When the Empress appoints Irina's father as the new Governor of Transylvania, the young Duchess is swept away from her glamorous life at court in Vienna to the mysterious "land beyond the forest" where danger lurks and superstition reigns.
When a pe...
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Hermannstadt, November 1769
A few days after All Hallows Eve, winter arrived in Hermannstadt. The town defences might have kept the wolves out but offered very little protection when they were besieged by the bitter north wind. The servants blamed the Vânturi, those mischievous Romanian spirits who swept into town from the mountains riding recklessly on the wind. They'd howl through the streets and whip up great swirls of snow, and – if the superstitious servants were to be believed – trouble. Seven of the wells in town had completely frozen over, a handful of peasants had injured themselves slipping on ice on the stone steps of the lower town, and some of the surrounding farmlands had become completely impassable.
The mood within the walls of the Governor's Palace wasn't much better; the Duke was in and out of bed plagued with stomach pains (from travel and Transylvanian food, he complained), the maids complained because they were fed up of mopping up the puddles and pawprints trodden in by Scapino and Folie, the footmen complained because the maids were all in a foul mood, and the cook grumbled that the cold made her joints ache. The only person who seemed unaffected by the frosty air was Irina.
Since the night of the ball she'd worked tirelessly to bring her patient back from the brink. And since she'd perhaps stupidly seen fit to throw Doctor Tarsus out of the house, she'd had to do it completely on her own.
The man was an utter quack, which had become all too clear to Irina the moment he'd called for holy water and his lancet and suggested that bleeding the poor girl was the only way to save her life.
Irina had been horrified by the suggestion. "What?" she'd gasped, stepping over the man as he dragged up the clammy sleeve of the girl's blood-soaked chemise. She was sprawled out on a fur rug at the foot of Irina's bed (since the doctor and the Duke had considered it unseemly to put her in the bed of a Duchess) while her poor brother hovered hopelessly nearby. Irina's eyes had widened when she noticed the scarring on the poor girl's forearms – wide pink stripes, like burns – shadows left behind from another night of violence. "...She's already lost far too much blood and you want to rob her of what precious little she has left?"
Doctor Tarsus sighed. "Poison has entered her body, Duchess; it must be purged," he explained as he held the girl's limp arm by the wrist. "It's the only way."
"Poison! From what?" Irina snorted as she stood over him, her hands twitching by her sides.
The doctor looked up at her as if she were simple. "...From the Vampire who attacked her, of course!"
Irina practically laughed. "What utter nonsense! Even if that were the case, you should focus on cleaning the wound with alcohol instead of draining her further!"
"Alcohol!" the doctor laughed at her. "This is the devil's own poison, Duchess, it cannot be vanquished with alcohol!"
"This is madness! The only poison present here, sir, is you," Irina replied, folding her arms.
