by Lana Popovic
Trapped where she could no longer carve her will into the world.
Though I have tried not to paint the son with the brush of his mother’s crimes, I have also found it near impossible not to watch him for some sign of her. A flicker of deviousness, a touch of heedless cruelty, a subtle reveling in another’s pain.
But I see none of that in him. He was a lovable child, clever and sweet-tempered and far brighter than my own brothers, reluctant to so much as pull Zsuzsi’s tail; our cat loved him so well she now purrs in his son’s crib, watching over him like a sentinel. And now Gabor is a dear husband to my sister, as loving and devoted as Peter would have been to me. But I would not wed him, even after all he suffered for my sake, not when I know myself incapable of such a love.
And I have vowed that no one will ever own me again. The sweet girl Peter married from a neighboring village makes him a much better wife than I would have.
I was not made to be anyone’s wife. Not when I am Anna the Cunning, midwife of Sarvar, and its former, reformed witch. Not even Elizabeth Báthory, for all her wiles and malice, could keep a hold of me.
But at the very least, when the messenger arrives with the note, I can honestly say I have not thought of Elizabeth in months. Yet when I unroll and read the letter, her face seems to float before me like a specter. Those sly, winking eyes, the scarlet lip fastened between her teeth, the inky sweep of her hair.
And when I read that, in dying, she has split her fortune between me and her son, I cannot suppress the tears that spring to my eyes.
Goodbye, my lady, I think, my nose filling with the faint, spiced ghost of her perfume. Though this world is well rid of you, my curse is to remember.
Acknowledgments
When I first started writing YA, I thought I had a pretty firm sense of the space I wanted to occupy. Contemporary fantasy was prime territory—and the more witches the better, generally, for obvious reasons. Horror could be really compelling, too, and I could see how elements of science fiction might be intriguing if liberally plied with magic. Under the right circumstances and star alignment, I might even consider venturing into stone-cold contemporary realism, though the idea was a little daunting—because how does one even plot without supernatural shenanigans?!
Historical fiction, on the other hand, was pretty much off the table. I remember reading Mackenzi Lee’s The Gentlemen’s Guide to Vice and Virtue a few years ago and feeling staggered by the breadth, vigor, and intricacy of the long-dead era she evoked so seemingly effortlessly on the page. But knowing the work it takes to construct even a contemporary world convincingly rooted in our own, I balked at the idea of such a historical deep dive, the heavy lifting required to become so intimately acquainted and conversant with a bygone age. It just sounded really hard, when, you know, I could stick with modern sassy witches.
But, it turns out, being a little obsessed with your subject totally changes the game.
Growing up in eastern Europe, I encountered Elizabeth Báthory over and over in my cultural studies classes at the various American international schools I attended. Her story is so blood-curdlingly infamous, so wickedly twisted, beguiling, and confounding, that a number of nations lay claim to her as a colorful part of their own history. I met her in Hungary, Romania, and even in Bulgaria, though as far as I know, the diabolical countess never actually set foot there. As my fascination with Elizabeth grew, I sought out accounts of her life, both fictionalized and historical; in writing this story, I leaned heavily on Infamous Lady by Kimberly L. Craft and The Countess by Rebecca Johns, both of which I highly recommend.
Despite the intrigue she inspires, there are gaping voids in our knowledge and understanding of Elizabeth’s life. There’s no book, letter, or HBO miniseries out there that can really shed light on why a noblewoman who spoke five languages, and often interceded on the behalf of lowborn women in her care, would so heedlessly commit such atrocities against her own gender. What drove her on, spurred this unslakable bloodlust? Was she deranged, evil, somehow tormented . . . or something even darker and more unfathomable than that?
This absence leaves ample room for the imagination—and it gave me the precious and ridiculously fun real estate in which to take my own stab at portraying this monstrous lady’s psyche.
Still, even with all my enthusiasm, Elizabeth and Anna’s story could never have existed without Anne Heltzel’s patience, warm wisdom, killer e-mail game, and editorial genius. In so many ways, this book is her baby just as much as mine; I’m forever indebted to her for giving me the opportunity and freedom to play with it. I’m also deeply grateful to Andrew Smith for taking this gamble, and to the whole team at Abrams/Amulet for their unflagging support.
I’m also, and always, grateful to Taylor Haggerty, lovely friend, agent extraordinaire, and the dark and twisty star to whom this book is dedicated. This writing thing has been a wild ride and about a gazillion times more fun than it would have been without you.
To all my dear friends, especially Claire Schulz and Jilly Gagnon, stalwart confidantes and mainstays in g-chat land—I’m so lucky to have you in my life.
I’m also grateful to my family, especially for their unwavering support even when I’m staking my claim in some admittedly bloody territory. I promise, this book is not your fault.
And finally, all my love and gratitude to my husband and heart, Caleb, for never batting an eye at my ridiculously ample non sequiturs, loving me so well even when I’m freaking out, and generally not being too creeped out to sleep next to me at night. You will always be my favorite.
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