Magia Posthuma ✓

Nine

Irina drummed her fingers against the windowsill of her carriage as it clattered along the frosty, winding lane leading from the Fleischer's elegant country house back towards the crumbling bastions surrounding Hermannstadt.

She was impatient to get back to the draughty palace she now called home. Impatient to return to the solitude of her bedchamber – away from all the frivolous gossip – where she could just be alone with her own thoughts and curl up in bed with one of her books, with only Folie's warm fur and soft snoring for company. And after four consecutive cups of tea (and a thus far, incredibly uncomfortable carriage ride) she was also rather impatient to be reunited with the porcelain chamber pot shoved under her bed.

When the carriage bumped over a pothole, Irina clamped her thighs together and growled. She thumped her fist against the roof, "Excuse me! Would you mind taking a little more care?" she shouted up at the driver from the window. "You're carrying a Duchess, not carting cattle!"

It wasn't the driver's fault, of course; the truth was that she should have taken a moment to relieve herself before leaving the Fleischer's. But by the time she'd finished talking privately with Liesl it was close to one in the morning and her bed was calling to her. It was getting more and more difficult to keep her eyes open and hide her persistent yawning and in the end she opted for a hasty getaway in favour of a moment alone with a borrowed chamber pot.

Once all the other ladies had climbed into their carriages and been spirited away into the shadows, Liesl had pulled Irina aside and dragged her into the servant's staircase for a word in private – in German, so none of servants would understand. As Irina perched on the bottom step, Liesl had hovered for a moment in silence – wringing her hands in her skirts.

"...So?" Irina asked, raising her eyebrows. "Are you going to tell me what the problem is or are we about to play a game where I have to guess? Because it's rather late and–"

"It's difficult to say," Liesl blurted, looking away.

Irina narrowed her eyes. "...Alright," she replied with a nod. "Well, can you try?"

Liesl slapped a hand to her face. "Oh scheisse, this is mortifying – I wish I hadn't said anything now!" she moaned as she turned away, "Look, let's just forget about it. Forget I even mentioned anything–"

Irina reached out and snatched Liesl's hand. "No, we're not going to just forget about it," she insisted gently, squeezing it. "You're going to explain to me what's wrong and then we're going to try and fix it, alright? Otherwise... well, whatever this problem of yours is, it's just going to get worse."

Liesl sighed as she looked down at Irina's hand – at her elegant diamond bracelet flashing in the dull light. "But you're the Duchess of Brunswick, for goodness sake! Oh, I can't bear it!"

Irina stuck her tongue between her lips and blew.

Liesl blinked at her.

"Oh, stop it. Can't we just be two women for the moment? Just me listening to you and your problem – whatever that may be," Irina said, waving her hand as she spoke. "And no one will need to know a thing about it – I promise. Five minutes of embarrassment and then it'll all be–"

"It itches," Liesl whispered, pointing downwards.

Irina raised an eyebrow, then glanced down at the satin petticoats of Frau Fleischer's fashionable gown. "...Aha."

"...And it burns," she added, pulling a face. "...You know, when I–"

Irina lifted her hand. "I understand," she interrupted.