Count Thurzo nodded slowly, studying the glint of her eyes. Chips of the bluest sapphire.
“Choose a small party from your men. A small band of soldiers. I will guide you. Stealth is your ally.
“Then you will catch the Countess in the act of murder.”
Chapter 102
BATHORY CASTLE
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 29, 2010
The driver escorted Morgan to the drawing room. She shook the snow from her hair, a cascade of auburn locks swirling about her shoulders.
“Such a late night visit,” said the Count. “From a beautiful stranger. Still I feel we have met before.”
“You have my sister here,” said Morgan. “I want to see her immediately. She is coming home with me.”
“What?”
“You have kidnapped Daisy Hart. You are to release her immediately or a contact in the United States will send the coordinates of this location to the FBI and the CIA. And the American ambassador in Bratislava. Got it?”
“Sit down,” said the Count, reaching for a chair himself. “I do not understand.”
“Did I stutter?” said Morgan. “What’s not clear?” She reached for her backpack and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one and extinguished the match with an agitated wave of her hand.
“You—you are related to the witch girl?”
“Goth,” said Morgan, blowing out a plume of smoke. “She likes to be called Goth.”
“But—you are—nothing like her.”
“What does that matter to you?”
Morgan felt the presence of the driver still close to her side. He looked tense, shifting his weight from side to side.
She looked up at him.
“And they will arrest you, too, Mr. Chauffeur. As an accomplice.”
“Bartos, you can leave us now,” said the Count. He stood unsteadily and walked over to the crystal decanter.
The chauffeur hesitated, watching the count’s wooden motions.
Bathory poured himself another glass of wine. He drained it with one tip. An ugly grimace seized his face, twisting his features.
He is insane, thought Morgan.
Glass shattered as the Count hurled the empty goblet at the stone fireplace.
Morgan shielded her eyes from the flying shards.
The Count’s eyes wandered unfocused about the room. His gaze stopped on a portrait on the wall, a small, ancient rendering of Countess Bathory.
He cocked his head, listening.
A strange smile spread across his face. He looked at Morgan again with an intense stare.
“Of course,” he said, though he didn’t seem to be speaking to her. “I had forgotten. Of course.”
“Of course, what?” said Morgan.
He waved his hand, dismissing her words. The motion was like erasing a chalkboard.
“Wait. Bartos—inform the attendants we will have one more guest at tonight’s games, a very special lady indeed. And bring”—he arched one eyebrow—“a welcoming draught, for the beautiful lady.
“She seems to have forgotten herself. We will help her to remember her former glory.”
Chapter 103
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 29, 1610
Brona ground cloves and cinnamon in a stone bowl. She sprinkled the mixture into the warming wine.
She poured the mulled wine into the Countess’s goblet. Then she thought again of the murdered girls. Her hand tightened around the goblet.
“The mistress is distressed,” said a crying servant girl as she rushed into the kitchen. “She asks again for her wine at once. She is in an evil temper. She pinched my arm. Look.”
A reddish-blue welt spread across the girl’s upper arm.
“I’ll serve the mistress myself,” Brona said, as the maid started to take the tray away.
“But—”
Brona put on a fresh apron. She tidied the linen cloth on the tray.
The Countess looked up from her needlework.
“Brona,” she said. “What brings you out of the kitchens?”
“To better serve you, Countess,” she said, bowing. “I so rarely have the honor of seeing you.”
The Countess’s eyebrow arched.
“You are not a handmaiden, Cook! You smell of onions and garlic. See that you stay in the kitchens where you belong.”
Brona set the tray on a little table beside the Countess. It was so dark in the room she could not understand how her mistress could see the needle.
“Since you are so eager to talk with me,” the Countess said, taking the goblet in her hand, “tell me why you are spending such an exorbitant amount on flour. We cannot afford such—”
Brona bumped the Countess’s outstretched hand.
The wine sloshed from the goblet, splashing red on the white apron that covered the Countess’s gown.