The sisters spent the remainder of the night locked in their guest room with a guard posted outside.
Céline had no idea what to expect next, but she wasn’t surprised when Guardsman Winshaw opened their door about two hours past dawn and told her she’d been summoned to Prince Anton. She’d already washed and brushed her hair and donned her old red dress.
“I’m coming, too,” Amelie said.
“No,” Winshaw answered.
“She’s not going alone.”
Seeing an ugly confrontation brewing, Céline turned to her sister. “It’s all right. Just stay here. I probably won’t be long.”
She had no idea if anything would be all right, but Amelie would do them no service here by attacking another castle guard. Hurrying out to the passage, she was relieved when Winshaw closed the door, with Amelie still inside, and one small crisis had been averted.
Another guard was posted outside, which suggested that Amelie was still going to be kept in their room.
But then Céline found herself being rushed along the passage, and her fears began to return.
In Shetâna, Damek’s subjects could be slaughtered for complaining about the state of the roads. She knew things worked differently here on the surface, but Anton’s behavior at last night’s banquet and the threat of violence she’d seen on Pavel’s face were beginning to convince her that the men here didn’t like being defied any more than the ones back home.
While she didn’t think Anton would resort to violence himself—or probably not—he could certainly dismiss her and Amelie, which would be a polite term for throwing them out of the village with no food and no home. Worse, if he was truly angry at what he might construe as betrayal, he could turn them back over to his brother.
She and Winshaw reached the main floor, and she expected him to take her through the great hall, to the small side chamber where Anton had spoken with her several times before. But Winshaw motioned her to keep going, and he led the way to the stairwell inside the west tower leading up into the quarters for permanent residents.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The prince’s apartments.”
She halted. “No.” She had no intention of being trapped alone with Anton in his private rooms, especially not if he was already angry.
Winshaw turned around impatiently and reached out for her wrist. When she pulled back in alarm, he stopped with his hand in midair and said, “My lord is not well this morning but still wishes to question you. The lieutenant is with him.”
Céline wavered, feeling foolish. “Oh…”
He turned and began walking again. She followed. He went past the landing on the first floor, curving around to the next flight, and he stepped off at the second landing, moving all the way to the end of the passage there and knocking once.
“Lieutenant?”
The door opened instantly, and Jaromir looked out. The left side of his jaw sported a black and purple bruise from where Amelie had clubbed him with a log last night.
“Inside,” he ordered Céline. His face was unreadable.
Standing straight, she walked past him. She heard him dismiss Winshaw and close the door, but she couldn’t help looking all around…at Anton’s sitting room. She’d not known what to expect—if she’d expected anything at all—but the place was rather austere. There were tapestries on the walls and a large hearth. The furnishings consisted of a messy writing desk, a few heavy wooden chairs, and rows of bookshelves along the walls. It looked more like the chambers of a scholar than those of a prince. A closed door stood on the same wall as the hearth, and she suspected it led to his sleeping chambers.
Anton himself sat himself sat in one of the heavy wooden chairs, wearing a burgundy dressing gown. His feet were bare. But Winshaw had not been exaggerating. He didn’t look well. As opposed to pale, his face was tinged green this morning, as if he was nauseated, and his hands were twitching.
Jaromir moved over to stand beside him, and neither one invited her to sit down. They both seemed to expect her to speak first, and for some reason, in her nervousness, the first thing that came out of her mouth was, “Please don’t punish Pavel. I used him. It wasn’t his fault.”
Jaromir’s face flickered in surprise, and Anton sighed, using one hand to try to hold the other still. “Céline, no one is going to punish anyone. But you cannot ever again disregard Jaromir’s decisions and go off on larks of your own. There is a chain of command here, and in matters of security, he is at the top.”
Both men looked at her expectantly, as if they anticipated a profuse apology, possibly even a little begging of their pardons.
She stared at Anton. Instead of feeling relief that he wasn’t going to banish her and Amelie or turn them over to Damek, she felt a touch of anger beginning to rise. She wouldn’t stand here and be scolded like a child.
“Jaromir’s decision was wrong,” she said flatly. “It’s still wrong. I am assuming Inna survived the night? If she remains in this castle, she won’t survive much longer.”
“Céline!” Jaromir barked, his expression growing dark.
Anton lifted a hand to stop further argument, but when he lowered it, he began scratching at his forearm, and she noticed the skin was reddened. She wished she could ask permission to examine it, but he was talking again.
“I understand why you did what you did last night,” he said to her, “and I know we have already asked a great deal in forcing you to be witness to these murders before they happen.”
She calmed a little. At least he sounded less condescending now.
“So I’m willing to overlook everything,” he went on, “you drugging my guards, stealing Inna away, Jaromir and Rurik’s injuries…all of it. We will proceed with the original bargain, but only if you only agree to continue helping us and to abide by Jaromir’s decisions from now on.”
“I won’t let him use the young women I name as bait.”
Jaromir sucked in an angry breath. “This isn’t going to work.”
Still scratching his forearm, Anton said with less patience, “It will work, but we need more information, a good deal more. Céline, I’m afraid we need to ask you for something difficult.”
“What?” she asked cautiously.
He hesitated, and again she was tempted to ask to be able to examine him—at the risk of insulting Master Feodor’s skills—but then Anton said, “I want you to read Inna one more time.”
Of all the things she might have expected him to say, this wasn’t among them. The thought of watching Inna die again was almost more than Céline could face.
“I know what I’m asking,” he rushed on, “but I had a thought. This time, neither Jaromir nor I will interfere no matter how distraught you become. I want you to stay inside the vision as long as you can, long enough to see as much as you can…perhaps the killer’s face.”
She let the words sink in.
The annoyance on Jaromir’s bruised face vanished. He was looking at her with concern now, possibly regret. “Will you do it?” he asked.
Clearly, they had been discussing this before she arrived. “Is my sister still under house arrest?” she asked.
“No,” Anton answered. “We’ll have the guard at your door removed at once.”
She felt deflated somehow and looked away. “Of course I’ll do it. You knew I would do it.”
No matter what had happened here, she still wanted the shop. She wanted to stay in this prosperous village inside the safety of a wall. She wanted to stop these murders.
“Good,” Jaromir said, walking across the room and opening the door by the hearth.
Inna was on the other side, looking out with wild eyes. Behind her stood an enormous bed covered in a dark blue comforter.
A fresh flash of irritation passed through Céline. They must have certainly believed she’d say yes if they’d already brought up Inna and stored her away in Anton’s bedroom.
Am I that predictable? Céline wondered.
“Inna,” Anton said in his haughty prince voice, “come out here and sit down.”
Why did he always have to speak to her like that?
“You will allow Mistress Fawe to read you again,” he ordered.
Inna stepped out slowly, carefully. She still wore her soiled gray dress from last night, and half her hair had come loose, making her look more unhinged than usual. She watched Céline and Jaromir as if they both posed a threat, and then her eyes settled on Anton. She sank down to the floor on her knees.
“My lord, I would do anything you asked, but I beg you, leave me to do my duties in the daylight hours. All the deaths occurred at night, all of them. If you let me serve you in the day, I will gladly sit here and let this gypsy whore touch me and make up any story she likes.”
Her voice had a hysterical edge, and Anton didn’t seem able to look at her, as if the sight of her kneeling there embarrassed him. Céline wondered why he’d not arranged another position for her long ago.
He asked Jaromir, “May she work without guards during the day?”
Jaromir nodded tightly, looking as if he wanted to leave the room. “If you wish.”
“Agreed, then,” Anton said, scratching his forearm harder. “Céline, you may proceed.”
Although she had agreed to do this, suddenly the thought of touching Inna’s hand, of going through this again, made her waver. Perhaps sensing weakness, Inna moved to one of the chairs and sat down, watching Céline with her usual hatred. Jaromir pulled another chair close, and Céline realized she had no choice, not if they were to continue moving forward. Anton’s idea was not without merit. Both times before, when she’d seen a young woman die, either he or Jaromir had shaken her out of the vision.
Gritting her teeth, she sat down opposite Inna and reached out, closing her eyes and touching Inna’s hand. Clearing her mind, she sensed for the spark of Inna’s spirit, focusing all her attention on Inna’s future.
The jolt hit her hard this time, almost painfully, followed by another, and then she was rushing forward through the corridor of mists, steeling herself for the grotesque scene that was to come.
The trip was not long.
But when the mists vanished, she didn’t find herself inside the small room with the stone walls, looking down at Inna’s sleeping face. She was in a bedroom, but tapestries covered the walls and the bed was enormous, covered by a dark blue comforter.
She was in Anton’s bedroom. Glancing out the narrow slit of a window, she gauged it to be just before dusk.
Upon hearing a soft muttering, she turned to see Inna at the bedside table pouring a goblet of wine and setting it on the nightstand. She looked much the same, in her soiled gray gown with her hair only half-dressed, and loose strands of it sticking to her face.
“He missed last night’s draught,” she murmured, “my poor lord. He’ll need more.”
Reaching into the pocket of her gown, she withdrew a square of folded paper. Laying it on the nightstand, she unfolded it and took out a small packet, which she opened and held over the goblet of wine. White powder fell into the liquid. Inna hesitated and then added another packet, mixing it into the wine until it vanished. “He needs more, my poor lord. So he can rest.”
Céline watched in shock. Inna was drugging Anton, and from hints in her murmured words, she’d been doing so for some time.
But at least Céline was not watching Inna die. Had the future been altered?
Then the bedroom vanished and Céline was rushing along on the mists again. She felt dizzy and disoriented when the mists cleared. Only now she found herself again in the small room with Inna asleep in the bed.
The future had not been changed.
Inna was sleeping with her face toward the wall, and Céline trembled, knowing what was to come, but she was determined to remain here, to focus upon seeing as much as possible. Almost instantly, the slender black-gloved hands moved in from the side of the image, reaching down toward Inna.
Summoning all her strength, Céline fought to look up, to half turn inside the vision and see who was standing beside the bed. Her gaze moved up the slender black-clad arms, up and up to the sight of a pale face…and when she recognized the face, she thought perhaps she was going mad herself.
It was the young woman from the painting in the upper portrait hall, the pale, dark-haired one beside the campfire, dressed all in black.
The woman continued reaching for Inna.
“No!” Céline cried, trying to push her away. “Don’t touch her!”
But Céline wasn’t there and could do nothing.
The woman placed one hand on Inna’s face and the other on her throat, and Inna’s flesh began to shrivel inward on itself.
“No,” Céline whispered.
As Inna turned to a dried husk, the woman’s face began to take on color, as if she was draining Inna’s life away and absorbing it.
Céline forced herself to watch, to glean anything she could from this nightmare scene…and the woman began to speak.
“Forgive me,” she whispered to Inna’s dead body. “Forgive me. I cannot stop. I must obey. I have no choice.”
She turned and walked across the small room, vanishing right through the wall like a ghost. She was gone, and Inna was nothing more than a dried husk lying on the bed.
Céline began to weep.
The room vanished.
Still crying softly, she found herself back in Anton’s apartments, looking into Inna’s suspicious face. But now Anton was out of his chair and kneeling beside Céline.
“Shhhhhh,” he said, handing her a handkerchief. “What did you see?”
His voice was urgent.
Céline tried to speak and failed. After wiping her face with the cloth, she tried again. “I saw her. It’s the woman in the painting in the upper portrait hall. The one dressed in black, standing by the campfire. She murders Inna…drains Inna’s life as if taking it into herself.”
Anton jumped to his feet. “What?”
“Liar!” Inna spat. “Your lies go too far this time.”
“It’s her.” Céline spoke directly to Anton. “Do you remember that portrait? We were looking right at it.”
Anton was staring at her, and Jaromir rushed up beside him, so close their shoulders touched.
“What is this?” Jaromir demanded. “What is she talking about?”
“A portrait,” Anton said, “of a young woman…wearing long black gloves.”
His eyes hadn’t moved from Céline’s face.
“It’s her,” Céline insisted. “I saw her drain Inna and then walk right through the wall like a ghost.”
Jaromir turned on his heels and began striding toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Anton asked.
“To the upper portrait hall, to burn that painting. To finish this.”
“No!” Céline called after him, and he stopped. How could she explain what she’d heard, what she’d felt. “You can’t do that. I think…I think she is somehow enslaved. I could be wrong, but after killing Inna, she said something about being forced to obey. You can’t burn the portrait until we know what’s happening here. If the portrait is possessed by a spirit and someone else is controlling it, we must find out who.”
Jaromir was looking to Anton for instructions now, and Anton raised a hand. “Hold off. I need to think.”
Inna leaned forward in her chair. “Do not listen, my lord. She weaves lies as others weave cloth.”
And then Céline turned her attention fully upon Inna, remembering the first vision. “Anton,” she said slowly, not caring if anyone was offended by her use of his given name, “this woman has been drugging the wine on your nightstand. I think she’s been doing so for some time.”
Inna’s mouth fell open, and her eyes widened.
Anton took four steps away, as if to put distance between them.
But Jaromir came striding back. “What?”
“It’s a white powder stored in paper packets,” Céline went on calmly, “that she keeps in the pocket of her dress. I think my vision was of the late afternoon today, before dusk. I saw her stirring it into his wine. I think normally she would do this at a different hour, before he goes to bed, but tonight she’ll be under guard again.”
Later, she wondered if she shouldn’t have broken this news differently, as she should have foreseen the effect such a statement would have on Jaromir. The lieutenant’s face hardened, and he grabbed Inna’s arm, jerking her out of her chair.
It happened so fast.
Inna cried out in pain, and Céline called, “Jaromir, don’t!”
But his other hand was already digging inside the pocket of Inna’s dress, and he pulled out a large piece of folded paper, passing it to Céline.
“What is it?” he demanded, keeping Inna in his grip.
Anton stood watching all this without a word.
Céline laid the paper in her lap and unfolded it, taking out one of the packets. Licking her finger, she touched the powder and tasted it.
Her mother had spent years teaching her the various tastes of the proper strengths of components used in powders or elixirs so that if there were ever a question, she would know if she had a correct mix.
“It’s an opiate,” she said, moving her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I can taste the poppies…but something else, too.” Still uncertain, she touched the powder and tasted it again. Then her eyes flew up to Jaromir’s face. “There’s hemlock in this.”
With a roar, he threw Inna back into her chair and leaned over it, placing both his hands on the arms. “Where did you get that? Who gave it to you?”
Inna stared at him, terrified, and shook her head. “It’s medicine to help him sleep! He needs it to rest!”
In one swift movement, Jaromir pulled a dagger from his belt and held it to her throat. “Where did you get it?”
Still, Anton did nothing. He just watched in silence.
But Céline was on her feet. She hadn’t meant to incite this. “Lieutenant, stop!” She grasped his right arm, trying to pull the blade away. He shoved her backward with his elbow and then put the point of the blade to Inna’s cheek. “Where?”
Once again, Céline cursed herself for having become lost in the illusion that justice functioned differently here. She’d never seen Jaromir like this, but she had no doubt he’d start cutting Inna if she didn’t give him what he wanted. Céline feared there were few lines he wouldn’t cross when it came to protecting Anton.
Inna must have realized this, too, because she said, “Master Feodor.”
“Feodor?” Jaromir asked in confusion.
“My lord stopped taking his draughts!” she cried. “He would not drink what Master Feodor gave him. I had to do it! I had to help him rest. Master Feodor said he must have rest.”
Jaromir pulled the blade away.
“It’s true,” Anton said quietly. “I felt Feodor’s draughts were not helping me, and I told him I’d take no more.”
Céline absorbed the repercussions of this. For some reason, Master Feodor had been feeding Anton a mix of opiates and hemlock. Hemlock could be used in small doses for someone with severe insomnia, but it was certainly not meant for long-term use, and it was also a poison that could kill in larger doses. When Anton stopped taking the draught, Feodor had used Inna to put the powder in Anton’s wine.
The expression on Jaromir’s face frightened Céline—or at least frightened her for Master Feodor. “You don’t know why he did this,” she said. “He might have believed he was helping his prince.”
Jaromir looked to Anton. “What do you want me to do?”
Anton didn’t hesitate. He pointed to Inna. “Take her back to that room you prepared and keep her under guard. Then go have a talk with Master Feodor.”
“Yes, my lord,” Jaromir answered, grabbing Inna’s arm again.
“No!” Inna wailed, trying to pull away. “You promised! You promised I could serve him during the day.”
Jaromir dragged her from the room and closed the door behind himself, leaving Céline and Anton in an awkward silence. How could he have allowed someone as sick in her mind as Inna to serve him in such a personal capacity?
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he said, “You don’t understand.”
No, she didn’t.
“Inna came with Joselyn,” he said simply.
“I know. Pavel told me. He told me that Joselyn helped to keep her from an unfortunate situation.”
“Unfortunate? You could say that. Her father sold her to a brothel when she was thirteen years old. Joselyn knew the family, and she saved Inna. When they came here, I could see that Inna was not…right. But she loved Joselyn, and I couldn’t fault her for that. When Joselyn died, Inna nearly went mad from grief, and I nearly went mad from grief, and she began to do small things for me, as she had for Joselyn. I should have stopped it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I made sure to keep a distance between us, but the only thing keeping her from falling back into grief was being able to care for me.” He ran a shaking hand over his face. “Do you think me so wrong?”
“No,” Céline said, and she meant it. How could empathy be wrong? “Of course not.”
He took his hand away from his face and looked at her.
* * *
Amelie had been pacing the floor of their room, and she nearly melted in relief when Céline came back through the door, announcing that their guard had been dismissed and the bargain for the apothecary’s shop was still in place.
But her relief was short-lived as Céline began telling her everything else that had happened in the last hour.
“A woman from a painting?” Amelie asked, sinking down on the bed. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. I only know what I saw.”
The door opened, and Helga hobbled in, carrying a tray of food. But Amelie was too caught up in their current dilemma to stop talking.
“What do you mean that you think someone else is controlling her? Who could control an image from a portrait?”
Helga set her tray on the dressing table. “Probably a kettle witch,” she said.
Both sisters fell quiet for a moment as they turned toward the dressing table.
“What’s a kettle witch?” Amelie asked.
“You know,” Helga rattled on, pouring tea. “Not one of the Mist-Torn. A witch who learns from books, who casts by throwing bits of this and bits of that into a kettle.”
“You mean a cauldron?” Céline asked.
“Cauldron, kettle.” Helga waved her hand. “It’s all the same. They’re not of the Mist-Torn.” She paused. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. I’ve known a kettle witch or two with some power. Hate the Mist-Torn, they do.”
Amelie and Céline looked at each other helplessly. Helga seemed to know a good deal more than they did, but she seldom made any sense.
“Helga,” Céline began, “who are the Mist-Torn?”
“Who are the…? Did your mother teach you nothing?” Helga set down the pot. “You.”
“Us?” Amelie asked.
Helga peered at her closely. “You truly know nothing?” She sighed. “Your mother must have broken with her people.”
“I don’t think she had any people,” Céline said.
“Course she did. The Móndyalítko. Your mother was Mist-Torn, from the line of Fawe.”
Amelie’s discomfort and frustration grew. She didn’t like the idea of their mother having had some secret life among a pack of gypsies. Their mother had been an apothecary and a respected seer. Their father had been a village hunter in Shetâna, and a good man, maybe too good. Amelie didn’t remember him well, but she remembered the day he died. Three soldiers had ordered a Shetâna farmer to turn over his entire herd of goats. The farmer objected and a fight broke out. Amelie’s father tried to stop it and ended up with a dagger through his stomach. Six years later, their mother had gone to take medicine to a family with the fever. She’d caught it herself and died a week after.
After that, both Amelie and Céline had made a pact to protect themselves first, to put themselves first. Over the past few days, that pact had been put to the test, but Amelie still believed in it.
Helga tilted her head to one side, as if considering how to proceed. “The Móndyalítko command no wealth and no power in the sense of the princes and lords, but they have their own bloodlines of power, the shape-shifters, the Mist-Torn, and the like. A Mist-Torn witch is born with her power. She’s a treasure to her people. She will take a lover when she pleases, but few of the Mist-Torn ever marry. Your mother must have wanted your father very much.”
“She did,” Céline said quietly.
“But the kettle witches,” Helga rambled on, “they have to study, to learn from books or other kettle witches. That’s why they hate the Mist-Torn. Jealousy.”
“So…if we’re looking for a kettle witch here,” Céline said, “we should seek someone who’s educated, someone capable of learning from books, and who understands spell components?”
“That sounds about right,” Helga answered, nodding.
“Can it be either a man or a woman?”
“Course. They’re not Mist-Torn.”
“How do you know all this?” Amelie challenged. For she herself was no Mist-Torn witch. She’d been born with no power, and this entire discussion made her feel ordinary…mundane.
Helga straightened. “How? I am Móndyalítko; that’s how.”
“Then what are you doing here? Why did you leave your ‘people,’ as you say?”
“That is my business,” Helga snapped, surprising her. “And you’d best look to your own. Two sides of the same coin, you are. The future and the past.”
Amelie huffed. Not that nonsense again.
But Céline was studying Helga closely, thoughtfully. “The future and the past,” Céline whispered.
* * *
After depositing Inna in the small room near his own apartments and posting two guards at her open door, Jaromir debated on the best place to blindside Master Feodor before he sent a request for the meeting.
He considered going down to the prison beneath the old barracks—just for psychological effect. But then he had a better idea. He was well aware that he could not physically threaten Feodor as he had Inna. Master Feodor was still Anton’s court physician, appointed by Prince Lieven. Jaromir would have to tread carefully here and yet still get some answers.
So now he was back in the cellars beneath the castle larder, looking down at the bodies of the four dead girls again.
He didn’t have to wait long before hearing the sound of light, clicking footsteps. Master Feodor walked in with an annoyed expression. “You sent for me, Lieutenant? I do assure you that I cannot tell you anything more about how these girls died, and I’m a busy man this morning. The prince is not well.”
“I’m aware the prince is not well.”
Something in his voice caught Feodor’s attention—as the man stopped walking. Jaromir looked him up and down, noting how Feodor clearly appreciated the finer things in life: silk tunics, heeled boots, jeweled rings. Jaromir had never paid much attention to this before, but he did now.
“The prince has just had Inna placed under house arrest,” he said.
“Arrest? Don’t you mean protection?” Feodor’s lower lip twitched, and he glanced around, as if looking for anyone down here besides Jaromir and the four dead bodies.
“No. She was caught with a powder that contained opiates and hemlock. She’s been putting it into his wine every night, and she said you gave it to her.” Jaromir said this calmly but did not bother keeping the hostility from his voice. “Conspiring to poison the prince is a capital offense.”
Feodor stiffened and looked back the way he’d come, seeking an escape. Jaromir had succeeded in blindsiding him. He’d been caught completely off guard.
But to Feodor’s credit, his expression shifted to one of righteous indignation. “Poison? How dare you. I gave the powder to Inna because she’s the one who sees to him at night. I also gave her instructions to only use it on the nights when he had trouble sleeping. If she abused the privilege, then your quarrel is with her, not me, but the prince does need his rest.”
“From hemlock?”
“It is commonly used in sleeping powders, as you would know had you spent time studying anything other than how to use that sword on your belt.”
Jaromir tensed, but the taunt didn’t rattle him. He’d known men like Feodor before. They always tried to turn the tables with insults. This man standing before him was frightened.
“Anton said he’d stopped taking any of the draughts you assigned him,” Jaromir went on, “that they weren’t helping. Is that you why you had Inna feeding him the powder? Because he wouldn’t take it from you anymore?” He dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword. “What exactly did you tell her to make her start putting it into his wine?”
Feodor sputtered and took a step back. “Touch me and I’ll report you to Prince Lieven! You have no authority to tell me how to best care for the prince’s health. I gave Inna instructions which she did not follow.” He half turned toward the doorway. “Am I under arrest, Lieutenant?”
The question was mocking.
To Jaromir’s anger and worry, he’d not managed to learn anything by which to justify Feodor’s arrest. But he didn’t believe the physician’s story about having told Inna to use the powder sparingly and only on nights when Anton truly couldn’t sleep. There was something more going on here.
Master Feodor had been slowly weakening Anton on purpose. Jaromir was convinced of it. “No,” he admitted. “You aren’t under arrest.”
Feodor turned on heel to stride toward the stairs.
Jaromir couldn’t help adding, “Not yet.”