“I will take you myself to Szilvasi and Zuzana. The rest of you stay here,” Brona said. Then she shot a look at the knot of girls, their faces drawn with fear.
“Warn us if you hear the Countess emerge from the dungeon. And,” Brona said looking them over one by one, “if anyone betrays this child, I will poison your food, I swear by all that is holy.”
Chapter 80
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 27, 1610
The cook’s candle spilled a pool of light in the dark hall, as she led Vida up a turret stairway, then stopped and rapped her heavy knuckles against a door.
It opened a crack, just enough for Vida to see white bed sheets and then a sliver of a scarred face at the wedge of the open door.
“Vida!” gasped Zuzana, opening the door wide. She set her candle on the table and went to hug her friend.
Brona smiled, watching the two young women, but her smile vanished as she saw the fevered Janos clawing the air with his outstretched fingers.
“NO!” he screamed. “Leave her alone!”
Vida stared as Brona rushed in, her skirts flying.
The cook caught the horsemaster’s flailing hand in midair.
“Just as I thought,” she said, kissing the fevered man’s hand. “See the scar beside his little finger.”
Zuzana gaped at the cook, who cradled the hand of her sick friend. “His mother said he caught it in a well rope.”
“Bolt the door,” Brona whispered. She said nothing until the plank was slid across the door.
“No rope did this,” Brona said, spitting out the words in excitement. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It was cut with a knife—”
“What? Why would she—” said Zuzana
“He is a Taltos. I am sure of it,” said the cook.
“What?” asked Vida. “What makes you say that?”
“That scar,” said Brona. “He had a sixth finger. His mother must have cut it off. They would have killed him if they’d found it.”
Zuzana studied Janos’s hand in hers. She rubbed her fingertip over the scarred edge of flesh at the outside of his his little finger.
“Killed him?” said Zuzana
“The Bathorys,” whispered Brona. “The King. They all fear the power of the Taltos.”
Vida shook her head. “That scar doesn’t prove—”
The cook dismissed her objection with a wave of her thick hand. “His talent with horses, how he whispers to them. Listen, it is a vision he sees now in his fevered head.”
“What?” said Zuzana.
“He has come to save us,” said the cook, glancing at the suffering man. “It is he who will defeat the Countess.”
Vida and Zuzana stared at the young horsemaster.
“How can he possibly help now?” whispered Zuzana, folding his waving hand into her own, bringing it to her lips, then lowering it, nestling the scarred hand against his heaving chest as if returning a baby bird to a nest. “He’s dying.”
Chapter 81
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 27, 2010
Draska’s mother, Mathilde, the castle cook, banged her fist against the Count’s chamber door. The delicate wood, painted with Venetian motifs, flexed under the assault.
“I know you are in there!” she bellowed. She rattled the brass handle. “Open the door or I am calling the police. Now!”
Ivan, one of the Count’s manservants, opened the door. He stared at the cook, menace burning in his eyes.
“Stand aside,” Mathilde said, her broad hips pushing past him.
Ivan grabbed her meaty arm, digging his thin fingers deep into her flesh.
“He cannot be disturbed now.”
Mathilde wrestled her arm away from him.
“Then you cannot stop me from calling the police. My daughter is not with her cousin in London—that was all a dirty lie!”
“Mathilde, Mathilde,” cooed a voice from within the recesses of the bedchamber.
“Count Bathory? I must see you at once.”
“Enter, my dear. Enter. It is not often I entertain my family’s most loyal servant in my boudoir.”
The Count wore a crimson satin smoking jacket. He balanced a stack of newspapers on his lap.
“Come, sit down Mathilde.”
“I didn’t come to sit, Count Bathory. My daughter is missing and I was purposely given false information about her whereabouts.”
“Oh, really? How’s that? I am often left out of the loop with the household comings and goings.”
“Ivan here came to tell me that Draska was called away immediately, that she had traveled to London—”
“Oh, yes,” Ivan insisted, “Draska told me about a cousin being very ill.”
Mathilde pressed her lips together tightly. Her nostrils flared. “Her cousin is fine. Draska never went to London. I want to know where she is.”