by Nathan Long
‘Yes, mistress?’ she asked.
‘Sit by Lotte and let her put your wig on and comb it out for you,’ she said, fluttering a hand. ‘We want to look our best.’
‘Yes, mistress,’ said Ulrika, and moved to the other bench as the maid took the long dark wig out of its box. Ulrika didn’t like the thing. It was hot and itchy, and made her feel like a little girl playing dress up, but she understood that her scissor-cropped hair would not do for polite society.
Gabriella smiled weakly at her as Lotte draped the wig over her head and tugged it into place. ‘I… I wish to remind you that you must be on your best behaviour at Lady Hermione’s. You are my ward – my child almost – and as such, whatever you do, whatever you say, reflects on me and how well I have taught you. I would have wished for another year at the least before I introduced you into society, but it can’t be helped. So I command you, no, I beg you, not to embarrass me. Particularly not in front of Hermione, who, as I have mentioned, does not care for me much, and would use any excuse to belittle me.’
Ulrika stiffened. ‘I may be new to your sisterhood, mistress, but I am not a rube. I–’
Gabriella waved her down. ‘Yes, yes, I know. You are the daughter of a boyar, and a lady born. But, as you have shown in the recent past, the difference between being a lady and acting like one can be vast indeed.’
Ulrika inclined her now bewigged head, as rigid as a rapier. ‘I shall endeavour not to disappoint you, mistress.’
Lady Hermione lived in a grand three-storey townhouse in the Aldig Quarter, the richest neighbourhood of the city, home of the nobles that frequented Countess Emanuelle von Liebwitz’s court. The house was in the Tilean style, with twisting columns flanking the front door, and snow-capped plaster curlicues topping every window. A liveried footman trotted out to open the coach door for Countess Gabriella and Ulrika, and another came to take the reins of the wagon from Rodrik. Ulrika noted that theirs was not the only coach in the curving drive. A plain black rig stood near the gate, its driver watching them intently.
Gabriella paid the other coach no mind, and started up the curved steps. As Ulrika and Rodrik followed her, the carved front door opened and a handsome woman in a severe black dress curtseyed deeply to them. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her manner was as starched as her ruff collar.
‘Welcome, countess,’ said the woman in reverential tones. ‘We have awaited your arrival. Your rooms are ready. Please come in.’
‘Thank you, Otilia,’ said Gabriella, stepping through the door and handing her cloak to a waiting maid. ‘It is good to be back in Nuln. Is Lady Hermione receiving?’
Otilia, who Ulrika guessed must be some sort of housekeeper, pursed her lips and glanced over her shoulder towards the parlour doors. ‘You have come at an inconvenient moment, m’lady,’ she said. ‘Lady Hermione is just now entertaining Captain Meinhart Schenk, of the witch hunters.’
Gabriella paused at that, and looked to the parlour doors uneasily. Ulrika could certainly understand why. Even in Kislev she had heard tales of the crazed fervour of the Imperial witch hunters. It was said they burned whole villages to kill a single witch, and strung men up for the merest suspicion of congress with the dark powers. They were a law unto themselves, and acted with impunity. No matter how barbaric their measures, none dared raise their voice in complaint, lest theyfind themselves next to be branded witch. If the witch hunters were here, Lady Hermione might be in dire trouble. The murmur of voices from behind the doors seemed to confirm that. It did not sound like a pleasant conversation.
‘I see,’ said Gabriella. ‘Perhaps the drawing room then, until she is finished. That has a connecting door, does it not?’
‘Yes, m’lady,’ said Otilia, taking up a taper. ‘Very good, m’lady. This way.’
The maid collected cloaks from Ulrika and Rodrik and then they followed Gabriella as Otilia led her through the entry way to a pair of doors further down the hall. As Ulrika passed the parlour doors voices came through them loud and clear.
‘Do you say that you did not know Lady von Andress and Sister Karlotta?’ asked a man’s voice.
‘You put words in my mouth, captain,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘I said I knew them as well as any other noble woman in Nuln knew them. They were confidantes of Countess von Liebwitz, as am I. It would have been impossible for me not to know them, but was I particular friends with them? No. I…’
The words faded out as they continued down the corridor, then got louder again as Otilia ushered them into a large, elegant room with a harpsichord in one corner and clusters of delicate Bretonnian furniture neatly arranged across an enormous Araby rug woven in shades of blue, yellow and white. The walls and ceiling kept to the colour scheme, with sky-blue panels bordered in white moulding and a gold and crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Choosing the colours of the day seemed to Ulrika an incongruous choice for a vampire’s abode, but perhaps that was the point. Perhaps the theme had been chosen to allay suspicions. If so, it didn’t appear to be working – not if the angry words that seeped through the set of doors that led to the other room were any indication.
The housekeeper stepped up to the lamps with the taper, but Gabriella waved her away.
‘Leave it dark,’ she whispered, then stepped closer to the double doors.
Otilia curtseyed and withdrew, taking the taper with her.
Ulrika joined the countess at the doors while Rodrik waited a discreet distance away. The voices in the other room continued to rise with emotion.
‘I find your denials confusing, m’lady,’ the man was saying. ‘I have it from several other women of the court that you and Lady Rosamund were intimates, and that you visited her house regularly. Do these women lie?’
‘They make something of nothing,’ came a sharp reply. ‘Nuln is not as large as Altdorf, and the social circle is small. We are all in each others’ houses all the time. I visited Lady Rosamund no more and no less than any of the others.’
‘Ah, but you did go to her house, and often, it seems.’
‘Well…’
‘You did say “all the time”, did you not?’
‘Yes, but…’
Ulrika saw Countess Gabriella’s fists tightening.
The man continued. ‘But you say that on such intimate acquaintance you did not notice that she cast no reflection? Or that she ate and drank nothing? Come now, I find it hard to credit.’
‘She was not an intimate acquaintance! Did I not just deny it?’
‘You deny it and belie it at the same time, m’lady. It confuses me. I also note that you have no mirrors here.’
There was a short pause, then the woman’s voice came again, as cold as ice. ‘I am neither vain nor vulgar, captain. I do not need to look at myself at every opportunity. I have a glass on my vanity. It suffices.’
‘Ah. Perhaps you could show it to me.’
‘You dare, sirrah?’ cried the woman. ‘I am not accustomed to inviting strange men into my boudoir. That I am forced to let such as you as far as my parlour is insult enough. If you have an accusation to make, make it! Otherwise, get out. I have lost my patience with you!’
Gabriella shook her head and growled under her breath. ‘Foolish woman.’
‘No accusations, m’lady,’ said the man. ‘Only a request. If you would look into this mirror I carry here, I will be on my–’
‘I will not!’ snapped the woman. ‘I will not be subject to your demeaning little tests. I am not some peasant heretic who trembles before your authority. I am the widow of Lord von Auerbach, the hero of Wissenburg! I am a friend of Countess von Liebwitz!’
Gabriella stepped to the doors and put her hands on the latches, her face grim.
‘Not even the countess is above Sigmar’s justice, m’lady,’ said the man.
‘Go show your glass to her, then!’ said the woman. ‘If
she consents to look in it, then I will too, but not before!’
‘I am sorry, m’lady,’ continued the man in level tones. ‘But I am afraid I must insist.’
‘No! I refuse! I–’
With a hiss, Countess Gabriella thrust open the doors to the parlour and strode in, smiling and spreading her arms.
‘Cousin! Hermione!’ she cried, fluttering forwards to enfold a slim young woman in her arms. ‘How delicious to see you!’
The woman looked at her for a moment with alarmed eyes, but then played along. ‘Cousin Gabriella, I… I did not expect you so soon. Welcome.’
Ulrika looked the woman up and down as she followed the countess into the room. From what Gabriella had said of her, she had expected Lady Hermione to look older. In her mind she had imagined some bitter, pinched dame with suspicious eyes, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Lady Hermione appeared young – younger than Ulrika even – and as fresh-faced and wide-eyed as a new bride. Her hair was a rich chocolate-brown, her skin a healthy pink, and her figure, beneath her embroidered powder-blue bodice and skirts, was shapely but still girlish.
Countess Gabriella stepped back and held her at arm’s length. ‘I declare you grow more beautiful every time I see you, my dear, and–’ She broke off as if noticing the others in the room for the first time. ‘Oh! Pray forgive me, cousin. Otilia did not tell me you were entertaining. Who are these handsome gentlemen?’
Ulrika turned her attention to the men. There were four of them and, in calling them handsome, Gabriella was stretching the truth to the point of breaking. Their leader, a grey-haired man in sober but well-cut clothes under a heavy leather coat, might charitably have been called ruggedly attractive, with his stone-cut brow and square, close-shaved jaw, but the three men lined up at his back were downright gruesome – hard, scarred, lank-haired men in leather armour with pistol-butts and rapier hilts sticking out from under their cloaks at all angles.
Lady Hermione sniffed as she indicated them. ‘This is Captain Meinhart Schenk, cousin,’ she said. ‘And he appears to be here to arrest me.’
Gabriella laughed like a glissando of silver bells. ‘Arrest you? Oh, my dear, have you been dallying where you shouldn’t? The shame, the shame!’ She curtseyed in front of Schenk. ‘Captain, I am honoured to make your acquaintance.’
Schenk looked like an angry stuffed frog, but bowed politely. ‘The pleasure is mine, m’lady.’
‘And do you truly want to arrest my beloved cousin? Could you be so cruel?’
‘I only wish her to look into this mirror, m’lady,’ said Schenk, sternly.
Gabriella laughed again and turned to Hermione. ‘Look into a mirror, cousin? Why, surely that is no hardship for you, is it. You do it hourly, do you not?’
‘He believes me to be a vampire, cousin,’ said Hermione, her lips tight.
Gabriella stifled another laugh and looked from Schenk to Hermione, wide-eyed. ‘You, cousin? With that complexion? I would believe a milkmaid, or a goose girl, but a vampire?’ She turned to Schenk. ‘Surely you jest, sir.’
‘It is no jest, m’lady,’ said the witch hunter, inclining his head. ‘There have been two noble ladies revealed as vampires within the past weeks, and we are ordered to speak to anyone, regardless of rank, who knew them well.’
Gabriella rolled her eyes. ‘Ridiculous, but if you must. Here.’ She held out her hand. ‘Let me see this mirror of yours. My cousin will certainly not refuse me.’
Captain Schenk hesitated, then withdrew a small rectangular mirror from between the pages of a leather-bound book and handed it over.
‘Thank you, captain,’ said Gabriella, then took his arm. ‘Come, let us see what monsters lurk in the glass, eh?’
Lady Hermione stepped back, wary, as the countess led the captain forwards. Gabriella smiled at her. ‘Fear not, cousin, the captain will only see your beauty doubled. Now then…’
She angled the little glass so that she and Schenk could see where Hermione stood. Schenk peered intently, then blinked.
Gabriella gasped, making Ulrika jump. ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Cousin, you have a spot!’ She relaxed. ‘No, no, it is only a crumb. Here, I have it.’ She brushed Gabriella’s cheek as if she were her mother, then turned to Schenk. ‘There you are, captain, are you satisfied?’
‘Er,’ said the captain. ‘It seems–’
‘Would you like to test me as well?’ Gabriella asked and, still holding his arm, she turned the mirror so that it faced them both. ‘Are we not handsome to look on?’
Ulrika stared, for though she was at the correct angle, she could only see Schenk in the glass, while the witch hunter could clearly see more. Had Gabriella magicked the glass, or his eyes?
‘No need, m’lady,’ he said, stepping from her and bowing abruptly. ‘You have proven your point. It seems I have been in error. It was only the lady’s refusals that caused me to–’
‘There is no need to apologise,’ said Gabriella, steering him to the door with a gentle hand and lowering her voice to speak in his ear as his men lumbered awkwardly behind. ‘Ladies of noble birth are sometimes high-strung, and unused to being questioned. My cousin is only a little more high-strung than most.’
‘I see,’ said Schenk. ‘Thank you for interceding.’
‘Not at all.’ Gabriella opened the door and snapped her fingers. ‘Otilia, see the gentlemen out.’
And after another brief exchange, the captain and his grim-faced lieutenants followed Otilia down the hall and Gabriella closed the door behind them with a deep sigh of relief. Ulrika relaxed as well. She had been holding herself ready to fight since they had entered the house.
Lady Hermione, however, did not seem to share in the general mood. She turned on Gabriella with a snarl. ‘Interfering witch!’ she said. ‘How dare you pretend to save me!’
Gabriella raised an eyebrow. ‘Pretend?’
‘I had the situation well in hand,’ cried Hermione. ‘I would have looked in his glass and done your measly trick, but I would not be properly noble if I did not protest the impertinence of peasants first.’
‘Ah, of course,’ said Gabriella. ‘I see it all now. I apologise, sister. I will refrain from helping next time.’
Hermione sniffed, apparently unappeased. ‘You do not begin your visit well, Gabriella. I pray you serve me better from here on.’
‘I am here to serve our queen, sister,’ said Gabriella. ‘If serving you serves her, then I will do the best I can.’
Before Hermione could respond, Otilia returned through the door from the hall.
‘Their coach is gone, m’lady,’ she said, curtseying. ‘I have asked Gustaf to make sure they have left no spies.’
‘Thank you, Otilia,’ said Hermione. ‘You did well.’
Otilia made to withdraw, then pursed her lips and paused. ‘M’lady, are you certain you will not consider retiring to the country until all this has blown over? We would be much safer from prying eyes at Mondthaus.’
Hermione sighed. ‘Much as I’d like to, Otilia, I cannot,’ she said. ‘The queen would see it as dereliction of duty, but thank you for your concern.’
‘Of course, m’lady,’ said the housekeeper.
She stepped back again but, before she had closed the doors, a handful of exquisite dandies pushed them open again and strolled through around her. They were all graceful, handsome young men, all in the latest court fashions, and all with perfectly trimmed beards and moustaches. Their leader was as dark as a Tilean, but with piercing blue eyes.
‘They would not have left this house alive had they exposed you, m’lady,’ he said, putting a hand to the hilt of his bejewelled rapier.
Ulrika heard Rodrik snort from the drawing room door. ‘Lapdogs,’ he muttered.
A third door opened – a cleverly concealed panel in the left wall – and a timid golden-haired head looked out. ‘Have
they gone?’
‘Beloved!’ Hermione’s pinched expression melted and she crossed to the secret door to lead out the most beautiful girl Ulrika had ever seen. She wasn’t a lush, dark beauty like Countess Gabriella, nor a pouty, sweet-faced seducer like Lady Hermione. She was tall and thin, with fair skin and straight golden hair that hung to the flaring skirts of her dark green dress, and the stately beauty of a queen. It was only as Hermione drew her to the centre of the room that the regal illusion was broken, for the girl walked with a coltish clumsiness and downcast eyes that made Ulrika wonder how old she was.
Hermione turned to Gabriella with a smug look. ‘Well, since you are here, I suppose I must introduce you to my household.’ She indicated the swaggering dandy and his men. ‘Lord Bertholt von Zechlin, my champion, and his men – the finest blades in the Empire.’
‘Your servant, madam,’ said von Zechlin, bowing and making a leg.
Rodrik rumbled something about ‘not being the finest blades in the room’, but Ulrika didn’t think the men heard him.
Hermione then turned to the housekeeper. ‘My chatelaine, Otilia Krohner, you already know, and…’ She put a hand on the blonde girl’s elbow and urged her forwards. ‘And this is Fraulein Famke Leibrandt, my… protégée.’
The girl smiled at Gabriella and Ulrika shyly, then, lifting her skirts, curtseyed deeply. ‘I am at your service, mistresses,’ she said. ‘Welcome to our humble home.’
Ulrika frowned. Lady Hermione was showing the girl off like a prize calf. Was she some favoured blood-swain? No. She had called her her protégée. She was a vampire! She was to Hermione what Ulrika was to Gabriella. But why so smug? Did Hermione mean to imply that she had made a better choice of apprentice than Gabriella had? The thought made Ulrika growl in her throat.
Gabriella returned the curtsey and gestured to Rodrik and Ulrika. ‘And allow me to introduce Rodrik von Waldenhof, heir to the Waldenschlosse, my champion, and a knight without peer, and Boyarina Ulrika Magdova Straghov of Kislev, my protégée.’
Rodrik executed a smart bow, clicking his heels together in martial fashion, but Ulrika, flummoxed by the thought that she was somehow on display, and confused by all the bowing and curtseying, first tried one, then the other, and failed at both, stumbling awkwardly on her petticoats.
