Chapter 13

January 1863

A solitary rider steered his horse through the silent host of fir trees, their pendulous branches heavy in the dank air. The early morning mist eddied about them as they went, adding to the menace that seemed to permeate this most ancient forest. Count Szolayski peered through the gloom.

It shouldn’t be much farther now, he thought.

His trusted advisor, Wojciech, had negotiated the deal. All that was left was for him to collect the girl. The dull thud of an axe carried on the still air. Somewhere ahead someone was chopping wood. He spurred his horse to a gentle trot.

It was better to get it over with, before he changed his mind.

Szolayski found the small timber cottage in the middle of a clearing a few minutes later. Smoke rose lazily from its functional stone chimney. A man, bent by old age, stood to one side, a long-handled axe in his hands. The old man placed a small log on the chopping block and swung the axe down, splitting it with a satisfying ‘thunk’. He reached down laboriously for another log then, and sensing someone was watching, he turned. A tall handsome man sat astride a fine-looking white stallion. The man carried himself with a natural bearing that hinted at his nobility.

The old man placed the axe against the chopping block and doffed his cap, lowering his eyes as he did. Deep lines carved into his leathery face betrayed a life of suffering.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning,” said Szolayski. “You know who I am?”

“No, sir,” replied the old man. “It’s just that the man told me someone important would come, so naturally I assumed you…”

Szolayski nodded.

“The girl? She is here?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the old man. “She is in the house.”

“Bring her to me.”

The old man shuffled forward, clutching his cap tightly to his chest. A look of anguish filled his eyes.

“She is my only granddaughter, my lord,” he said sadly. “Her mother and her father, they died of the plague. So, too, my wife and the animals. I cannot…”

He offered a despairing shrug.

“She will be well taken care of,” reassured the Count gruffly.

“My lord, if I may ask, where will you be taking her?”

“The city,” replied Szolasyki and waved his hand vaguely toward the west. “She will work for a wealthy family there.”

The old man nodded.

“The other man, he said I am not to visit.”

He searched the Count’seyes for reassurance.

“It is better this way,” responded the Count. “There will be much to learn. She will need to focus on her duties. Perhaps in a few years, she will visit.”

The old man nodded apathetically.

“In a few years, perhaps,” he repeated without conviction.

“Here,” said Szolasyki. “The money which was promised.”

He reached down and handed the old man a small leather pouch filled with coin.

“It is getting late,” prompted the Count. “We have a long way to travel.”

The old man nodded. He turned, his head bowed, and walked back slowly toward the cabin. Szolayski watched as the old man opened the rickety timber door and disappeared inside.

Moments later, he emerged, a slender, timid-looking girl clutching his hand.

“This is Ewa,” said the old man.

The Count swung down from his horse and stood before the pair, a broken old man and his frightened granddaughter.

“How old are you, child?” he asked.

The girl looked uncertainly at her grandfather.

“She is ten,” replied the old man.

“Ten,” repeated Szolayski.

Tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks and she quickly wiped them away. Grandfather had said she should be brave. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.

“Do not worry yourself so, girl,” said the Count. “Your grandfather has been well taken care of, and you will be better off away from here.”

“Go now, Ewa,” said the old man. “You will be safe, I promise.”

Szolayzki took the girl’s hand and led her to his horse. He lifted her up onto the saddle and swung himself up to sit behind her. The old man’s head remained bowed—he could not bring himself to look at his granddaughter. Szolayski turned his horse away and gently dug his heels into its flanks, urging it into a trot. He needed to get away from this place—away from a broken, hopeless old man watching what remained of his life disappear.

 Szolayski and the girl travelled all day, stopping only once to eat a light meal in the early afternoon. Perhaps wanting to remain indifferent to the girl’s fate, the Count stayed silent throughout their journey. The girl, too, was quiet, staring stoically ahead as though having resigned herself to whatever lay before her. They reached his estate at night, just as he’d planned. Constructed in the 13th century, the old stone castle had been extensively remodelled in the years since. A man holding an oil lamp stood at a side-entrance. It was Jakub, the Count’s most trusted manservant. Szolayski reigned in his horse.

“Good evening, my lord,” greeted Jakub.

His voice was hushed as though not wanting to disturb the evening quiet.

“Good evening, Jakub,” said Szolayski.

He looked about.

“The rest of the servants,” he began, “They have been dismissed for the night?”

Jakub nodded.

“It is as you ordered, my lord.”

Szolyaski got down from the horse. He stretched with a groan. It had been a long day. He turned and looked up at the girl.

“Come, girl,” he said. “It is time.”

He lifted Ewa gently from the saddle and placed her on the ground. Jakob handed him a second lamp which he’d lit and then led the horse away toward the stables. Szolayski took the girl’s hand in his and together they walked toward the silent and imposing main residence.

A single light, high-up in one of the building’s few remaining towers, was the only hint that the place was occupied. They did not use the main entrance, the Count instead choosing to lead the girl around the building to a small side-door, which they entered. The girl stared in wonder as they walked, rich gilt tapestries and luxurious furnishings alternately appearing and disappearing just as suddenly in the flickering light of the oil lamp. High vaulted ceilings seemed to vanish into the dark above them. It was unlike anything she’d imagined.

They ascended a narrow winding staircase, the lamp’s light reflecting dimly off the stone walls of the old tower. Up they went until at last, they reached a solid timber door. The Count reached inside his coat and retrieved an iron key. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

A young woman squealed with delight.

“Father! I knew you would come.”

Ewa stared at the young woman dancing about the room. She was tall and slender, with flowing flaxen hair and porcelain skin. She looked like an angel. The young woman stopped in front of the girl and leant forward so that her face was close to Ewa’s. Her eyes were ice-blue. The young girl felt a chill of fear; she somehow sensed yet did not understand the feral hunger which lurked there.

“What is your name, little one?” enquired the angel.

“Ewa,” replied the girl softly.

“Ewa,” repeated the angel. “Do you like dolls, Ewa?”

The girl nodded her head.

“I have dolls, Ewa. All the dolls you could ever wish for. Come, let me show you.”

The angel took the girl’s hand in hers and led her around the large bed. Strewn about the floor was a bewildering array of dolls—large porcelain dolls with pert ruby lips, rag dolls with straw-like hair and button eyes, small wooden dolls with delicately carved features, and every other type of doll between. Still more had been heaped against the room’s stone wall.

“Why don’t you play with these, Ewa, whilst I speak with my father?”

The little girl looked up at the angel uncertainly.

The angel reached down, scooped up a large rag doll from the floor and offered it to the little girl.

“Her name is Sophia. Why don’t you play with her?”

Ewa took the rag doll and held it tightly to her chest.

“Come,” said the angel. “Why not sit over here?”

She led the girl to the dolls piled against the wall. The girl knelt in front of the dolls and studied their faces. The dolls stared back blankly. She reached for an especially pretty-looking one, then another. The angel smiled. She turned. Szolayski remained standing at the door.

“Father, I’m so pleased to see you,” said the angel. “Come, please sit with me awhile.”

The Count hesitated.

“Anastasiya, I—”

“Please, father,” said Anastasiya. “I have missed you. It is lonely here.”

“I’m sorry, Anastasiya. I have been so busy of late,” said Szolayski. “But I promise to visit you more often from now on.”

He locked the door and then walked over to the bed and sat down next to his daughter.

“Mother, Oliwia, and Elzbieta,” began Anastasiya, “Do you visit them every day?”

The Count nodded sadly.

“Yes, I visit your mother and sisters every day,” he said. “I tend their graves myself. I tell them how much we miss them. And I tell them about you.”

“What do you tell them, father?”

“I say that you are as beautiful as ever, how proud I am of you, how proud I am that you have managed to stay strong despite all that has happened. And I promise them that I will find a way. I will find a cure, no matter the cost.”

Anastasiya hugged her father.

“Thank you, father,” she said. “For everything.”

The Count responded stiffly, stroking Anastasiya’s hair as she lay against him. She had always been his favourite. Even now he found it difficult to reconcile the spirited young girl she’d once been with the monster she’d become. In his mind’s eye he could still see the creature crouched over the bloodied corpse of the servant girl. A monster, dripping with blood, glaring at him, its wild eyes red with rage. A monster who wore the face of his beautiful girl.

Yet he loved her. How could he not? She was all that he had left. The only remaining connection to his beloved wife. Szolayski gently pried his daughter away.

“Come,” he said. “Let us talk. I’m sure you have much to ask me.”

They talked for nearly an hour, mostly of things inconsequential, the Count carefully avoiding the troubling news that the Tzar’s armies had now mobilized against the Polish rebellion. He’d promised to join his Polish brother officers a week ago yet found he could not bring himself to leave her. Whilst they spoke, he noticed how Anastasiya looked over to where the young girl played every so often. And each time she turned to look back at him, for a brief moment, he thought he saw in her eyes the hunger which lurked there. How could he know who this person truly was? A monster only pretending to be his daughter, or his cherished Anastasiya, the baby girl he’d once cradled in his arms.

“I really must go,” he said finally. “It will be dawn in a few hours.”

He rose to leave and Anastasiya grasped his hand.

“Father,” she said tearfully, “I’m sorry.”

He looked into her eyes and then he saw her, his Anastasiya, trapped within the monster she’d become. The Count squeezed his daughter’s hand gently, then turned away to unlock the door. He did not look back as he pulled the door closed behind him. Nor did he pause when he heard the little girl’s strangled whimper. Szolayski locked the door, then turned, his head bowed in sorrow, and descended the stone stairs.