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“You will kneel,” Vlad vows, his gaze holding mine.

And then he is gone.

As the acrid reek of the fire fills the small chamber, I shudder with despair. Vlad is cruel and he has inflicted upon me the cruelest of all memories.

The night my mother burned.

Chapter 3

As I lay here assaulted by the repugnant scent of burning flesh, I am tormented by recollections of my mother’s final day on this earth. How such a lovely day could end so terribly still haunts me. I was only eight years of age when my life was shattered and I was robbed of the mother I adored.

I press my hand over my nose, attempting to stave off t

he reek of burning flesh. I wish to remember my mother’s beauty and love, not her terrible demise. Though I have lost names, faces, and important moments to history, my mother stands out vibrantly in the grey mists of time.

In my mind, she is an otherworldly beauty set against the drabness of a peasant life. I remember her black hair that glimmered with shades of blue and purple, her unusual blue eyes that were ringed with green and gold, and her pale skin that flushed bright pink when she laughed or cried. Though I witnessed her fantastical magic every day, I enjoyed the more mundane moments in our life together. When she tended to our home, I was always in her wake. She performed everyday tasks with the same flair she brought to her spells. I suspect she infused magic into all she did.

My mother was beautiful, but not perfect. Like me, her hands appeared too large for her body. When she cast her magic, the intricate designs she created with her long slender fingers were grotesquely beautiful, though the magic that flowed from them was breathtaking. Those same hands wiped away my tears, held me close, and tickled me relentlessly.

I loved her hands.

Perhaps that is why one memory of intense clarity is her knuckles, reddened from washing, as she mended my dress on the last day of her life.

Strange how the smallest details remain after all this time.

I long to feel her hand hold mine, hear her voice whispering my name, and see the beauty of her magic once more.

But she was taken from me.

The pain rippling through my body as I lay here in this mausoleum does not measure against the agony I experienced so long ago. That Vlad should thrust upon me such a hideous memory is not a surprise. He wishes to punish me and has found an exquisite way in which to do so.

Weeping, I cover my face with hands which resemble hers.

Even though I know that in the end there will be despair, I want to relive those precious moments that are lost. My mind untethers from my brutalized body and drifts backward in time. I seek refuge once more in my memories...

My mother looks up from her task and smiles. “See, Erjy. Her skirt will be mended in time to dance with the fair folk in the forest tonight.”

I giggle as I watch my mother’s slender fingers creating the tiniest of stitches to fix the tear in the hem of the doll’s skirt. She’s mending the dress of my favorite poppet. It is a cloth doll that Ágota made out of bits of scrap material. She has long strips of black fabric for hair, embroidered golden eyes to match mine, and a blue dress that my mother sewed for her.

My doll sits patiently, her small cloth hands folded on her lap. I tug on her hair and the doll swivels her head to gaze at me.

“Will you dance with the fair folk?” I ask.

The poppet covers her mouth, miming that she is giggling.

My mother laughs with delight, continuing her sewing.

“Does she really dance with the fair folk?”

“Sometimes. When I send her out to see what they are plotting.”

I frown at the thought. “Do they plot against you?”

“Oh, no. I give them trinkets, sweets, and liquor to keep them out of our garden and home. But sometimes they cause mischief among our neighbors and that is not such a good thing. We do not want to be blamed for the misdeeds of others.”

The people in the small town nearby know my mother is a witch. They come to her at night to seek advice or have her cast a spell. The men sometimes come to try to kiss her, but she sends them away with a twirl of her fingers. The priest despises her, but his fiery sermons against her fall on deaf ears. People in town know if they come to my mother with a sick child, she will always help them.

“They will not blame you, Mama. They love you.”