Magia Posthuma ✓

Twenty Eight

Bells across Hermannstadt were tolling five o'clock when Irina finally left the Governor's Palace and began the short walk across the square towards the Jesuit Church. Having given away her only mode of transport, she had little choice but to walk the distance to her own wedding – and alone. It was only when she felt the fresh, spring air on her cheeks that she realised it was the first time she'd left the relative safely of the old palace in weeks. She'd been confined there since Christmas – practically under house arrest – partly because she'd had very little desire to re-join the wretched society that had chosen to shun her and partly under the orders of her soon-to-be husband, who'd been all too eager to warn her of what was waiting for her if she chose to venture out. After all, the winter snows might have started to melt into spring, but the frosty rumours had lingered.

But now Irina emerged from her isolation as a new woman, brazen, brave and determined to face the world on her own terms. If the world thought her a witch and a wanton, then she'd show them precisely how witch-like and wanton she could be. She'd certainly dressed for the occasion; Fiebe had raised an eyebrow when – for the very last time – she'd asked her to resurrect a rarely-worn satin sack-back from a casket buried at the bottom of her wardrobe. The vibrant, cochineal swathes of satin had shone like sealing wax when they emerged from within a burial shroud of white muslin – springs of dried lavender having been tucked into the folds of crimson fabric to protect the gown from the hungry moths that might have disturbed its slumber.

It fit her like a second skin – tight at the bodice and billowing below it – and she drew sneering, scandalised looks from townsfolk littered across the square as she held the skirts in one hand and a fistful of limp, black anemones in the other one – still bandaged from being sliced open by broken glass. She clipped in her heels across the cobbled square – extravagant diamond girandoles swinging from her ears, black pearls bouncing around her neck, a letter nestled inside the front of her bodice, and a loaded pocket pistol bobbing heavily against her thigh.

She held her head high and met every glare with a look of defiance – but inside, she was shivering horribly. She'd congratulated herself on ignoring all the what ifs and worries that had popped into her head so far, but when she felt eyes on her back and the white bricks and tower of the church homed into view – she couldn't help but imagine all the things that could potentially go wrong – the perilous journey ahead of her – right up until the moment she'd be able to ride away into the darkness to Vlad and never look back.

When she reached the heavy wooden doors of the church – guarded by two soldiers (a couple of Lupesci's lackeys, no doubt) – she stopped, took a deep breath and allowed herself one last look at the sky from over her shoulder.

She couldn't have hoped for a better day; it had been clear and bright all afternoon – and now that the sun was sagging towards the horizon, the moon had appeared – high and bright in the dusky blue sky. She drew some comfort from its presence; an hour – maybe two – and the sun would finally set. And not just upon the rooftops and steeples of Hermannstadt, but upon everything.

Irina lifted a hand and brushed her fingers against the black pearls strung around her neck. As they strolled across the cool surface of each pearl, she thought about her mother and she thought about Vlad; even though they weren't standing there beside her – flanking her, each one holding a hand – she felt as though they were. Comforted by the thought, Irina straightened her spine, took another breath and then strolled inside.

She was met in the draughty vestibule by Herr Carmitru, whose immediate look of relief quickly shifted into one of stunned surprise – his green eyes widening as they drifted the length of her glossy, red bodice.

He bowed his head slightly, his gaze lingering over her breasts. "Duchess," he greeted, offering her his hand. "My, my... look at you."

Irina frowned; in her minds eye she saw Ferenc and his bruised skin – echoes of his time spent as a prisoner of the mayor and his wife. "Mayor," she replied as she unclenched her fist and dropped it into the upturned palm of his hand. "...Or is it Baron now?"