in the castle during the civil war. It's quite possible that we overlooked one or two.'
Mihael had nodded, but his support was vague, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
'I'd feel more comfortable if I knew what sort of poison it was.' Peto had looked to Jorani as he said this. Jorani shook his head, appearing as perplexed as he had earlier.
When he'd dismissed his staff, Peto had asked Jorani to remain behind. 'Is there anything you wish to say to me in private?' he questioned.
'I wish there were,' Jorani replied.
'I want you to know that whatever means you feel are necessary to end these strange deaths will have my blessing,' he said.
Jorani understood exactly what Peto meant. He locked eyes with the baron for a moment, then bowed and left. Through the funeral ceremony he said little to Peto, nothing to Ilsabet. He left as soon as the pyre had flared.
He had not lied about his confusion. Though he'd seen no signs of the silky spiderwebs in the substance that had killed Greta, nothing else would have destroyed the mongoose so quickly, and Ilsabet was the only one who had access to the spider's poison.
Peto had just given him permission to end the poisonings by whatever means were necessary. And he had the means, didn't he? The means were all around him.
Jorani had never believed himself a weak-willed man until now. But as he sat, trying to consider the most humane means to end Ilsabet's life, he knew he could never do it. Nonetheless, he had to confront her, to find out why the woman closest to her had to die. Even at this late hour, he doubted she'd be sleeping. He picked up a lamp and went downstairs. Just outside her door, he encountered Mihael. The young man seemed as troubled as he and asked to speak to him in private.
Jorani could well imagine the subject, as he followed Mihael down the hall to his rooms.
SIXTEEN
Ilsabet had not slept more than a few hours since Greta's death.
Each time she closed her eyes, her mind took her back to those few moments she had held Greta before the woman had died. The pain, the fear of death, the terror of Greta's last moments had coursed through Ilsabet, filling her with energy as an empty goblet might be filled with wine. It seemed that in some unfathomable way she had fed on Greta's agony.
As soon as she was able, Ilsabet had fled her own rooms and the men bending over Greta's body. She took refuge for a time in her sister's chambers. The tall oval mirror before which Marishka had preened in her fancy gowns now reflected Ilsabet. Yet, if Ilsabet had not known it was a mirror, she would have thought the reflection was someone else-someone delicate, pure, and incredibly beautiful.
She could not ignore the obvious any longer-something was changing her, and it was not the deaths themselves.
She knew this to be true because she'd fed at other times: sitting with Peto as Marishka died, she had feasted on his grief; in Argentine she had sat at Rilca's bedside, not out of devotion but to take energy from the woman's pain.
But she'd only become certain of the change in her in the days before she swore allegiance to Peto, when she had poisoned the three imprisoned outlaws. No one cared, she had told herself then. And there had been no prisoners in Nimbus castle for weeks before they came. Here was a perfect chance to test a new poison.
Ah, such delusion.
She'd chosen the poison because it would cause pain, would make them scream, would give her the excitement of standing in the black depths of the subterranean space, listening to their agony.
She wasn't disappointed by the effect on her. As the screams began, wild excitement filled her. Its intensity gave such pleasure that she bit the palm of her hand lest she cry out and reveal her presence. As wave after wave of pain caressed her, she stood swaying on her feet. She retreated long after the cries ended and death came to her far-from-innocent victims. Then she ran as quickly as the slimy stairs would allow through the passages to her room. After, she stood in front of her mirror, laughing, then crying in awe of the beauty of her face, her hands, her hair.
The beauty had faded a bit since the night she had bowed to Peto. Now, standing in front of Marishka's mirror, she saw that it had returned. As she looked, trying to make sense of this curious change, she saw another reflection forming in the glass. It had the familiar auburn hair, the buxom body, the magnificent eyes. Ghosts did not reflect, did they? Hadn't she heard somewhere that they didn't reflect?
'Who are you!' Ilsabet whispered, and turned.
Her sister was behind Ilsabet. Marishka's tiny feet hovered above the flagstone floor, her hair floated insubstantial as a cloud over her white, thin shoulders. Ilsabet stared at her sister and slowly backed away. As she did, she heard the distant howl of a wolf.
'There will be no rest for your soul if you continue with your plans,' Marishka whispered.
'As if there is rest now!' Ilsabet retorted. Though she was certain anyone seeing her would think her mad, ilsabet threw an arm over her eyes so she was not tempted to look at Marishka, and she ran down the hall to her now empty rooms.
Greta's spectre waited in the outer chamber. Her skin had the bluish tint of someone dying from lack of air, and she had a look of betrayal and reproach on her round face. Ilsabet gave a strangled cry and backed toward the door, though she dared not open it for fear her sister would be waiting in the hall. Instead, she bolted past the ghost into her sleeping chamber and slammed and locked the door.
Building up the fire, she lay in a tight ball in her bed, her eyes wide open until well after dawn, when she got a few hours of restless sleep.
The strange beauty she had noticed last night had subsided somewhat by the following morning. No wonder, she thought, as she studied the circles under her eyes, the sallow look to her skin. She stayed in her rooms all day. That evening she left them only because her absence at Greta's funeral would have been noted and questioned.
She wore a dark cape, the hood pulled up so shadows would hide her face. Though she stood close to Peto and her brother, her attention was fixed on the feelings of the other servants, who had formed a wide circle around the pyre.
Many of them were as old as Greta and had known her for years. Some were crying. Others were stoically standing there, wondering with quiet fear who had poisoned her and which one of them would be next.
She felt traces of the same energy she'd experienced when Greta died, but now she began to understand it, even warm to it. By the time the ceremony was over, she would be able to look at Peto through the same magnificent eyes he found so irresistible. It troubled her that this beauty came from devouring the emotions of death and pain. Yet it seemed a small price to pay for revenge.
But a thought had begun to nag at her, a feeling that when her vengeance was complete, she would still need to poison, to cause pain, to kill. Like a vampire, she might have no choice but to feed.
She dismissed the thought, threw back her hood, and raised her head, catching Peto's eyes, noting how his grim expression changed to one of support, of love.
Later, alone in her rooms, she watched the moon-shadows of tree branches moving on the walls of her room. She waited, afraid to sleep, afraid that if she closed her eyes the ghosts would come. Finally, exhausted, she drifted off, waking suddenly when she heard voices outside her door.
At first she was relieved to recognize them, then curious when she made out Jorani's and her brother's. The voices grew dimmer as the men walked down the hall. From the direction they'd gone, she guessed they were going to her brother's rooms, which adjoined her own.
Pulling on a dark cape, she lit her smallest lamp, bolted her door and made her way into the secret passage. There, she moved as quickly as she was able down the winding corridor to the nearest spyhole that gave access to her brother's rooms. After shading the lamp, she pulled back the cover and stole a quick peek at Mihael and Jorani. Certain she'd be seen by Jorani if she continued watching, she closed the hole and stood with her ear
