“Clean your face and hands. Gently now.”
Tommy seemed ready to refuse, but she kept her arm out until, with a tired sigh, he took the towel. After placing his mug down, he wrung the towel’s heat in his hands and pressed it to his face. Soon he was rubbing a second towel up his arms, tucking it under his shirt and across his chest. His face softened with the simple pleasure of the damp heat.
His gaze, also softened now, found hers again. “Thank you.”
She nodded her head very slightly and turned her attention to the gray-haired man across from her. When she had last seen him, four hundred years ago, he had worn the gray silk tunic of a nobleman. It felt like only months ago, after slumbering away the centuries in Rhun’s trap. Back then a ruby ring had adorned one of his fingers, a ring that he had given to Elizabeth’s youngest daughter, Anna, marking his oath to protect the Bathory family.
But why?
She asked that now. “Why did you come to me when I was imprisoned in Čachtice Castle?”
He studied her for a long breath before responding. “Your fate interested me.”
“Because of the prophecy?”
“Many spoke of your skills at healing, your sharp mind and keen eye. I heard whispers of the Church’s interest in you, in your family. So I came to see for myself if the rumors of your wisdom were true.”
So he came sniffing at the edges of prophecy, like a dog on a coattail.
“And what did you find?” she asked.
“I found the Church’s interest of possible worth. I decided to watch over the women of your lineage.”
“My daughters. Anna and Katalin.”
He bowed his head. “And many after that.”
A yearning ached in her, to fill in the gaps of her past, to know the fate of her family. “What became of them? Of Anna and Katalin?”
“Anna had no children. But your eldest, Katalin, had two daughters and a son.”
She turned away, wishing she might have seen them, the seed and blood of the noble house of Bathory. Had they possessed Katalin’s simple beauty and easy grace? She would never know, because they were also long dead.
All because of Rhun.
“And what of my son, Paul?”
“He married. His wife bore him three sons and a daughter.”
Relief washed through her, knowing now they had all lived, had lives after her. She was afraid to ask how long they had lived, how their lives had unfolded. For now, she was content to know that her line had not been broken.
Tommy dropped the towel into the bowl next to his seat and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, looking more settled.
“You should finish your drink,” she scolded him, motioning to the mug. “It will help to restore your strength.”
“What do I care about my strength?” he mumbled. “I’m just a prisoner.”
She lifted the mug and held it out to him. “As am I. And prisoners must keep up their strength at all costs.”
He took the mug from her hands, his brown eyes curious. Perhaps he had not realized that she was as much a prisoner as he.
Iscariot shifted in his seat. “You are not my prisoners. You are my guests.”
So said all her captors.
Tommy didn’t look any more relieved than she. He swirled the mug, transfixed by the contents. Clearly he had been a much-loved boy once, anyone could see that. Then he had been taken away, been hurt, and grown wary.
Tommy finally looked up, ready to face this other. “Where are you taking us?”
“To your destiny,” Iscariot answered, steepling his fingers and staring over their tips toward the boy. “You are fortunate that you came into being at such a pivotal time.”
“I don’t feel fortunate.”
“Sometimes you cannot understand destiny until it is upon you.”
Tommy simply sighed loudly and stared out the window. After a long time, Elizabeth noted him eyeing her, studying her hands, her face, trying not to show it.
“What is it?” she finally asked.
He scrunched his face. “How old are you?”
She smiled at his discourteous question, understanding his curiosity, appreciating his boldness. “I was born in 1560.”
He sucked in a breath, and his eyebrow rose in surprise.
“But I have slept many of those centuries away. I do not understand this modern world as I should.”
“Like the story of Sleeping Beauty,” he said.
“I am not familiar with that tale,” she said, earning another raised eyebrow. “Tell me it. Then perhaps you can tell me more about this age, how I might learn to live in it.”
He nodded, looking happy for the distraction—and maybe she needed the diversion, too. He took a deep breath and began. As she listened attentively to his tale of magic and fairies, his warm hand stole across the armrest and nestled into hers.