House of Bathory(36)

The cook lost her scowl, a look of cold fear crawling over her face.

Hedvika’s hand, slick with bacon grease, clutched Vida’s bony arm, pulling her away from the kitchen. The girl almost fainted from the rich pork aroma. She would lick the grease off her sleeve as soon as she had a private moment.





Vida spent most nights on the cold stone floor of the castle outside the Countess’s door, curled up like a dog on a mat woven of coarse wool. Bits of dried grass and burrs embedded in the yarn poked at her tender skin, and woke her to the muffled wail of cold drafts, winding their way through the dark corridors of the castle.

Often she would wake to see Darvulia holding a torch overhead, guiding the Countess down into the lower levels of the castle, toward the dungeon. “Sleep,” the witch would command, her breath a ring of vapor. “This errand does not concern you.”

Only in the broad daylight could Vida leave the castle, when the Countess did not require her services. She walked home, unsteady on her thin legs and worn leather shoes, to her mother’s hovel in the village of Čachtice. Her few pennies bought soup bones and root vegetables and a few lumps of hard coal to keep a small fire burning for her sick mother, paying a neighbor child a portion of soup to stay with the ailing woman at night. And for all her bitter hunger, Vida knew she could not take even a drop of that soup for herself without endangering her mother’s flickering life.

Then one night Vida was awakened by a murmuring in the Countess’s chamber. Perhaps the Countess was dreaming. What would she dream of? Her many lovers, her dead husband? Her coffers of gold and her castles? Her palatial home in Vienna, near the great Cathedral of St. Stephan?

Then Vida saw the fine leather boots just in front of her head. A tall man stood above her, all in black, with a wide traveling cape around his shoulders.

How could such a man have climbed the stairs without waking her?

Without knocking, he opened the Countess’s door, gliding through soundlessly.

Vida shivered. She recalled the village tales of a tall stranger, dressed in black, who frequented Čachtice Castle years ago, before Ferenc Nadasdy’s death. It was said that the Countess had run away with the mysterious stranger for months. One day she returned to her husband. The servants sucked in their breath, waiting for the beatings, for Count Nadasdy was known for his wrath and cruel ways.

But the Countess had not been beaten or chastened in any way. Ferenc Nadasdy had taken her back and nothing was ever said. No bruise appeared on her face. The village people were shocked.

Was this the same stranger in black, come back to reclaim her?

Vida’s stomach pinched up in a spasm. It felt as if her stomach was eating away at itself, folding over its emptiness, searching for nourishment.

She remembered the crock of goose fat and licked her lips.





Chapter 22

CARBONDALE, COLORADO

DECEMBER 17, 2010





John’s plane was delayed in Denver.

It had been snowing hard since just after midnight. The big wet flakes would make an excellent early snowpack on the ski slopes but obscured visibility and made it nearly impossible to land on Aspen’s notoriously difficult runway, which was short and hemmed in by high mountains.

Waiting at the airport, Betsy looked out at the falling snow. Fat flakes swirled, playing tag in the wind. She wandered toward the small airport café to have a cup of coffee.

Why had she finally said yes to him? They had worked hard since their divorce to stay away from each other, to admit that it was a youthful folly, marrying while they were still undergraduates. Now he was an associate professor at MIT with research grants. Betsy had her own practice.

They had come so far.

Damn it! Betsy gritted her teeth, wondering what had possessed her.

The divorce had taken such a toll on her, she could barely stand to visit Boulder anymore. She couldn’t walk across the campus without thinking of their college days, when they would lie beneath the towering oak trees on a blanket in the springtime, drunk on young love.

At weak moments, Betsy still remembered the touch of his fingertips as he traced the line of her jaw, the contours of her shoulders. She felt his warm breath lingering on her neck, intoxicating. He smelled of pine needles and warm, sunny hikes in the mountains.

They kissed tenderly as only the young can, staring candidly into each other’s eyes. Athletic students in cut-offs threw Frisbees and bandana-collared dogs raced to catch them. In the distance rose the Flatiron crags, red rock against a bluebird Colorado sky. When they rolled and faced the other direction to shade their eyes from the bright sun, they looked at the sandstone façade of Norlin Library. Kids with backpacks full of books entered through the turnstile, turning their back on sunshine, Frisbees, and young love.