Small, pale hands, supple with youth. As white a porcelain. As perfect as a doll’s.
The Countess looked down at her own hands, which, unlike her face, showed the march of time. Thick ropey veins meandered across the backs, punctuated by the white boney knuckles, wrinkled with age.
She snatched her hands away, hiding them under the ermine cloak.
“Clumsy girl! How dare you touch me with your peasant hands.”
“I am sorry—”
“Fetch me a hot mulled wine, boiled and steaming. At once!”
“Yes, Countess.”
Countess Bathory searched out the girl’s face in the mirror.
Vida’s skin was flawless and moist, like so many of the Slovak maidens. Her cheeks were flushed from her efforts at the fire. Her young bosom heaved, like an injured bird the Countess had once held in her hand as a little girl. The small bird flew against the leaded glass of the castle in Ecsed, her childhood home.
She had gathered the bird up in her hands, examining it. The dazed bird opened his beak, gasping for air. After a few moments it had regained its wits, breathing hard with fright. She squeezed it, smiling as she felt the tiny heart palpate under her fingers.
The Countess’s eyes turned cold, their amber color frightening the handmaiden.
She had squeezed it until the tiny heart stopped.
“Did I not urge you to stir the fire to flame? Did I not tell you I was chilled to the bone? What is the matter with you, stupid, stupid girl?” she hissed. “You shall be punished. I shall tell Brona the cook to withhold your food. You look too fat and lazy to me.”
“Yes, Countess. I shall make the flame blaze and call for hot mendovino to chase away the chill.”
The girl knelt at the fire, blowing with all her might. The twigs caught flame. She fed it small branches, one by one. Then she ran to the door.
She caught Zuzana in the hall.
“She detests me!” cried Vida. “She will tell Cook to starve me.”
“I heard what transpired,” said Zuzana, wiping at her nose with her soggy handkerchief. “I had my ear pressed to the door the whole time.”
“Then fetch the mendovino, hurry!” said Vida. “I must return before the fire burns out.”
“Ambergris oil first,” called Zuzana over her shoulder as she ran down the corridor. “Mind whatever you do, and do not drip anything on her ermine cape or you will be done for!”
Chapter 16
ASPEN, COLORADO
DECEMBER 8, 2010
So what are you doing for the solstice?” Kyle said, stopping by Daisy’s locker. “What do Goths do on their special holiday?”
Daisy had been avoiding him since he crashed into her that day on the Rio Grande trail.
“Kyle? Right?”
He shook his head.
“You know it is. We’ve been in the same class since August. Come on!”
Daisy raised her chin defensively. How was she supposed to keep track of his name? They had nothing in common, right? He was a jock, she was a Goth. Period.
“Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. What do you do?”
“The solstice? Dude, that’s not for a couple weeks.”
“But what do you Goths do?”
“Not much,” she said, banging her locker closed. “Listen to music, hang with a few Goth friends, maybe. Stay at home and channel energy.”
He looked disappointed. Daisy didn’t know why it bothered her.
“And visit the cemetery at midnight,” she offered.
His face lit up. Like a freakin’ Christmas tree, she thought.
“Hey, can I come with you?”
Daisy threw him a what-the-f**k look.
“Why? You aren’t into the Goth scene.”
“Maybe…I’m curious. And I read your blog about Goth stuff.”
Daisy dropped her jaw, making her white makeup crease. What did this guy know about her? Why was he interested?
Daisy glanced to see if anyone was listening to the conversation. There were a couple of popular girls giving them the eye, but they weren’t close enough to hear.
“And what is that crazy book with all the zoned-out pix you download?” he whispered, close enough to her she could smell his tropical fruit chewing gum.
“The Red Book.”
“It’s sick—those crazy illustrations. Wild colors. Like, was he on drugs or what?”
“He may have been ‘crazy’ when he drew them. He was exploring his psyche and his soul.”
Kyle didn’t say anything. He looked into her kohl-rimmed eyes. “I want to spend the solstice with you.”
“With me? Are you sure?”
“Yep. I’m sure.”
“Why not?” she said. Her tooth hooked over her lip, and she was trying to keep herself from smiling.
Betsy stifled a yawn. Her flight from New York had been delayed four hours due to another heavy snowstorm.
As she waited for Daisy to arrive for her session, Betsy pulled the Nine of Swords from her jacket pocket, setting it up on her desk. The image of the sobbing girl sent a shiver down her spine.
“What’s that?” said Daisy, entering silently through the door.
Betsy jumped. She snatched the card from her desk, shoving it into a drawer.
“Nothing, just…”
“It’s a tarot card, right? The Nine of Swords. Whew, watch your back, Betsy! Especially after that creepy dude broke into your house—”
“Let’s not bring that unfortunate occurrence into your therapy session,” said Betsy. “It had nothing to do with you.” She saw a beige book in her patient’s hand.
“What do you have there?”
“It’s the I-Ching,” Daisy said. “It’s like a Goth bestseller. Anyway, I read the foreword. Did you know it was written by your guy? Carl Jung?”
Betsy straightened her back.
“No. Yes! I mean, I had forgotten he wrote that.”
“I was thinking about my dreams and Jung’s theory of synchronicity,” said Daisy. “I’ve been doing a lot of research on the internet. I had no idea that Jung was so—freaking awesome.”
“So why did you bring the I-Ching?” Betsy asked. “This is your therapy hour, Daisy. Sit down.”
An enigmatic smile crossed Daisy’s face, exposing her crooked tooth. She remained standing.
“Ah, but you didn’t really tell me all there is to know about Dr. Jung,” she said. Her open palm thumped the book. “He was a fervent believer in coincidence.”
“Synchronicity,” Betsy said. “His theory of acausal connecting principles.”
“Yeah, right. That part you told me, remember?”
Had she told her?
“You told me synchronicity is like a coincidence. Like the coins and dice falling in a certain way that has almost zero probability. Or a roulette wheel hitting the same number over and over. Or the principle behind tarot cards. Meaningful coincidences. Woo-woo-woo-woo,” she said, making a comical haunted sound as she arched her black-penciled eyebrows up and down.
The conversation was unsettling. But the funny look on Daisy’s face made her psychologist laugh.
“What does any of this have to do with your therapy, Daisy?”
“You didn’t explain that this Jung guy was such a cool dude. Like he was into the occult, mandalas and Buddhism. And former lives.”
Betsy hesitated. Why did Daisy’s sudden interest in Carl Jung make her uneasy?
“He believed in exploring the unconscious, Daisy. That by examining your unconscious world, you can discover reasons for your behavior, your beliefs and fears. Jungian analysis—”
“No, he was—Goth. He believed in the spiritual world. Ghosts. Murmurs of the past…and how we are all connected.”
Betsy thought of the tarot card. She shook her head.
“Carl Jung did not believe in ghosts and he certainly was not Goth.” She straightened her posture. “He believed in the collective unconscious of the universe—”
Daisy flicked her ebony hair behind her shoulder, shaking her head vehemently. She opened the I-Ching, thrusting her finger at Jung’s foreword.
“Oh, yeah, he did, Betsy. Believe in ghosts, I mean. And collective unconscious? Hello! Totally Goth. And the wild visions—”
“Jung experienced the ‘menace of psychosis,’ as he termed it,” Betsy said carefully. “This was a very dark time for him, when he lost his grasp on reality.”
“What’s reality?” asked Daisy. “Hearing ghosts or me choking on my own spit for no reason?”
Betsy shifted in her chair, making the old floorboards creak.
“He is so freakin’ awesome. I’m telling all my Goth friends about him.”
Daisy closed the book with a definitive thud that resounded throughout the room. Ringo looked up at her, his brown eyes questioning.
Obsessive, thought Betsy. Her patient had perseverated on Jung.
“OK. You’ve made your point, Daisy,” Betsy said, the tone of her voice rising in annoyance. “I am impressed with your research and the time you have spent learning about Carl Jung. Now, it is time for your session.”
“OK, Betsy,” said Daisy, collapsing into a wing chair, a victorious smile on her white-powdered face. “Ask me anything you want.”
Betsy nodded. Who was this stranger who sat across from her now, so affable and open?
Chapter 17
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
DECEMBER 10, 2010
It’s time to come back, says the voice from the shadows. A sweep of heavy cloth—taffeta? A waft of perfume, hints of rosemary.
A cold hand touches me, a finger under my chin. I am paralyzed.
Answer my call.
Betsy woke up from her dream to the persistent ringing of the telephone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Dr. Path?”
“Yes.”
“I apologize for calling so early. This is Stephen Cox. I’m Dean of History at the University of Chicago. I have your number as an emergency contact for your mother, Dr. Grace Path.”