy dressing gown off again.

My doll was lying on the chair opposite like a dark bruise. I reached for it, but Katalin picked her up and shook her at me.

Mara, we must do something about this doll.

I frowned, preparing for another round of admonitions.

What if someone saw it and told your mother that I was using it to work a spell against you?

For what?

Katalin squeezed the doll under her crossed arms and stood up.

What are you going to do with it? I asked. The doll was my shield. She stood in for me. I had reason to worry.

I don’t know. Katalin gave the fire a thoughtful look. She stirred the embers and stared into the flames for a long while. Then with an effort, she got up, sat in her chair, and put the doll on the table.

I know you will not want to do it, but we are forced to put this doll in the fire. Better it, than one of us. She pressed her lips together and slowly shook her head.

No! I said. "No one will know what Mother did to her, for we shall hide her." I grabbed my doll and held her out of Katalin’s reach. The thought of burning my doll filled me with horror.

Katalin seemed to pity my distress, for she stood up and stroked my hair to comfort me. "I suppose we could hide her under your mattress for now. But, if we do, you must leave her there. Never take her out. Soon you will forget all about her, and these things fade away as if they never happened."

Katalin sat down again and glanced around at the reflections of the fire on the walls. Promise me never to tell anyone. Ever.

Who would I tell?

The servants. Karsa. One of your mother’s girls. Oh, I shudder to think of what might have happened if one of them had walked in here with that doll lying in the midst of what is always there, under the rug. That sign! She crossed herself. Can you imagine the gossip and the finger- pointing? How the accusations would fly?

I felt very bad about endangering Katalin, and prayed I would not sleepwalk any more.

I will never tell anyone. I promise never to speak of it. I spat on my hand and shook hers to seal our bond.

Katalin laughed, but her eyes kept shifting. She looked at my bed and all around the room as if she were nervous again.

Please, you must understand, Mara, I am afraid. Your mother has wanted me out of the way from the moment your father brought me here from Transylvania when they were married. As for you—you cannot be found to be wanting. She is angry enough, as it is, that you are not a boy.

Katalin stood up stiffly and fed the fire again. She stared at the flames, shook her head, and then looked into my eyes.

Thank the Blessed Virgin she blinded that doll instead of you. But still, no good can come of this.

I know.

It’s a terrible thing for a mother to do.

I know.

Katalin looked up at the dome. Her voice was soft, as if she spoke to herself. "There is something about this place, this Castle Szepasszony . . . The ceilings are full of angels, but Heaven is cut off. The Old Gods watch over us from the mountaintop, deciding whether we live or die. Sometimes I think Castle Szepasszony is the dark, evil heart of the world."

"What does that mean, Kati?" She was frightening me.

She reached for me. "It means we must be very careful and play along. Perhaps we should bury the doll deep under the ground where the eyes of the Old Gods will not reach her. She shall be your gift to the faeries under the earth. In spring we shall plant a juniper tree over the place where we can pray for good luck. How would that be? We must go out into the garden and bury her tonight."

In the snow? But why cannot we just hide her?

Because we don’t want this evil to stay with us. It would be unwise to leave the doll under your mattress when it should just disappear and be forgotten. What if it falls out and someone were to find it and tell your mother what they saw?

Katalin’s eyes were gleaming in a way I had never seen before. Then she softened and watched her fingers writhing in her lap like nest of baby serpents.

I don’t want my doll to be buried, I said. Then I remembered that it was no good arguing with my nurse once her mind was made up. Well . . . perhaps . . . She is ruined and ugly now. Shall we pray in the cathedral just to be sure that we are safe?

Katalin nodded, went back to her spindle and began pulling the thread to straighten it from the tangle of the night before.

Tainted things should be buried. Or burned.

Like witches.

The wheel creaked.

I had a sudden inspiration. Today is the Feast Day of Saint Lucy. Her eyes were plucked out too. We shall pray to Saint Lucy. Then the evil will stay hidden in the dark where no one will find it.

My old nurse cackled as if I had said something silly.

That is a good idea. Katalin stood up, and grabbed her cloak. First, I am going to pay a visit to your mother’s dressmakers. If any gossip is to be had about her ladyship’s mood, those girls will know it, she said. Let’s hope this all blows away on the wind, Mara. It must.

* * *

I wanted to wash myself clean of bad luck, and the dreams of the night before, so I opened the trunk where our silver was stored and took out a shining silver bowl.

I opened the double doors to the balcony and went out to meet the winter sky. Icy air rushed in to touch my skin and every hair sprang to attention. A gargoyle stretched his neck out from the roof far above me. Icicles hung from his chin whiskers, but water that had been ice under the moonlight, now dripped freely from his jaws with the morning thaw. I held the bowl up to catch it, and as water spangled in, I prayed to all of the saints and martyrs to wash me pure as snow. I prayed until the bowl became too heavy to hold up, and then took it back inside.

The charge of moonlight in the water was strong. As I cleansed my face and body beside the fire, I swore to continue for a fortnight, until the moon disappeared, taking all the evil away with her.

* * *

Hours passed before Katalin returned. Her normally radiant face was like parchment. She glanced about as if she feared there was a spy in the room. She put the bearskins over the windows, sat down at the fireside, and put her face in her hands. With the windows covered, it was nighttime again.

Katalin’s fire-lit figure floated in the dark.

I stood beside her and put my arm around her shoulders.

Kati, is everything all right?

She uncovered her face and stared at the fire. Her eyes were wet with tears. Your mother came into the sewing room while I was there discussing my design for your new dress with one of the girls. She was not pleased about something and ordered the girls about dreadfully. I did not like the way she looked at me. She ordered me to leave and stay in here for the rest of the day.

Katalin looked up at me, then at the door. Breathing quickly, she pushed herself up off the chair and paced up and down. Where did we hide that doll?

Under the mattress. I jumped up pulled out the little thing, so forlorn with her cinder eyes and her dress all crushed and flattened. See?

Give it to me. Katalin grabbed my doll and threw it on the fire.

My mouth fell open. I was too shocked to speak.

Lying in the flames, my doll sent up such smoke that we had to back all the way into Katalin’s alcove to get away from it. I felt so hot. Sweat poured down my body, soaking my clothes. I was afraid I would faint.

How could you do that, Kati? Take her out! Take her out at once!

Mara—I’m sorry. I am most terribly sorry. But that doll will be the death of me. It has to disappear.

"What do you mean? Mother knows it was she who burned out her eyes."

Katalin just bit her lip and turned away. I’d never seen her look so frightened.

They can’t prove anything against you. I almost shouted at her. Stop fretting!

The smoke died down. I stifled my impatience, and looked into the fireplace. The doll lay on the flickering log in a little aura of light.

Kati, she didn’t burn.

Katalin came up behind me and gazed down at my doll. It’s got protection. Magical protection. And look at you. You’re face is flushed. What’s wrong?

Katalin put her hand on my forehead, and then gently pushed me down onto my chair.

I don’t know. I am so hot.

She looked cross, then turned away, plucked the doll out of the embers, and turned it over in her hands.

It was unscathed.

Have you ever taken the clothes off this doll? she asked.

I shook my head. The clothes of the doll were very elaborate and the tiny stomacher was stitched on. They can’t come off.

I felt better with the doll out of the fire.

Katalin sniffed the doll, lifted up its skirts and felt along the hems as if she thought something was hidden inside.

We will have to bury it very deep. I don’t like this Mara. This doll is enchanted. It cannot be destroyed.

Since the doll was meant to protect me, I felt somewhat reassured by that.

We grew very quiet. Darkness closed in, absorbing everything but the leaping firelight, crackling branches, and the smell of the forest. Only the drafts ruffling the furry edges of the embroidered bearskins reminded me of the cold outside.

Katalin built up the fire again. The doll lay on my chair looking at the ceiling with her soot-blackened eyes. They seemed to say that even though she was blind, she was stronger than we were. I put her under my mattress again.

Mara, come.

Katalin beckoned me to my dressing table, picked up a hairbrush and began dragging it through my hair, working to smooth my curls.

Owch! I cried when she brushed too hard. Kati, I will always protect you. I give you my word, and the word of a Vadfarkas is unbreakable!

I grabbed her hand and kissed it. I didn’t want her to worry any more.

Humph! she said. We’ll see about that, won’t we?

I watched her in the mirror as she combed. She looked sad. When she caught my eye, she smiled, and went gentler with the brushing. I looked very small in the mirror, and sore burdened by all the terrors around me.

Am I pretty? I asked.

She looked into the mirror at my small, pale face, my straight nose, green cat’s eyes and thick eyebrows.

Pretty enough, she said and spread my long locks over my shoulders where they rippled in shiny waves. You have the most beautiful emerald eyes in all of Christendom and lovely hair. Black as midnight, like one of us.

The priest says I have the Devil’s eyes.

Oh, that’s just because they’re green.

What’s wrong with green eyes that the Devil should own them?

It’s just what we’ve always believed. Katalin went all dreamy again, brushing in a slow, silky rhythm. In Turkey, the evil eye is blue.

Like Mother’s eyes. I pondered on that for a moment. Couldn’t the Devil make up his mind? Will I be beautiful like my mother?

Katalin paused.

"Your mother is unusually beautiful. She is gold and roses and ivory. Her eyes are like sapphires. She has the profile of a goddess. No one can match her, child."

But, I am to be Countess some day. Will the people love me if I am plain?

"You’re not plain. Besides, beauty like your mother’s is dangerous. She does not possess it. It possesses her."

I looked at myself in the mirror again and rubbed my forehead. There was a light between my eyebrows. It was quite faint, but I still didn’t like it. It always flared up when the moon was full, or if I had walked in my sleep, or had certain kinds of dreams. Katalin batted my hand away as if it were a bee, and continued brushing.

Her beauty is her power. I know it, I said.

Your beauty is inside where it matters. Besides, power isn’t everything. You are a good Catholic, and will be kind.

I folded my hands in my lap and watched my nurse’s warm, smiling face in the mirror. What could she know of power? She wasn’t born into it like I was. Would Christ make sure I was always kind? Indeed, my heart held too much pity to wield power. It seemed I let all the sorrows of the world fall upon me. When my turn came, I would never be able to maintain control. Not like my mother who was ruthless.

I didn’t want to look into the mirror any more, so I took Katalin’s hand and stood up. I wished to brighten the mood.

Let us go to church. I can hear the bells announcing the procession.

Katalin laced my forest green gown over my chemise and placed my black cloak around my shoulders. I pulled up my hood to cover my hair, for we must never allow the Old Gods to see our beauty lest they desire us for their feasts. Katalin put her black sheepskin-lined cloak over her best gray dress and lifted the hood over her wimple. She went to the mirror to make sure her face was hidden well enough.

I hope your mother does not accost us in the crowd, Mara. If she catches me disobeying, well, I tremble to think of it.

Once we are near the chapel, we shall separate, I said. Then no one will know who you are.

We will not bring a lantern this time, and we will stay well back in the crowd. And we must leave early. No one must see us or there will be Hell to pay.

Of course, Kati, I said. I will protect you.

The gorgeous chanting of the men’s choir began echoing up from the Chapel of the Angels. Bells banged and bonged, calling all the inhabitants of Castle Szepasszony to bring generous offerings to Saint Lucy who would lead us out of the darkness.

Because of my moon bath, I felt pure in the eyes of God.

* * *

We came out into sunshine and snow so bright that I had to pull my hood low to shade my eyes and keep them from weeping. Over the stately tolling of the bells the most beautiful singing rose up, reverberating around the Mountain of the Moon to the heavens above.

We hurried down two stairways to the lower hall. The guard opened the door into the vaulted archway that let out to a long, icy lane going north, toward the back curtain wall. The lane was so thronged with people carrying Saint Lucy’s lanterns that it was easy to blend in and hide. Across the river, the choir thundered, hand bells rang, and clouds of incense ascended to the sky, drawing us to the celebration. When the guards opened the back gate, we all quickly pushed through it to the bridge that led over the river chasm to the Chapel of the Angels.

The chapel was a wonder of antiquity. The entire structure had been carved out of the living rock at the base of the Mountain of the Moon. Stone spires rose up before the cliff-face like ladders, mystic carvings encrusted the facade, telling stories of souls blessed and damned. In the tympanum above the doors, angels, saints, and demons floated around the majestic figure of Christ at the Last Judgment. Every evening, at twilight, a procession of white-robed monks emerged to carry tall, lighted candles around the flagstone courtyard that stretched from the chapel to the edge of the river chasm. Sometimes, they crossed the bridge and wound through the lanes of the castle on their way down to the cathedral in the village, their holy songs echoing around the walls and high above the turrets as their voices ascended to God.

As we crossed the bridge to the courtyard, the first rays of the sun gilded the unfurling wings of a series of stone angels standing in niches cut into the cliff face from the roof of the chapel to the topmost crags. More candles, lit by monks, who had to climb a thousand steps to reach them all, glimmered at the angels’ feet so they appeared to ride upon the stars.

The procession was already halfway around the courtyard. Many of our courtiers stood along the inner walls wearing their best fur hats, long cloaks and jewels that sparkled in the eerie light of