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rk as the tatters and frayed lace are set right.

“Is it winter yet?” I ask.

“Autumn,” she answers.

“The castle is so cold in the winter.”

“We are preparing for the snow,” she assures me. “The larder is full and the firewood is piled high.”

I notice Magdala’s hands do not tremble anymore. Perhaps I am not so terrible now that we are engaged in conversation. She is bold, clever, and kind. I appreciate these qualities and my heart softens a bit more toward her.

“It will be so cold here,” I lament.

“Aren’t the undead always cold?”

I do not answer. I am a vampire. I steal life. When I feed, I am flush with life, warm to the touch, and mortal in appearance. That is the veracity of my existence.

“Who is Countess Dolingen of Gratz? Her name is on this mausoleum. Why was she buried so far away from Styria?”

“She was a naive woman from the Kingdom of Hungary who married young, for she craved love, security, and the life of a noblewoman. A handsome young count from Styria offered all she desired and she willingly left her home for him.”

“And did she find all she desired in Styria?”

I hesitate, measuring my words. “She did indeed.”

“Was she happy?”

Again, I pause. “Yes. For a time she was very happy.”

I listen to the gentle beating of Magda’s heart and the whisper of the needle piercing the satin of my gown. I am at peace despite Vlad lingering outside my prison like the darkest of thunderclouds waiting to erupt.

“Was the count handsome? Did she love him at first sight?”

“He was very handsome,” I reply, tears slipping free to wet my temples. “She loved him because he chose her. Fought for her. No one had ever truly noticed her before. She had always lived in the shadow of her sister and mother.”

“When did she know she would give her heart to him?”

I close my eyes. “When he gave her the rose that morning...”

Darkness comes.

The heartbeat stills.

The scuff of the needle quiets.

I open my eyes to see Ágota leaning over the bed. “How can you sleep so soundly?” She shakes me again. “Let us be on. I do not like it here.”

Sliding my legs out from beneath the bedcovers, I stare at the opulence of the room. Ágota’s magic has restored the furniture to their rightful spots. Chains crisscross the section that hides the secret passage and are bolted to the wall. My sister has definitely made her point.

“I am still tired,” I whine, wishing to fall back into the warm comfort of the bed to sleep longer.

“You just need to move your limbs,” she answers. “Hurry.”

Rubbing my eyes, I watch Ágota pacing about the room. Her clothes are unfamiliar in color and cut.

“There is a wash basin in the corner. A new dress and leggings are beside it for you. Gifts from our host. I already determined they are free of magic. Make sure to place your clothes in my bag. Mama made them for us. We cannot lose them.” Ágota’ falters, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I wish she was here. She would know what to do.”

“You are taking care of me as you promised,” I say, attempting to console her.