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Inside the tiny home, no fires burned and the air was nearly as frigid as the outdoors.
Frost crept up the windowpanes and my spine as I made my way toward the solitary shaft of moonlight streaming in. Even in the near complete darkness I could see that the living space was a wreck. A chair was upturned, papers scattered about, drawers turned out. It appeared as if someone or a few someones had ransacked the place.
Anastasia inhaled sharply behind me. “Look! Is that… sânge?”
I spun around and stared at the large rust-colored stain on the carpet. Chills slowly trailed down my body. I had an awful feeling we were standing in the very place where Wilhelm’s blood had been forcibly removed. My heart beat double time, but I forced myself to investigate as if I were Thomas Cresswell, cool, detached, and able to read the pieces left behind.
“Is it?” Anastasia asked again. “I may be ill if it is blood.”
Before I could answer her, my attention landed on a broken pitcher. I carefully picked up a piece of its glass, and stuck my finger in a dark crimson spot. I rubbed it between my fingers, noting the stickiness. My pulse throbbed throughout my body, but I tasted the dried liquid, fairly confident of what I would find. Anastasia’s lip curled as I grinned up at her.
“It’s juice of some sort,” I wiped my hand down the front of my cloak, “not blood.”
My friend was still staring at me as if I’d crossed some line too indecent to even comment on. I searched myself, finding that tingling thrill still lingering below the surface—an undercurrent of electricity making me feel more alive than I had in ages.
“What do you believe happened here?”
I glanced around the space again. “It’s hard to surmise anything for certain until we find a lamp.”
I pulled the curtains back on the window, allowing more moonlight to spill in. Anastasia crossed the room swiftly and plucked up an oil lamp that hadn’t been destroyed in the chaos. With a quick hiss, yellow light filled the space, and a tragic story unfolded.
Bottles of spirits littered the floor in the tiny cooking area off the main room. Some were broken, and all were empty. Judging from the lack of odor in the air, none of the alcohol had sloshed out, which led me to deduce someone had been drinking quite heavily.
Upon second inspection, the room I’d thought was ransacked had likely just been turned over by whoever had indulged in all those spirits. Perhaps they’d been searching for another bottle to drink and had become enraged when they’d found the house bare. Anastasia located another lamp before setting off to inspect the other rooms.
I picked up a photograph, surprised to find one in a home such as this, then gasped. In the picture, the same young woman who’d been described as missing in the sketch in the dress shop smiled down at a baby. Her husband stood proudly behind them both. Could she have been the one drinking all these spirits? And if she’d been intoxicated and walking through the woods alone…
Anastasia returned, brandishing a book. The cross on its cover indicated it was a religious volume. “No one in the bedroom, but this appeared intriguing.”
“You’re not taking that, are you?” I glanced at the book while she flipped through the pages; it was likely a holy text of sorts. Anastasia’s eyes widened as she shook her head. I set the photograph back down and motioned at the door.
“We should leave,” I said. “It was wrong to sneak in here—I don’t believe this place had anything to do with Wilhelm’s death.”
“Or perhaps it did.” Anastasia held the book up again. “I’ve just remembered where I’ve seen this symbol before.”
“Seems like heavy reading before bedtime.”
I jolted up from the anatomy book I’d practically had my nose pressed into. An entire day had passed since my adventure with Anastasia, and not much had occurred. Thomas and I still hadn’t spoken, Radu was as taken with vampire lore as ever, and Moldoveanu was intent on making my time in the castle as miserable as possible.
I smiled sheepishly as Ileana set down a covered tray, then perched on the edge of the settee. Whatever was under that platter smelled absolutely divine. My stomach grumbled its agreement as I placed my book on the table.
“I asked the cook to make something special. It’s called placinta cu carne si ciuperci. Like a meat pie with mushrooms only in flatbread.”
She pulled the silver lid from the platter and made a sweeping gesture at the stack of palm-size pies. There were half a dozen of them, more than enough for the two of us. I glanced around for a fork and knife but noted only napkins and small plates. I made to grab for one of them, then paused, my hand hovering above it. “Do we…”
“Go ahead.” Ileana mimed grabbing one and taking a bite. “Pick it up and eat it. Unless it’s too unrefined. Eating with your hands
must seem common. I wasn’t thinking. Taking it back to the kitchens is no trouble if you’d prefer something else.”
I laughed. “Not at all, actually. Growing up, we used to eat flatbreads and raita with our hands.”
I took a bite, marveling at the savory tones of perfectly seasoned meat with diced mushrooms as they melted like butter on my tongue. The outer layer of the flatbread had charred bubbles that tasted of wood smoke. It took a great deal of my willpower to not roll my eyes or groan in sheer bliss.
“This is delicious.”
“I thought you’d like it. I bring an entire basket of them when I visit Daciana. Her appetite is almost as hearty as her brother’s.” Ileana’s smile faded a bit, turning more into a frown. I wagered she was sad Daciana was gone. “Don’t let her delicate manners fool you. She’s all steel. I’ve watched her finish the whole basket before a table of nobles. They were scandalized, but Daciana didn’t care a bit.”
The slight frown was gone, replaced by a look of great pride, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I wondered if she and Daciana had met at some nobleman’s home Ileana had worked at, but I didn’t want to intrude by asking. It was their story to tell when and if they chose.
