House of Bathory(34)
The next challenge would be to ride the white stallion.
Zuzana spied from the tower on the strong young Hungarian, the friend of her childhood, now a man. She pressed her cheek against the rough stone, and blinked until her eyes teared with the blustery cold that threaded through the narrow opening in the castle wall. She remained immobile for long minutes, her gaze focused below, an ear listening for the tinkling bell of her mistress.
When she pulled her face away from the stone, there was an imprint of the rough granite on her poxed face.
She rubbed her cheek to return the blood to her skin. She knew she could stare all day at Janos and never tire of him.
His manner was efficient but kind, and he quickly won the confidence of not only the horses, but of the stable boys and guards as well. And he had earned the grudging respect of Erno Kovach, who put an arm around the young horsemaster’s shoulder one day, drawing Szilvasi near as he shared a joke. It had been many months since Zuzana had seen the head guard—or any of the men—laugh; she considered the sight a minor miracle.
Zuzana was not the only pair of eyes spying on Janos Szilvasi. Small groups of handmaidens and scullery maids clustered around the edges of curtained windows throughout the castle, whispering and laughing.
“He will be mine by New Year’s!” swore Hedvika.
The other girls tittered and the whispering began again.
“Perhaps he prefers black tresses strewn across his chest,” challenged Zora, her fingers playing with her long black braid. “After all, he means to tame the wild stallion—he has dark passion pulsing in his veins.”
“Ack, with your flat bosom, what could you offer a man like that?” said Hedvika.
Zuzana had often overheard the women, their pecking and clucking no different from the speckled hens that squawked in the castle courtyard. The horsemaster was no more than a tasty grub wedged between the paving stones to them.
She had a bitter taste in her mouth, and swallowed, remembering. This was the boy who had called her lucky. She had never forgotten him.
Chapter 20
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
DECEMBER 13, 2010
Betsy knew she had one more patient appointment to cancel. She had procrastinated long enough.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Daisy?”
“Betsy? Hi, what’s up?”
“I’m going to have to cancel our session tomorrow. In fact, I have to cancel our sessions for the next two weeks. An emergency has come up.”
She could hear a constricted whistling and a muted gagging sound.
“Daisy? Are you there?”
“Yeah,” her voice thin and high-pitched. “What’s the emergency?”
“It’s a personal family matter. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t cancel if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”
There was a pause.
“There is some danger,” said Daisy, her voice monotone. “I can sense it.”
Just stop that, Betsy thought. Stay out of my business. “No, just—I have to travel to help out my mother.”
“Travel where? Is this like a Christmas break or something?”
No more details about her private life, Betsy told herself. Absolutely none. “Daisy, is your mother home?”
“She’s out shopping.”
“Would you tell her I called?”
“Yeah. But why won’t you tell me more about the emergency? I can feel something is wrong, I just know it.”
“I’ve got to go. Good-bye, Daisy.”
“Wait! What’s your e-mail?”
“Why do you want my e-mail?”
“To stay in touch. Maybe I can help.”
This was ridiculous, but Betsy did maintain a professional e-mail account for clients who wanted to verbalize their problems when she wasn’t there to hear them. Sometimes it helped them to write out their fears, and then Betsy would have a journal of their emotional state when she returned to her practice.
Betsy gave her the address but added, “I may not have e-mail access every day while I am away. We will discuss your concerns in therapy when I return.”
“Take care of yourself, Betsy. ’Cause I’ve got a weird feeling.”
As Betsy got off the phone, she heard the wind whistling through the wooden shutters. What was she going to do with this patient who had so clearly transferred her fears to her therapist?
Chapter 21
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 15, 1610
For weeks now, Cook Brona had given Vida only the weakest broth. Occasionally the big-boned cook took pity and included a bit of boiled turnip, though this elicited a scowl from the ever-watchful Hedvika, her plump lips greasy with meat from her own full plate.
Vida pleaded for more, her stomach grumbling. Brona’s eyes, set like raisins pressed deep in dough, glistened in sympathy. Food was all there was to Brona, and it tortured her to see a starving soul. But the Countess’s orders were clear and disobedience was unthinkable. The cook turned her back to the girl.