Castle of Sighs

by Jennifer Murgia

  “Have you become accustomed to me?” he asks at last, meeting my eye in a way that sends my blood racing through my veins.

  I swallow the mouthful that’s been pleasantly melting on my tongue and lean toward the candle’s flame between us. “It’s almost as if we’re an old couple, isn’t it? Sharing a meal at this hour with two sleeping children above our heads.”

  Laurentz slides the candle out of the way and stretches his hand toward mine, his fingertips gliding lightly over my own. “So that’s a yes?”

  “Yes,” I whisper back.

  His hand inches toward his sleeve, and the white scar beneath it interrupts our conversation. “And so the witch has marked me…whatever for?” he teases.

  I do not miss the smolder in his eyes. We’ve spent weeks playing house with one another. If I had marked him that day in the forest, then I did so unknowingly. All I know is that it is he who has marked my heart with something I’ve never felt before. But I must stop pretending to be what we are not. My feelings for Laurentz have grown; that is obvious, yet this world I find myself in is so far away from the one I’ve come from. He is poised to be Elector of Castle Eltz one day, and I am just a girl who does not know who she is. I am naïve and terrible and I fear I will be the one to bring ruin to our happiness. “There’s another hamper outside.” His voice holds something fragile in it as we eat our supper. “There are clothes for the children. Friedrich’s clothes will fit Niclaus, I believe. It’s time his things were removed from Eltz and put to good use.”

  I’ve no doubt rummaging through his brother’s belongings had been hard for him. It will be harder still when he sees the familiar trousers his brother wore as a child on Niclaus’s tiny frame.

  “And for Margret?”

  “Cook’s cousin. Her daughter’s outgrown her smallest wares.”

  “They never found…”

  “No.” He breathes, then runs a hand through his chestnut hair. By the time he looks up at me, I see how this mystery of Pyrmont’s plague still confuses him. “How is it possible an entire castle of people disappears in one night?” His question lingers for a moment. It is one neither of us can answer. The cousin he speaks of had been a scullery maid in this very kitchen. It has been rumored the entire household, staff included, had fallen ill at the onset of the bishop’s dark plan, yet no bodies were ever found. It is a mystery still whispered among the villagers—how the Black Death wiped clean an entire castle in a single night to make room for the orphans who would fill the beds of the dead. “There’s word that a witch hunt plagues a small village just off the Danube, in Deggendorf.” Laurentz changes the subject, knowing I have not the stomach to tolerate conversation about the bishop. “My father believes that the river has trapped the witch there because…”

  “Because witches cannot cross water,” I finish for him. “And that is preposterous.”

  “You’re living proof that a witch can indeed cross water, but that is because you haven’t a single dark bone in your body. You’re good, Rune, through and through. I’ve seen it.”

  He knows well that a hundred questions are poised on the tip of my tongue, the most significant being the one I am dreading to ask—because I know the answer—and so he saves me. “An end needs to be brought to what the bishop started. His idea of heresy, while nothing more than an ember to hysteria, seems to have reached further than our own neighbors. Ignoring this would be as immoral as condoning it.”

  “When do you leave?” I ask, trying to contain the cold discomfort that has suddenly invaded me. There is an odd feeling hovering over us now, and I fear our evening has ended.

  “Daybreak tomorrow.”

  There is only one witch in Bavaria, a true blood witch, and that is me. Yet I know there will always be something that marks a woman different—perhaps she will bear a birthmark or an oddity that causes others to whisper. Or perhaps she will believe in fortunes and tea leaves and stories passed down to her. For those who live closest to the Black Forest have tales to tell, and not all of them are sweet.

  Laurentz heads back to his home, leading the now unburdened pack-horse behind the mare he rides. Once they pass from sight, I bar the door for the night and start to clear the table, guilty that Laurentz must intervene in what my family’s bloodline has sparked. I know that as much as I’d like to shed this impossible skin that cloaks me—the one that brands me as a wicked thing—it is my skin. And the sooner I can rid myself of being labeled as a witch, the better.

  Chapter 3

  I wake well before dawn and creep to the window of my chamber. A spider’s web of frost has threaded itself over the uneven glass but it does not blur my view. Through the trees, in the direction of Eltz Castle, I know Laurentz stands harnessing his mare for the journey he and his father are about to take. Despite the distance between us I smell the well-oiled leather of the bridle, feel the weight of the saddle bag and the smoothness of the horse’s mahogany coat freshly brushed to a shine. I feel Laurentz shiver in the morning chill, feel the collar of his woolen coat scratch at the back of his neck. But the strongest feeling is the glance he steals through the dense winter fog in the direction of Pyrmont to where I stand now at the window. It is a fleeting look, a silent goodbye—though he doesn’t see me. There is no way he could.

  My hand presses against the glass, melting away the frost until the leaded pane responds with a gentle pulse and a faint glimmer of breath appears against it on the other side. And then I crumple my palm into a fist and whisper him a safe journey.

  I dress, keeping my gaze from returning to the glass. I intend to bide my time well in his absence, which means trying to rid myself of the witch in me. The sooner I accustom myself to mundane chores the sooner I’ll feel like the ordinary girl I should be, and the prospect of being able to call myself the Lady of the castle one day will be one I won’t shrink away from.

  After a quick check into the nursery reveals that the children are still asleep, I creep down to the kitchen to stoke the embers that have died down during the night. The tiny candle that leads my way casts a small glow upon a muslin pouch resting upon the mantle. I place its contents in a black kettle, adding enough water to cover it. The spiced leaves steep, turning the water the color of liquid sunset, and I ladle out a cupful once it boils. Despite the frigid air outside, I lift the sash at the window and push against the shutters until I see my breath, smiling as I hear the winter birds forage for late harvest seeds.

  The items from the hampers have been neatly stacked in the pantry, away from the damp floor. I’m grateful for the provisions, yet a chill snakes up my arms. Laurentz’s parting gifts remind me that the children and I are alone. I sip the rest of my tea, draining the cup. My mind is decidedly set to prove I am not frightened, and I am not helpless. But the still-warm cup does not chase away every fear. It is funny how I can be comfortable fending for myself in a forest everyone dreads, yet these walls, this place I must now call home is the one thing that has me most unsettled.

  Laurentz says I’m wild, that the Black Forest will ever remain in my blood, as will the Craft handed down from my mother. But I am determined to break what clings to me. I find myself drifting toward the other side of the kitchen, knowing it is where I should start—at the one door leading to the hall in the castle I have not yet explored. Pyrmont holds many doors and many corridors but it is this one in particular that scares me. This hall, kept hidden, feels darker, colder, and longer than any of the others, and it calls to me. It toys with my mind, begging me to step over its threshold and face my fears—for I do fear there is something waiting for me at its other end.

  My hand rests above the latch, trembling, and then with a gulp I clutch the metal and steel myself to turn it when a hollow echo comes through the floorboards above my head. My hand stills and I listen carefully—there! It comes again, a tight bark that grows more insistent by the minute. I leave the door and race toward the staircase, flying as fast as my legs will carry me. I’ve forgotten the candle, and in the long s
hadows of the hall I feel my way, raking my hands along the walls until, at last, I find the door to the nursery. The cough is forceful now, and Margret rolls uncomfortably in her crib, her tiny cheeks flushed with a ruddy glow that steals my breath.

  I gently pick her up and feel how her skin burns beneath my hand, knowing I have no one but myself to bring down her fever. I cast a glance into the neighboring bed. Niclaus still sleeps, his skin cool to my finger’s touch, and I tiptoe out of the room, careful not to disturb him. “Shh,” I whisper against her little ear as I carry her through the dark. The kitchen glows with warmth now and I bundle Margret in my arms, holding her as I strip sage leaves from their stem and set them to boil. I find a jar of honey at the back of the pantry shelf and set it on the table, then fill a wide basin with warm water and carefully settle her within the tub. Her tiny body shivers as the water goes to work on the heat that has taken her and my brain races at what to do next.

  “When I was a baby, my Mutti helped me just like this,” I tell her softly, knowing she doesn’t understand, but she smiles at my gentle words and her skin prickles beneath the wadded cloth as I cool her blazing skin. “She would sing and tell me stories and hold me close as I sipped warm tea with lemon and molasses…”

  I don’t realize that I am crying until a faint splatter of water rebounds from the basin and hits my chin. My tears have caused a rain shower and Margret finds this amusing, giggling as a fat tear continues to tread down my cheek. “Oh you think that’s funny, do you?” I ask and pull her out of the water, wrapping her in a thick bundle of dry clothes from Cook’s hamper. The pink in her cheeks has calmed a bit and I settle her on my lap, spoon-feeding her swallows of sage tea to finish what the bath has done. Her treatment ends with a drizzle of honey on her tiny pink tongue. “There now, that should keep your nasty cough away.”

  “Is that breakfast?” Niclaus’s silhouette fills the door. “I like honey.” He rubs his eyes as his little feet shuffle toward us and he climbs onto the wooden chair, reaching toward Margret, whose own tiny hands have clapped together at the sight of her sleepy friend.

  “Not too close today,” I warn. “She isn’t well.”

  His face scrunches up, and he looks for himself. “Looks fine to me.”

  And so she does, to my surprise. Gone is the red warmth of fever from her skin and the bright glassy sheen in her eyes. I feel her face with the back of my hand and sure enough, the bath and tea have seemed to chase away her infection. But she lets out a tight cough and I exchange glances with Niclaus.

  When he’s finished his thick slice of honey bread, he swipes his hand across his sticky mouth, leaving behind a trail of crumbs. “Will Laurentz come today?”

  I knew this was coming. I’d even tried to prepare myself for it, knowing how fond they are of him. “He’s off on a trip with his father.”

  Niclaus’s eyes are wide and I can almost hear his thoughts spoken out loud. Who will play Hide-and-Seek with me and Margret? Who will set up the Nine Pins in the nursery then secretly knock one over when my ball misses? Who?

  “Me!” I burst out and am met by his quizzical stare. “I mean, we are going to have plenty of fun and games while Laurentz is off on his excursion.” I lean over the table resting on my elbows and fill my face with excitement. “We’ll have so much fun that before we know it, he’ll have returned and you can share with him your own adventure.”

  Niclaus jumps to his feet, upsetting the chair beneath him, and when I catch it from falling over completely, his eyes are shining and he’s glancing furtively between me and the door that will lead us back to the nursery.

  But Margret’s cough interrupts his happiness and I almost regret making a promise I may not be able to keep. And then I remember. “When I was a little girl my…” but I stop myself from saying her name, knowing it will unleash an army of questions from the little boy. He will ask who Matilde was—what became of my mother and why I didn’t grow up in a castle or a village like most children. It is an onslaught I am not prepared for, so I bite my tongue. “The cold air supposedly is a remedy for croup,” I continue, stifling the memories in my head. “Let’s bundle up and take Margret for a walk.”

  His face turns toward the window where the green pine trees are just within view. “Out there?”

  “Of course out there. Here,” I reach for the hook at the door, “you can take a basket with you and collect things.”

  “Like pinecones and mealworms and mushrooms?” His excitement takes over his apprehension, and if I weren’t standing between him and the door, he’d be outside in an instant, traipsing through the snow in his bed clothes.

  “Maybe not mushrooms.” I laugh darkly. “Mushrooms are clever things and like to pretend to be delicious when in fact they’ll make you terribly sick, but mealworms, definitely.”

  He looks at me as if I have two heads and then I usher him off to dress. I bundle Margret in something suitable for cold weather after rummaging through more hampers, and then we are off into the fresh air, and I can hardly contain my own excitement. I’ve missed being outdoors. I’ve felt tired and pale and stifled since arriving at Pyrmont, doing nothing but staring out the window and missing the smell of the trees and air on my skin.

  Within moments we are laughing and I’ve got a good notion that Niclaus sees me with new eyes—that perhaps I am just as amusing and playful as Laurentz, and soon enough we are tossing handfuls of snow at one another and poking our fingers in the moss we find buried beneath. Margret hasn’t let out a single cough and we decide to venture further out, closer to the trees that will always call me. But Niclaus slows his steps and soon he is dragging behind several paces.

  “What is it?” I ask him.

  He stares beyond me into the thick of the trees as if he is searching for something.

  “Do you want to explore in there?” I ask, pointing. With a near ferocious shake, he whips his head from side to side and takes another cautious step backward.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of, Niclaus,” I reassure him. “It’s only a forest.”

  But he’ll have none of my excuses, and as I take a slow step beneath the dark branches, proving there is nothing to fear, my foot feels something fragile break beneath it. The sound is enough to ignite his curiosity and we bend our heads together searching the ground.

  “There!” His breath plumes white vapor between us.

  “Let me.” I pass Margret to his little arms so that I might pull the broken glass from its snowy tomb and hold it so we can both examine it. “Is it treasure?” the boy asks, his eyes shining against the white glare of the snow. “Do you think Laurentz will know what it is? We can save it for him.”

  I turn the broken piece over, noting the even color of the glass bottle. The neck has snapped in half. At the very center it appears as if a picture or seal had been pressed into it but it is long gone. “I’m not sure,” I answer. “But it looks very old. See how the picture has been worn off?”

  “There’s more!” he shouts, clumsily shoving Margret back into my arms. He pulls away, combing the edge of the forest without me. I am relieved he’s forgotten what scared him moments ago, and then Margret lets out a horrible sputter and I hurry to catch up to him. It’s time to get her back inside. “See?” he points to the trampled ground where, like a mosaic, dozens of shards poke out from the snow, glistening in the sun. It is as if they were broken on purpose, thrown together in a heap and smashed by a heavy boot, and then, my eye catches fresh footprints leading along the path that lines Pyrmont’s land. My eyes scan the gardens but I see nothing, just endless white as smooth as if it had fallen while we stood here, mesmerized by our discovery of broken glass.

  The forest is silent. Not a single bird or tree branch snapping in the distance. Nothing…except for the shout of the small boy now a distance behind me, which for some reason has brought gooseflesh to my arms. The hairs on the back of my neck stand in wait. My legs burn as I trudge through the heavy snow to where he’s wandered, and then I
see what captures his attention. The thing is smooth, the color of cream. It pokes up from the snow, so out of place, yet as if it had been there all along. He reaches, his fingers eager to touch the thing he’s only heard stories of…stories that most children try to forget. Stories that haunt even the bravest of souls.

  “No,” I stop his little hand from grasping the mottled protrusion. “Don’t touch it.” I clutch the baby in my arms and give his coat a firm tug, and then we are hurrying across the yard toward the kitchen and it seems we cannot get there fast enough. I feel his questions burn behind me, feel him slow every few feet, knowing what we’ve left behind pulls at him, begs him to come back and yank it free. I usher him inside and lean my weight against the wooden door, sliding the lever across its middle.

  My breath is harried. My pulse races like the ticking of a clock. The floor is a puddle where we stand for what feels like hours without moving, taking stock of what has just gone terribly wrong.

  “Can I keep them?” His diminutive voice comes from behind, slicing the silence in half. And when I turn, my hand covers my mouth, for I never took notice of what he’d collected outside on our adventure. I never listened how silent the world became once we stepped into it or how comforting these walls would feel after. “They’re tiny, like the big one in the snow,” he says with a detached calm. “I couldn’t take the other—you wouldn’t let me—but these fit into my basket just fine.”

  My heart threatens to explode and my mouth runs dry—I have no idea what to tell him—have no idea how to tell him what he’s found are things he cannot keep and that what he holds in his small, little-boy hands is a basket full of human bones.

  Chapter 4

  “Let’s wash up, shall we?” Before he can argue, I slip Niclaus’s hand from the basket handle and guide him to the basin. I refuse to acknowledge the remains he’s collected on our brief adventure. If I should lose myself to the very idea of what we’ve uncovered then I will spill the entire basket upon the floor and face the task of picking up the pieces. And then he will see…he will see what they really are.