on the door, and it opened a crack to expose the mouth and nose of a pretty—though painfully thin—servant girl. They exchanged murmured words and then the door was quietly opened. Janos was ushered into a vast chamber, illuminated by chandeliers with hundreds of flickering candles.
The room was square and sparse. At the far end sat a black-veiled woman.
“Approach, Master Szilvasi,” called the woman. Her starched lace collar stood straight out from her neck like a square banner, quivering slightly as she spoke.
Janos’s face twitched with impatience, but he wisely chose to compose himself before he reached her shrouded presence.
He stood a few feet from what appeared to be a throne—and bowed deeply. He stared at the Countess’s red-slippered feet, peeking out of the stiff folds of silver and gold brocade.
Janos wrinkled his nose. A strong smell of copper coins wafted through the air, metallic and acrid. His eye surreptitiously hunted for its source.
“Countess Bathory, it is an honor,” he said.
“Is it?” she said. “I have heard that you were impatient for your bed.”
Janos swallowed, marveling at how quickly gossip traveled in this castle. Then he collected his thoughts, thinking of the conditions in which he had found the horses.
“You heard correctly. Your—what would you call them, spies?—have served you well. Yes, Countess. I am tired after two days of hard travel and a grueling day in the stables.”
“Spies? You are impertinent, Pan Szilvasi! They are loyal servants who report the truth and warn me of ill conduct.”
“What do you consider ill conduct, Madame? I come from the Sarvar Castle—your own property. At your request, Madame.”
“You needn’t remind me, as if I am too aged and addled to remember!” she snapped.
Janos decided to take another approach, muting his anger.
“I am devoted to the horses and will see that they thrive and are trained to the utmost of my ability. Your stable shall be worthy of the Bathory name.”
Janos could see the black veil tremble. He wondered what lay behind the curtain of black mesh.
“I understand my stable boys have disappointed you.”
“The horses are in bad condition, Countess,” said Janos. “I will work hard the next few weeks to bring them back to health.”
“My stable master died and his nephew is an idiot,” said the countess, lifting the veil from her face, and folding it over her dark auburn hair.
“I—”
Janos stopped speaking. He stared at the white face, skin as smooth as fine marble, the color of Venetian porcelain. Burning amber eyes, unlike any he had ever seen, stared at him under delicately arched brows.
The woman looked inhuman, a perfect statue created by the most skillful sculptor. Except the eyes. The eyes were feral, catlike. She was stunningly beautiful. He could not look away. His eyes ran over her features, again and again, hunting for imperfection.
He found none, despite her age.
She nodded to the footman, who handed her the braided leather horsewhip.
“You returned this to me,” she said. “I sent it to you with a purpose.”
Janos made himself look at the horsewhip and not the woman’s face.
“It was not necessary. The horses do not need whipping and the stable boys are simply ignorant.”
“The sting of the whip can quickly correct ignorance.”
“I find other methods more effective, Countess.”
There was a little gasp among the throng of handmaidens.
The Countess gave them a sharp look. A sudden silence settled into even the most remote corners of the room.
“They say you inherited your father’s—nay, your grandfather’s—uncanny dominion over horses. I remember him from my childhood at Sarvar Castle. I was fifteen when I was brought as a bride there.”
“I understand horses. It is not dominion.”
“Do you believe you can ride my white stallion?”
“I know I can.”
The marble face broke into a smile that was somehow hideous, as if the sculptor who had
The room was square and sparse. At the far end sat a black-veiled woman.
“Approach, Master Szilvasi,” called the woman. Her starched lace collar stood straight out from her neck like a square banner, quivering slightly as she spoke.
Janos’s face twitched with impatience, but he wisely chose to compose himself before he reached her shrouded presence.
He stood a few feet from what appeared to be a throne—and bowed deeply. He stared at the Countess’s red-slippered feet, peeking out of the stiff folds of silver and gold brocade.
Janos wrinkled his nose. A strong smell of copper coins wafted through the air, metallic and acrid. His eye surreptitiously hunted for its source.
“Countess Bathory, it is an honor,” he said.
“Is it?” she said. “I have heard that you were impatient for your bed.”
Janos swallowed, marveling at how quickly gossip traveled in this castle. Then he collected his thoughts, thinking of the conditions in which he had found the horses.
“You heard correctly. Your—what would you call them, spies?—have served you well. Yes, Countess. I am tired after two days of hard travel and a grueling day in the stables.”
“Spies? You are impertinent, Pan Szilvasi! They are loyal servants who report the truth and warn me of ill conduct.”
“What do you consider ill conduct, Madame? I come from the Sarvar Castle—your own property. At your request, Madame.”
“You needn’t remind me, as if I am too aged and addled to remember!” she snapped.
Janos decided to take another approach, muting his anger.
“I am devoted to the horses and will see that they thrive and are trained to the utmost of my ability. Your stable shall be worthy of the Bathory name.”
Janos could see the black veil tremble. He wondered what lay behind the curtain of black mesh.
“I understand my stable boys have disappointed you.”
“The horses are in bad condition, Countess,” said Janos. “I will work hard the next few weeks to bring them back to health.”
“My stable master died and his nephew is an idiot,” said the countess, lifting the veil from her face, and folding it over her dark auburn hair.
“I—”
Janos stopped speaking. He stared at the white face, skin as smooth as fine marble, the color of Venetian porcelain. Burning amber eyes, unlike any he had ever seen, stared at him under delicately arched brows.
The woman looked inhuman, a perfect statue created by the most skillful sculptor. Except the eyes. The eyes were feral, catlike. She was stunningly beautiful. He could not look away. His eyes ran over her features, again and again, hunting for imperfection.
He found none, despite her age.
She nodded to the footman, who handed her the braided leather horsewhip.
“You returned this to me,” she said. “I sent it to you with a purpose.”
Janos made himself look at the horsewhip and not the woman’s face.
“It was not necessary. The horses do not need whipping and the stable boys are simply ignorant.”
“The sting of the whip can quickly correct ignorance.”
“I find other methods more effective, Countess.”
There was a little gasp among the throng of handmaidens.
The Countess gave them a sharp look. A sudden silence settled into even the most remote corners of the room.
“They say you inherited your father’s—nay, your grandfather’s—uncanny dominion over horses. I remember him from my childhood at Sarvar Castle. I was fifteen when I was brought as a bride there.”
“I understand horses. It is not dominion.”
“Do you believe you can ride my white stallion?”
“I know I can.”
The marble face broke into a smile that was somehow hideous, as if the sculptor who had
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