Castle of Sighs

by Jennifer Murgia

  Castle of sighs

  Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Murgia

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Press, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spencer Hill Press

  27 West 20th Street, Suite 1102

  New York, NY 10011, USA

  Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com

  First Edition: September 2015.

  Jennifer Murgia

  Castle of Sighs : a novel / by Jennifer Murgia – 1st ed. p. cm.

  Summary:

  Free from her dead mother’s vengeance, a fledgling witch finds her new life is as haunted as her past when she uncovers horrifying secrets about the dark forest she once called home and the boy she thought she knew.

  Cover design by Lisa Amowitz

  Interior layout by Kate Kaynak

  Published in association with MacGregor Literary, Inc.

  Quotes from Rune Secrets used with the permission of James Stratton-Crawley.

  ISBN 978-1-63392-024-8 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-63392-025-5 (e-book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Castle of Sighs

  JENNIFER MURGIA

  Also by Jennifer Murgia:

  Angel Star

  Lemniscate

  The Bliss

  Between These Lines

  Forest of Whispers

  For my family—who never seem to mind my dark side.

  Pronunciation Guide to the German Words:

  Brezn – (BREET-zen) – Pretzel

  Bergfried – (BERK-freet) – Keep, castle tower

  Erbstück – (AIRB-shtook) – Heirloom

  Gnädig – (guh-NAY-dig) – Gracious, mercy

  Kindl – (KIN-dil) – Child

  Knödel – (k’NOO-del) – Dumpling

  Lächerlich – (LEK-hair-leek) – Ridiculous

  Landjäger – (LAND-yay-guh) – A semi-dried sausage that keeps well without spoiling

  Mutti – (MOO-tee) – Mother (southwestern German variant)

  Schätzchen – (SHET-zee-en) – Dear one, honey

  Schlafwandler – (SHLAF-vand-lah) – Sleepwalker

  Schriftdeutsch – (SHRIFT-doych) – Written German

  Tafelspitz – (TAH-fel-spits) – Boiled beef in broth

  Thaler – (DAH-ler) – A large, official silver coin used in Austria, Germany, and Switzerland

  Der Unsegen – (dehr UN-zee-ghen) – The curse

  Part One

  “Every beginning has within it the seeds of its own end.”

  Rune

  Pyrmont Castle Winter 1628

  Chapter 1

  Rune

  My velvet slippers cease their patter upon the smooth stone floor. While the corridor is endless, every few feet a narrow window breaks the monotony and I am teased by a glimpse of the outside. There, tall spires of pine rise from the thick forest like an ocean of green swimming past my reach, whispering, teasing. Remember, it seems to say. Remember who you are… As if the stone fortress that hides me away will erase the wild blood from my veins.

  I lean toward the leaded glass. What lies below has been etched into my very soul. Each tree. Each bramble. The stream that serpentines across the mulch floor, its lazy current bending toward the crumbling ruins of a meager cottage, forging past the village that remains surrounded by a thorny hedge, even though witches no longer hide in the forest.

  I was that witch, once. Now, I am not sure who I am, and the castle seems to laugh at my dilemma, its old stones and dank corners a constant reminder that I fill strange shoes. A sudden draft steals across my skin, and I turn my back to the window and its comforting view. Flames stretch from the lip of the nearest brazier in the endless hall, and I listen. I have not yet become accustomed to the sounds of Pyrmont—its ominous creaks and groans are those of something dying rather than living, and my heart longs for the forest outside.

  A scream erupts against the silence and I tear down the corridor, past tapestries and needlepoint samplers, past oil paintings of my family—those who lived in this incredibly cold castle long before me. When I reach the nursery I exhale the breath I’ve been holding, seeing now that the noise had only been a playful squeal. In the center of the large room two small children play with a wooden horse. They are lost in their laughter and I settle myself quietly in the doorway, watching.

  The boy, who is no more than five, pulls the leather reins at the bit, and the tinkling laughter of the tiny girl atop the saddle fills the room with warmth. He yanks the tether and the horse’s rockers inch across the floor at his effort, catching on the mussed, woven rug. He does not notice, and I fear the unsuspecting baby will topple, and then her squeals will truly become screams. I lunge toward the impending catastrophe, and the girl slides easily into my arms, wide-eyed when she realizes she is no longer on the back of the horse.

  “Quite a catch.”

  The voice at the door causes my heart to speed up entirely too quickly, not only because I hadn’t heard him coming, but because my heart reacts this way of late. Laurentz steps into the room and the children scramble toward him, leaving me behind with the horse who rocks away in silence. They cling to his soft white shirt, poke tiny fingers into the deep dimples of his cheeks, and let him swing them ‘round in circles. I watch the gleeful reunion knowing that when they resume their play he’ll slip his strong hand into mine. He’ll offer his soft smile as I straighten up the playroom for the night—he’ll wait until I tuck the little ones into bed, then finally pull me close to his chest.

  The children eventually do go back to playing with their toys. The room we are in is such a large one. It is the nursery that held so many children when the bishop led his witch hunt in the village. My heart aches for those wrongly convicted, for those murdered for a Craft they’d never practiced, perhaps never even believed in, but the weight of my sorrow is far heavier for the countless children left motherless and brought here. The bishop believed they would be raised with a purity of mind, that all of Germany would be cleansed. Out of all brought to Pyrmont, Niclaus and little Margret are the only two left unclaimed.

  “Have you no word of where they belong?” My whisper falls solely upon Laurentz’s ears, and I am glad of it, for little Niclaus seems to hear everything and longs to be part of every conversation. Laurentz shakes his head as I reach for tiny Margret. She weighs no more than a sack of potatoes, so malnourished she had been while her mother was pregnant with her almost a year ago.

  I stifle the sting behind my eyes by biting hard on the inside of my cheek. The vivid memory of Margret’s mother, Anna, will never leave me—especially her death. She had been prisoner in the Drudenhaus—and my friend—for just a few days. And while I’d survived, she hadn’t, and her baby had been taken. It is a blessing that I have found myself reunited with Anna’s child at all.

  I reach for the little girl and hold her close, as I’ve seen mothers in the village do with their own. My fingers find the tiny brown birthmark on her arm and I marvel that it went unnoticed while in the bishop’s care. Surely it would have been assumed to be a witch’s mark, bringing an end to her life. “You’ve a scar on your arm!” squeaks Niclaus. My pulse beats in my throat as he traces his tiny finger along the barely visible white line beneath Laurentz’s sleeve. The wound is no more than a scuff, and, given its age, should appear crimson and puckered. Fresh. But it�
��s as if it has been there for years—white and nearly faded, after I tended to it just months ago. Laurentz and I are equally surprised that Niclaus has even noticed it at all. But notice he has, and it is the perfect prompt for the story the little boy’s eyes beg Laurentz to tell. I wonder what he will say to the boy—if he will tell him of a great battle or a tall tale—or perhaps the one all children of Bavaria learn at a young age.

  Laurentz clears his throat then pushes his sleeve higher up his forearm so the young boy might get a closer look. “You see there?” Laurentz drags his own finger along the streak of white. “This happened in the Black Forest.” That is all he needs to say and the boy’s attention is all his. Niclaus stares back at him, his eyes wide and urgent. Every child is weaned knowing the stories of the dark, haunted forest and the horrors that come with it. It is an evil thing parents do when tucking their young ones to bed, to tell stories of the forest and its monsters. The poor youngsters fall asleep to the sounds of wind whistling through the pine boughs and heavy pinecones dropping to the ground, believing what they really hear are screams and dead things coming to eat them.

  “Was it a banshee that got you?” Niclaus asks. “Did she tie you to a tree and try to steal your soul?”

  My eyes are fixed upon him. He speaks as if he is older than he is, and it makes my blood run cold for a second. He has seen far too much evil—and then I recover, feeling strangely proud that a little boy would ask what he does, that his mind is a whirling contraption.

  Laurentz ruffles the boy’s hair. “No…” He draws it out to be dramatic, then lowers his voice so it is scarcely audible secret between the two of them. “It was a witch.”

  Niclaus’s mouth forms a tight “o.”

  One, two, three… I count to myself, waiting for Niclaus’s silence to break. Since coming to live at Pyrmont, I’ve never known him to be so quiet. When I reach ten, I stifle a laugh, for he still hasn’t said a word to the picture Laurentz has surely painted in his mind.

  “You see,” Laurentz begins softly, noticing Margret has closed her eyes in my arms. “Deep in the haunted forest is a fence of green. Waist-high in thorns, it waits for anyone to pass through it.”

  “And did you?” Niclaus asks. “Did you pass through it?”

  “Barely. You see, the branches and brambles became arms the moment I tried to cross its border.”

  “Arms?” His little eyes are captivated.

  “Arms.” Laurentz stretches out his own, wiggling his fingers for the full effect. “They grab at you and cling to your clothes—to keep you.”

  “Forever?”

  “Yes, I suppose forever.” Laurentz tilts his head, pretending to take this into consideration.

  A sly smile grows on Niclaus’s little face. “But they didn’t keep you. You’re here!” He giggles as if figuring out an intricate puzzle, and I cannot help but feel relieved. I had feared Laurentz’s story would be too frightening for him. “Off to bed, now.” I poke Niclaus’s elbow and show him that Margret has closed her eyes. “This little one is two steps ahead of you.”

  Niclaus stands, then marches over to pull the rocking horse into its makeshift stable for the night. When he returns, he plants his feet directly in front of Laurentz and whispers, “You forgot to tell me about the witch. Did she put a spell on the thorns to hurt you?”

  “Not at all, in fact, she healed me. See how it’s all better now?” He lifts his sleeve once again.

  “I don’t believe you. Witches aren’t good.”

  “Oh, really?” I ask.

  The little boy nods. “Witches are ugly and bent and do terrible things.”

  I give a tepid smile hoping he’ll forget that come morning.

  “Best not show that to anyone,” Niclaus says sleepily and points toward Laurentz’s arm.

  Laurentz kneels to Niclaus’s level. “And why is that?”

  By now the boy’s lids have grown heavy and I know it’s time for the story to end. I take his elbow, and just when I do, he answers, “Because she marked you.”

  Dead silence follows. It appears not even Laurentz knows what to say to this. Niclaus, clearly assuming the conversation has ended, heads toward his bed, his eyelids drooping. The air is oddly thick as we settle the two children in their beds. Laurentz takes the task of stoking the fire in the hearth while I tuck them in, pulling their blankets up around them before closing the door behind us.

  “What do you suppose that was all about?” Laurentz’s hand slips into my own, and while it causes my heart to skip a beat, I am disturbed by the night’s conversation. The smile I offer is meager, but it is all I have. “You were the one with the brilliant story.”

  His hand squeezes mine. “So have I been marked by a witch?”

  “He has a vivid imagination for a child.” But my thoughts stray as we walk together. Did I mark Laurentz in some way that day we met along the hedge? Pulling me out, he had scratched himself quite badly on the sharp thorns, but his arm had been fine after I removed the Sphagnum Moss from his skin. Fine, with the exception of a little white scar. Clearly, the little training I’d had wasn’t enough to fully heal his arm. I set aside the ridiculous possibility of branding him with a witch’s mark and replace it with inexperience.

  We pass the window I’d stood at earlier. The inky sky has now swathed the forest in a velvet cloak, shrouding it in eerie darkness. I know the forest hides beneath, waiting for my return. I feel it. But for now, I am here, pretending to be who I am not…a girl in a large castle, nursemaid to two small orphans because no one else will stay after the sun sets. I cast a glance at the person beside me. He is more man than boy now, and while I feel the warmth of his strong hand covering my own, I dare wonder why he allows himself to be near me. I am odd. I am the one people whisper about after I leave the room. Do I scare him? Has his father has warned him not to spend too much time here at Pyrmont? Why does he come?

  I avert my eyes and continue on, ignoring the world outside. I’d like to stifle the nagging sensation that I belong out there instead of here, to forget that the village bordering my decimated home in the darkest part of the Black Forest knows the truth—that I am the daughter of the one they burned in the village square sixteen years ago. My mother was a witch, once consort to a tyrant, the bishop, the very one who brought Niclaus and Margret to Pyrmont. And while I strive to be true, to prove I am not like my mother, despite my bloodline, I will always be the one the others watch carefully.

  I will always be a witch. And I feel such a stain will never wash away.

  Chapter 2

  There is an eager excitement behind Laurentz’s eyes the moment we step into the kitchen. By the light of an oil lamp, he sets to work emptying several hampers and baskets that lie atop the wooden table at the center of the room. Each contains a bounty large enough to sustain an entire household—breads, currant rolls, glass jars of honey, and parchment-wrapped streusel cakes. There is a crate full of meat—cured rabbit, venison, and fennel sausage connected in long links. Another is filled with heavy sacks of rye and barley. It is enough to last months. My stomach responds to each parcel he unwraps and a scented cloud fills the air. All at once the kitchen is rich and gamey. There are hints of sugar and yeast and fruit. “Cook has been busy, I see.” Laurentz looks up, flashes a smile, then continues unpacking. Before long, delectable edibles cover the table’s wooden surface. “This is entirely too much for three people, and the children are not even full grown!”

  He laughs. “They will be after they finish this!” Laurentz proceeds to fill the shelves and cabinets with the goods while I watch. I am mesmerized at how swiftly he’s become acquainted with Pyrmont. Warmth blushes my cheeks, for he’s insisted on providing for me and the children. He tells me that Eltz’s cook has spent two days preparing a fortnight’s worth of meals. It is a gift like no other and must have taken a great deal of time away from her duties.

  “Thank you,” I offer softly, knowing he’s spent the last few days tirelessly trying to assemble a st
aff for Pyrmont, but not a single person has come forward. All are too uncomfortable to spend time here. They claim to believe the Black Death still clings, but I know the truth—they are frightened of me. “Of course, you’ll share this with us,” I say as I spy a lumpy cloth near the ale jug. I am certain it contains the homemade Brezn he is so fond of—the sharp salt and warm dough. I’d never tasted a pretzel before coming to Pyrmont. Laurentz showed me how to eat one properly my first night here, shredding the twist into miniature bite-sized chunks before dunking them into a peculiar concoction of goat cheese and ale.

  “That’s exactly what I’ve planned.” Laurentz interrupts my anticipation, aptly portioning out our dinner: broiled beef ladled with broth. He carefully spoons delicate slices of potato and minced apple into our bowls and dollops the Tafelspitz with horseradish and a thick soured cream.

  “You do like it here, don’t you?” He lifts his head and sweeps his arm out at our surroundings. “How did you ever do without half the provisions that are here?”

  “I suppose one cannot miss what they are not accustomed to.” In truth, the kitchen is the only space in the entire castle where I feel at home. Its large hearth, like a gaping mouth, fills an entire wall, warming the room from dawn to dusk. The cauldron suspended over the fire, the herbs I’ve hung from my last gathering, and the smell of pinecones drying—all remind me of home. And the bittersweet memory tugs at my heart. The cavernous rooms beyond these four walls are much too open for me. The corridors that branch off toward murky, dusty corners feel more terrifying than the haunted forest I’d spent my sixteen years in. This place contains a dank darkness I am not used to, one I feel at my back at all hours of the day. But not the kitchen, and tonight, especially, it is warm and comforting. Laurentz clears his throat, chasing away my dark thoughts. He starts to speak, but catches himself and I’m left wondering what fills his head.