It was Brona, her palms open in astonishment.
“Did I not tell you to stay hidden?”
“I bade her to accompany me,” said Janos. “Come inside, Brona.”
The big woman crossed the threshold. Janos closed the door silently behind her.
“What are you doing?”
“I am searching for the Countess’s ledger. The book that holds the names of her victims.”
Brona stared back, her eyes glinting in horror at the words. “ Victims? She is—a murderer?”
“There is no question. Have you not wondered at the disappearance of so many maidens?”
“She punishes them, I know. She burns their hands, whips them. A cruel mistress—Vida—”
“Brona, no,” said Janos, his hand on her shoulder. “She murders them.”
Brona shook her big head, the words working their way into her brain.
“No,” she muttered, though she knew in her heart it was true. Brona knew she was dull-witted; her late husband had often told her so. But she realized she had known the truth about the Countess all along. She had refused to admit it, even to herself. Now she was forced to face the truth, and it was shattering.
With her peasant knowledge of local herbs and cookery, she had won a place long ago in the Nadasdy household, as had her mother before her.
Now she looked down at her cook’s hands, fire-scorched, callused, and worn. These hands had given sustenance, warm soups and scraps of roasted meats, to hundreds of girls. She had fed them like so many geese, her pockets full of corn.
“There is a book, a record of her crimes penned in her own hand,” said Janos, watching her. “We need it as evidence.”
Brona licked her lips and then set her jaw, as tight as bulldog’s on a bone. “She is not so stupid as to leave something so valuable lying about. If she has such a book, it will be on her person, always.”
She remembered the orphan girl Paula, a scullery maid. The girl had been sent to Brona’s kitchen when she was only eleven. She worked scouring the blackened pots with ash, fat, and water. The girl worked night and day at Brona’s side and soon became the cook’s pet.
One day little Paula did not show up at the kitchens. Brona had searched the castle grounds and Čachtice Castle for days, looking for the girl.
At last Brona had broken down and cried, holding her head in her hands.
“Why are you weeping?” demanded the Countess, sweeping into the kitchens unannounced.
“I cannot find the orphan girl, my scullery maid,” said Brona. “She has disappeared. Countess, I am so worried.”
Erzsebet’s eyes lit up.
“Ah, yes. And that girl’s name was?”
“Paula.”
“I need the surname as well.”
Brona’s forehead wrinkled.
“Paula Cerveny.”
The Countess nodded, drawing a bound vellum book from her apron pocket. She flipped through the pages.
“Cerveny,” she said. “I only recalled the name Paula. Quite slight, inappropriately weak. Blonde. Thank you, Brona.”
She slipped the book back into her pocket, leaving the cook bewildered.
Now Brona understood, and her sorrow and guilt turned to rage. Her sooty fingernails dug into the palm of her hand.
“I will get the book for you,” she said. “And may she burn in eternal hell, as Christ is my witness.”
She made the sign of the cross, closing her eyes. She lumbered out of the Countess’s bedroom, her big shoulders heaving.
Chapter 97
BATHORY CASTLE
SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 28, 2010
The guards brought in their struggling prisoner. She twisted violently in their arms.
They pushed her into an overstuffed armchair and stood on either side of her. One drew a gun, looking at his master.
“Why are you here, little witch girl? Why do you stick your nose into my business?” said the Count. “You are a constant annoyance.”
He poured himself a glass of red wine, swirling the stem as he observed the contents. He smiled in satisfaction.
“You disappeared from the tower, into thin air. Now you have followed me.”
Daisy said nothing.
“Perhaps you are indeed a witch. How did you find me? What do you want?”
“You kidnapped a girl in Bratislava, at the nightclub,” said Daisy, raising her rope-bound hands. She could barely keep her eyes open, the men had injected her with some soporific drug. Still, her anger boiled, giving her stamina. “Let her go.”
The Count studied her face, her white makeup streaked with dirt. He chuckled, though his eyes had a menacing glint.
“My dear, you are certainly in no position to make demands. Perhaps you are a circus clown with your white makeup, yes? Not a witch at all, just a silly clown.”