Magia Posthuma ✓

Twenty-Seven

Hermannstadt, Ash Wednesday 1770

Dawn came early that morning; the bright, spring light streamed in through the windows and made its presence known, bleaching everything it touched – from the floorboards to the furniture, and even the dust and dog fur floating in the air. For the first time in a long time – and for perhaps the last time – Irina had risen with it; the bed had felt cold and lonely without the dogs, while the echo of Vlad's touch had kept her wide awake. She'd gone to the window to watch the sun rise over the rooftops as she pondered the day ahead of her and all she had to do.

When Fiebe came in to wake her mistress and make a start on her toilette, she was surprised to find nothing more than a tangle of sheets on the bed and Irina hunched over her writing desk near the window in her dressing gown – her quill fluttering furiously as she wrote.

"...Bună dimineaţa, Ducesa," she greeted from the door, her sewing basket balancing on her hip. "You are not sleeping..."

Irina carried on writing. "Good spot," she said, glancing briefly over her shoulder, "Come in, close the door."

Fiebe did as she was told and then made her way across the room, hesitating slightly as she waited for Folie and Scapino to come bounding at her as they usually did. When they didn't, she frowned and looked around the room. "...Where is dog?"

"Safe with a friend." Irina waved her quill as she searched for the right word, "Uh, ferit. Cu un prieten – inţelegeţi?"

Fiebe approached slowly, pulling a face as she noticed the lace fichu wrapped tightly around her mistress' neck – shrouding it from view. "...Ferit, Ducesa?"

"Da. Don't ask, it's not what's important right now; I haven't the time to explain it once in German let alone a second time in Romanian," Irina added as she dropped her quill into the ink pot and then briskly sprinkled salt over the paper and ink. "So let's just leave it at that."

Fiebe set her basket down beside the desk chair and peered over Irina's shoulder, watching as she blew away the salt, folded the letter and then scribbled a name across the front. "...For the eyes of Baron Benedict, The Card Sharp of Spittelberg?"

Irina smirked as she quickly sealed the letter with wax. "Yes."

Oh how she wished that she could be there to see Joseph's face when one of the Imperial Guards dropped the letter on his desk! He'd never been fond of that nickname – a private joke between them that had come about when one of Irina's old maids back in Vienna had spotted him creeping out of a notorious brothel in Spittelberg – and on more than one occasion. When Irina had teased him, he'd lied and told her that there had been nothing sinister about it – simply a card game – to which her reply – a raised eyebrow and a look that might have given his mother a run for her money – was more than enough to make him buckle. Since then, he'd become quite fond of his private title, and yet, she knew he'd be cross seeing it written out in front of him and would be tempted to watch the letter curl in a candleflame. She only hoped that once he'd looked at the accompanying documents and read the forwarding letter from his sister, he'd soon come to understand that the slightly cruel subterfuge had been necessary.

Irina set the letter down carefully on top of the one she'd already written to Amalia – bulked out with the incriminating documents she'd found in her father's desk.

She swivelled side-saddle in her seat, and looked up at Fiebe, "I need you to listen very carefully to me, Fiebe – asculta cu atentie," she said, tapping her ear. "Inţelegeţi?"

Fiebe nodded, "Yes, Ducesa."

Irina took her hand. "I need to trust you to do something very, very important for me," she explained.