A shiny black Mercedes pulled up to the gate. After a quick discussion, the gate swung open and the car moved onto the gravel driveway. Instead of approaching the front entrance of the castle, the car stopped just below her window.
Two men dragged out a thin, pale-faced girl with scraggly blond hair. She was limp but conscious, looking over her shoulder at the surroundings but apparently unable to walk on her own.
They disappeared from view, most likely through a door and into the castle.
Grace heard footsteps in the hall and quickly sat down in an armchair near the window. She grabbed a book and opened it to a random page.
A clinking of crockery preceded the sound of the key unlocking the door.
Draska, thought Grace. Maybe she’ll let me know she sent the e-mail. Betsy will know something is wrong and—
But it was a tall male servant who entered, carrying a breakfast tray laden with a variety of breads, a teapot, gold-topped jars of jams and jellies, and a container of yogurt. His skin was sallow. He wore no makeup, unlike the women who had watched her the first day, but he had the same starved expression.
“Where is Draska?” asked Grace.
The servant shrugged. “Not come.”
“What do you mean, she didn’t come? Where is she?”
“Not know. I bring food.”
His eyes studied her with the same gleam and hunger as the women’s.
“So are you a psychopath too? Another inbred Bathory nutcase?”
“Not understand,” he said, his lip pulling up in a sneer.
“Forget it,” Grace said. “Go—you are finished. Go away!”
He bobbed his head sullenly and retreated out the door, locking it behind him.
Grace left her breakfast untouched, tiny beads of moisture glistening on the butter, a thick skin forming on the little pitcher of hot milk. She walked wearily to the window, streaked with rivulets of water. Wind and rain lashed at the tiny clumps of grass growing stubbornly in the high stone wall that encircled the castle.
“Draska,” she whispered. “Please don’t disappear.”
Chapter 40
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 21, 1610
The seventeen-year-old Countess Zichy of Ecsed was not well. Her head drooped out of the curtains of the coach. The carriage rattled into the courtyard, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones.
Pulling aside the edge of the velvet curtain, Countess Bathory, still groggy from the sleeping potion, peered down from the drawing room of the castle. She watched the tired girl as the footman helped her from the coach.
“She is pale,” said the Countess, her perfect complexion creasing in a frown. “Bloodless and thin. This will not do.” She turned from the window. “Fetch Zuzana,” she snapped at Hedvika. The servant returned almost immediately, accompanied by the pox-faced girl.
“The Countess Zichy of Ecsed is of noble blood,” pronounced the Countess, lifting her chin. “The Zichy family has crossed with the Bathory lineage more than once.”
Zuzana nodded.
“She will not tolerate the clumsy attentions of these Slovakian cows.”
Hedvika blanched but said nothing.
“Go, Zuzana. Show her the Hungarian care she deserves as nobility. See that she dines properly and have the servants draw a hot bath for her. Tuck lavender sachets into her sheets and serve her mulled wine. Warm her bed with a pan of hot coals so she does not sicken.”
Zuzana curtsied, but as she bowed her head, her eyes were open in amazement. She studied the brocade of the Countess’s dress, her head lingering low.
Would she sacrifice one of her own relatives?
Hedvika brought Zuzana to the chamber door. The big-hipped Slovak maid beamed in satisfaction when the Countess of Zichy muffled a scream, seeing Zuzana’s pocked face.
“Your face!”
“Do not be frightened of my appearance,” Zuzana said in Hungarian. “You will soon be used to it. I shall care for you as no one else in this castle can. I serve my mistress the Countess faithfully and have for years.”
“Thank God there is a civilized tongue spoken in this savage wilderness!” the young Countess answered with relief. “These savage Slovaks all bark at me in unintelligible German.”
“I was raised in Sarvar Castle. I am here to serve you, madam. I am the Countess’s personal handmaiden.”
Hedvika’s lips pulled down, a bitter taste in her mouth. She could not understand Hungarian but she sensed the visitor’s acceptance of the ugly handmaiden.
“Oh, Countess Bathory is so good, so generous!” said Countess Zichy, clasping her hands. “Her own personal servant!”
The handmaiden bowed her head, saying nothing.
Zuzana prepared Countess Zichy a bath scented with rosemary. She sent the girl’s dress and underclothes to the laundress. The Slovak maids brought the soaps, perfumes, and unguents that Zuzana used for Countess Bathory’s own toilette. Zuzana could smell the traveling sickness on the noblewoman’s body and clothes.