The sleeping powder was gone.

  Edda did not have to see that it was missing to know that the crow had taken it. And yet, after a moment or two of terrified shock, she scrambled over to the vanity, struggling to discern the shapes atop it in the low light. Desperate, she swept her hands across, searching for that tab of folded wax paper that she was sure had been left there—to no avail. Anxiety clamored with fear and confusion within her. And anger, too.

  The sleeping powder, of all things. Did the crow mean to stop her from sleeping? Was that how she would hear these whispers it so adamantly wished her to listen to? Edda swallowed; a vain attempt to moisten her dry mouth. She could not understand the beast’s motives, but it seemed that if she disregarded its advice, it would simply force her to do as it wished anyway.

  Yet, the crow had not tried to harm her—not this night, and not the last time. It had given her words that had helped her, at least so far. Perhaps these whispers were meant to do so, as well. But as Edda’s mind worked to decipher the meaning of the crow’s ominous words, she could not bring herself to like the conclusion she came to.

  What sort of whispers did one hear when none were awake to say them? And what else awaited her in the dark of night? She could only believe that this was some ploy that would have her at a blood witch’s mercy.

  Some sleepy movement from Marta, still blissfully unaware of all that had unfolded, caught Edda’s attention then, distracting her from the terror of her thoughts. And she realized, suddenly, how cold the chamber had grown with the window still ajar. She was shivering prolifically in her thin nightdress, and no doubt Marta would soon be doing the same even beneath her thick blanket. Hurrying over to close the window, Edda was surprised to see a weak smudge of orange across the eastern horizon; visible even despite the heavy, dark clouds and the lingering moon.

  A small comfort, that it was closer to morning than she had realized. She stood there for a while, mulling over the crow’s words with her hand upon the glass. Berating herself for not demanding answers, and, at the same time, relieved to not know them. Angry at the crow for what it had said to her and, most of all, angry at herself for the truth in its words. Angry and frightened, and beneath those far more palatable emotions, the least palatable one of all—guilty.

  Clenching her teeth almost painfully, she spun to survey the shadowed room around her. Parchment had been scattered all about as the crow took flight, and the inkpot on the writing desk had been knocked over. A mess that, if left as it was, she would have to explain to Marta, who would undoubtedly wake any moment now. Taking a shaky breath, she set about gathering the parchment—hopeful that the task would take her mind from that which she did not wish to confront.

  But it was as the crow had said. She had always understood more than she let on. So, when had she first begun to turn a blind eye?

  Long before she had ever reached Cachtice Castle, that was for sure.

  Crouching awkwardly, half hobbled by her dress, she picked up page after page. And with each page, a memory seemed to surface—memories from so long ago that even Marta did not appear in them. Countless family dinners; her stern father at the head of the table speaking of that day’s business with her eldest brother, Simon. Sometimes Ivar would be there, as well. And each of them carrying on without so much as a flicker of the eye or a falter of the voice, even as the servants shuffled uncomfortably with the noise they could all hear, but refused to acknowledge.

  She had ignored it, too, wilful though her food tasted of dust. Every question about the crying baby and the screaming woman bitterly swallowed, because it was easier if she did not ask what no one wanted to answer. And it was easy, too, to pretend that it was normal when everyone around her seemed content to do the same. To convince herself it was normal.

  Edda’s eyes blurred with tears, but she choked them back angrily; crumpling the parchment she had gathered to her chest. That had not been her fault, and neither was anything that had happened at Cachtice Castle. She had only ever done what was expected of her. She’d had no hand in the chaos that unfolded—in fact, she had suffered and died for it. That made her the victim. How dare the crow suggest otherwise?

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  Stumbling to her feet, she returned her stack of parchment to the writing desk, avoiding the ink that had pooled on its surface. Without warning, she had the urge to press her palms directly into the liquid. To stain them black, to see them dirtied; to feel the viscous substance oozing between her fingers and down her wrists. A childish desire to luxuriate in the mess before her, the mess she had found herself in.

  She looked down, studying her hands as she restrained the impulse. The room darkened further as the moon and meagre sunrise were overtaken by the promise of rain. But still, she could see that her left hand was distended stiff and ugly purple. And yet, the right, even in this morning’s dusky light, stood out for its pale whiteness. The fingers long and thin, the nails trimmed neatly. Cleanly.

  It was not her fault. It could not be. But had she turned a blind eye?

  It was like this, frozen in contemplation, that Marta found her not long after. Edda had not even heard her rise, but she certainly heard Marta’s gasp as she rounded upon her, catching sight of the spilled ink and the swollen wrist.

  “I lost my footing,” Edda explained without a pause, “Came upon the desk, and the inkpot fell right over.”

  “Oh, Miss Edda,” Marta murmured, worry evident in her expression. Reaching toward Edda’s face, she gently moved her thumb across the tender bump that had begun to rise on the side of her head. Lips squeezed into a tight, upset line, Marta did not press further.

  Rather than helping in the kitchens, Marta insisted upon staying with Edda that morning. They spent those few hours in quiet preparation for what would be Edda’s first day rejoining the other girls for both meals and lessons. She did not look forward to it. At the very back of her mind were the half-wrought plans she had concocted to learn more of what Agneta knew. But today they were the least of her worries.

  Not only did the crow’s haunting words play over and over in her mind, but she could not shake the feeling that, by allowing it into her chamber, she had invited something far more nefarious in, as well. Her dread only seemed to grow as the day devolved into a miserable downpour, so overcast that they needed candlelight to brighten the room. Rain beat at the windows, and if she allowed herself to relax for even a moment, it was as though that horrid tip, tap could be heard all over again.

  Of course, she kept from Marta the true reason for her tense silence, citing the fall that had renewed the pain of her wrist and granted her the lump on her head. Studying Marta in the mirror as the woman painstakingly applied Gretel’s herbal salve to her injuries, Edda was reassured to see that she, at least, appeared better rested. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes appeared less dark and creased with exhaustion. Still, she regarded Edda with her usual anxious concern.

  There was little point in adding to the woman’s stress by telling her that—against her advice—Edda had spoken again with the witch’s messenger. That the beast had been but a span or two from her as she slept, none the wiser under the sleeping powder’s effects.

  The writing desk had to be wiped down with a strong alcohol, which a servant was sent to fetch. The ink had seeped into its smooth, wooden surface, and despite Marta’s best efforts, a dark patch remained even after the last trace of the substance had been removed. Edda’s letter to Gretel had been ruined in the spill, and so, before leaving to the midday meal, she hurriedly penned another with what ink remained in the pot.

  This time, she included sleeping powder in her request. Tomorrow, an hour or two after dawn, old Soos’s supply wagon would arrive. She would deliver the letter herself, directly to his boy, Peter, and then would come the agonizing wait. An entire fortnight without either the blackthorn for protection or the sleeping powder for respite from the fear of being unprotected.

  Folding the letter once more below the now-empty inkpot, she and Marta readied for their departure. Edda’s uneasiness must have been evident upon her face, because, just as they approached the door, Marta produced the small sack of salt she had been saving. “It’s not enough to bar the door as I’d like,” she said quietly, chewing her lip, “The cook’s still stubborn. But let’s line the threshold, anyway. I hope it will work as we intend for now.”

  Indeed, they did not have enough. Still, Edda found a kind of solace in the placing of that fine line of salt across the doorway. If only they could line the windowsill, as well, to keep the crow away. Already, it was stretched as thin as a grain in some places. But perhaps it would be enough to ensure nothing entered their room while they were away that day. Or when they returned that night and she faced whatever awaited her in the darkness—whether it be her memories of the pyre or the witch that had put her there.

  To stain them black, to see them dirtied; to feel the viscous substance oozing between her fingers and down her wrists.