Chapter 13
Just before sunset that evening, Sofia arrived to escort Mina to the dining room.
As Mina followed the woman through the corridors—trying to track their steps, mapping out the halls in her mind—she felt a persistent tug of distraction.
Had the Count returned from his brief trip?
Her heart thrummed at the thought of being alone with him for the first time, without Jonathan to ease the weight of conversation. What did one say to intrigue a Count?
Mina swallowed her nerves as the dining room came into view.
She stood a little taller, took a steadying breath, and prepared to see her husband for the first time since Jonathan’s departure.
But when she stepped inside, she found the room empty save for herself and Sofia.
Her gaze skimmed the table laden with meats, cheeses, pickled vegetables, and bread—then caught on the single place setting.
“Is this all for me?” she asked.
“Yes, mistress,” Sofia said. Then her brows furrowed. “Does the selection not please you?”
“Oh, of course,” Mina said, offering a tight smile. “This looks wonderful. It’s just—I suppose it seems a waste, if all this effort was put into a meal only for me. I wondered if the Count might be in attendance.”
“I cannot say when the Count will return,” Sofia said, her frown deepening. “He comes and goes as he sees fit. I am simply here to serve him—and to serve you as well, mistress.”
Discomfort stirred in Mina. How did the Count treat his servants, for them to see themselves this way?
As Sofia pulled out her chair and Mina eased into it, she wondered if this was simply how things were done here.
She had not grown up amid wealth or nobility—her life had been firmly middle-class.
Perhaps this was not uniquely Transylvanian at all, but merely the nature of aristocracy.
Sofia lifted Mina’s empty plate and filled it. Mina swallowed her unease. What would Sofia think if she knew that Mina had been a schoolteacher only a week before?
Mina cleared her throat. “Will the priest be joining me?”
Sofia stilled. For a moment, Mina feared she had misspoken, but then the woman resumed her task as though nothing were amiss. “No, mistress. The priest has gone with the Count to return to his home.”
“Oh,” Mina said, confusion tightening in her chest. She thought of the footsteps she had heard earlier, long after the Count was meant to have left. “So it is just you and me, then?”
“Yes, mistress.”
Her plate was set before her, her glass filled with wine, and after Mina murmured her thanks, Sofia moved to the corner of the room, facing out as though in a line of servants.
Mina was surprised to find herself hungry once she started eating. The fire crackled in the distant hearth, and Sofia remained so quiet that Mina had to glance over her shoulder to ensure the woman had not slipped away.
More than once, Mina tried to make conversation—she asked about the castle, about Sofia’s life beyond her duties—but each attempt met a polite, impenetrable reserve.
Whether the woman was simply professional or quietly irritated by Mina’s attempts at familiarity, Mina could not tell.
As she sipped her wine, she found herself wondering how many evenings she would spend here, in this very chair, eating alone.
Her eyes prickled with tears, and she swallowed hard.
In London, Mina had often enjoyed solitude—but this was different.
Perhaps it was only unfamiliarity, the weight of stone walls and cavernous rooms, but the thought of this being her life now, without meaningful company, made her chest ache.
In London, there had been promise. Purpose.
She had shaped young minds, helped children who would carry that knowledge forward.
And now—who was she helping? Not the children. Not Lucy. And seemingly, not Sofia.
Then she thought of Aunt Emily. Of the woman who had sacrificed so much after her mother’s death, stepping in where Mina’s father had failed. Mina was not the first woman to live a life she had not chosen. It was simply her turn. And she would not indulge herself in pity.
“Are you finished eating, mistress?”
Mina looked up, startled to realize she had been staring at her plate, lost in thought.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Thank you. I think I’m just a bit tired.”
“I can escort you back to your chambers now, mistress.”
Mina nodded, her appetite gone. “Thank you.”
She followed Sofia through the corridors, no longer bothering to remember the way. A dull indifference settled over her, like mist clinging to the castle grounds, and she lacked the energy to shake it.
After Sofia delivered her to her chamber and wished her goodnight, Mina surveyed the room for what felt like the hundredth time.
The sun had set, yet the moon had not yet risen.
Grey stone surrounded her on all sides, enclosing her in silence.
The resemblance to a prison cell was unmistakable—only larger, and far more luxurious.
Yet the sense of endless confinement was all the same.
A sudden sound came from the hall, and Mina froze, listening intently. Her thoughts leapt back to the night before—the whispers in the corridor, the voices that had seemed to breathe her name.
She flinched when a firm knock cut through the quiet. For a moment, she did nothing at all. Surely this wasn’t Sofia, but who else would be at her door at this late hour?
“Wilhelmina?”
Recognition dawned, and warmth crept into her cheeks.
“Yes?” she called, still making no move to open the door.
“It’s the Count,” came the reply from the other side of the wood. Then, as if she required clarification, “Your husband.”
Despite herself, she nearly smiled.
Mina crossed the room and eased the door open. He stood in the shadows, unaccompanied by any lantern. As she opened it wider, firelight spilled into the hall, revealing a folded mound of dark fabric draped over his arm.
“Is it customary for you to sleep in your day clothes?” he asked. She looked down at her black dress, then back at him, finding a glint in his eyes that told her he knew very well she hadn’t been sleeping.
“What do you mean?” she asked, playing along. “This is my nightdress.”
His gaze trailed down her form, and she resisted the instinct to retreat from it. “Hmm. Well, I suppose you wouldn’t care to join me for a walk, then?”
She frowned slightly, glancing over her shoulder toward the window before meeting his gaze again. “At this hour?”
The corner of his mouth curved. “Do you fear the moonlight, Wilhelmina?” She paused at the sound of her full name on his lips once more. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence meant only for her. “Or is it my company that unsettles you?”
She tilted her head. “Should I be unsettled by your company, Count?”
He extended his hand—an invitation into the unknown. “Join me and see for yourself.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. His skin was cool against her palm. Without another word, he led her into the darkened corridor, leaving her chambers behind.
The castle lay hushed around them, the stillness so complete it felt as though no one else existed within its walls. A distant thought of Sofia surfaced—whether the woman had already retired for the night or if she was somewhere attending to her endless tasks.
The Count guided them through the shadows with the confidence of someone who knew every step by heart. When they reached the staircase, he led her upward—not down.
“Where are we—”
“Shhh,” he murmured, turning and placing a finger to her lips. Her heart thrummed at his nearness, his gaze holding hers through the darkness. “Come on.”
They climbed higher and higher, the stairs winding upward until they reached what must have been the sixth or seventh story.
As they went, she wondered how he could see through the blackness at all, one hand clasped in his and the other grazing the wall for balance.
At last, they reached the top level, where a heavy wooden door loomed before them.
“Put this on,” he instructed, revealing the fabric over his arm to be her cloak. He settled it around her shoulders, then stepped closer to fasten it at her throat.
“Won’t you be cold?” she asked, grasping for distraction from how close he was to her.
“Transylvanians don’t get cold,” he replied simply.
He turned away, drew a key from his pocket, and slipped it into the lock. A sharp click cut through the quiet.
The Count pushed the door open, and an icy wind greeted them.
Mina followed him onto a narrow walkway, the night sky stretching above, with a crescent moon peering through a break in the clouds.
Stone parapets lined either side, and when she peered over the edge, she saw nothing but fog and shadow below.
“Forgive me for the cold,” the Count said, leaning against the parapet despite the dusting of snow that coated the stone. “I was on my way here and thought you might like to see it as well.”
Mina brushed snow from the low wall before resting her forearms atop it to see the courtyard from his vantage point. All was buried beneath a thick blanket of white, snowflakes drifting lazily from the darkened sky.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, surprised by the honesty of her words.
It was not the gentle beauty of the English countryside on a warm spring day—there was a bleakness to the view, an untamed grandeur. The valley stretched out beneath them, shrouded in fog, treetops breaking through the gloom. Yet the wildness of it stole her breath all the same.
“It is, isn’t it?” he said. “I like to come here to think sometimes. Late, when no one else is awake.”
“And what do you think about?” she asked, turning toward him.
He smiled faintly, his gaze still fixed on the land beyond the parapet. “A great many things,” he said. Then his eyes found hers. “But I am far more interested in hearing about you, Wilhelmina.”
She laughed lightly. “Me?”