Chapter Text
There’s howling outside. Wind and monsters. Parents are asleep one room over, but the young woman lying in bed can’t force her mind and intrusive thoughts to slow enough to allow her rest. She counts the cracks in the ceiling. Fifty-four. Too many for a ceiling. Another howl comes in between fifty-six and fifty-seven. She knows the howling of the wolves comes from the monsters in the forest. Her family and herself live at the edge of the western end of the village, near the woods and the mountains. The monsters prowl near.
The beasts are called lycans. Part wolf, part man. The monsters have plagued the village and its people far longer than her family has been settled in the village. The inhabitants know better than to stay out after the moon comes out. At the sight of the moon, the lycans begin their hunt, prowling until the sun peeks out over the edge of the horizon. If the villagers are lucky, it is only chickens that are dead the following morning.
The girl swings her legs over the edge of her bed and slides her feet into old and worn leather boots. It’s bitterly cold, so she wraps her shawl, a woolen thing of garishly bright red, around her slight shoulders. The garment is such a shade of scarlet the lycans would see it from a distance. She shouldn’t go outside, she knows this. There is no reason to be as reckless as she is choosing to be, but it’s all because of the quick thoughts in her head and her restlessness and she can’t bear to count anymore cracks in a ceiling they cannot afford to fix because the materials are too expensive.
As she’s gathering her sketchbook and charcoal to occupy her, she begins hearing noises from the workshop next to their house. She supposes it is possible it could be lycans, but the sounds come across as more meticulous. As though whomever or whatever is in there is looking for something. No one is meant to be in the workshop, though. It is forbidden. She doesn’t even think she’s ever even seen a lycan near the workshop’s gate. The workshop belongs to Lord Heisenberg. No one, no one, dares to cross him.
Booted feet clack against the aged wooden floor, the boards creaking no matter how quiet she tries to be. Her parents, somehow, stay asleep, despite her creaking and the harsh clanking of metal. She opens the door going outside, and it clicks shut behind her. Then she turns to her left and opens the door leading to their stall housing their chickens. She moves as quietly as she can, old grass crunching underfoot instead of rotting floorboards, as the last thing she needs is the unstoppable clucking of chickens giving away to everything and everyone around her that she is up and walking about.
Once out, she pauses to listen. The wind still howls, but the monsters have stopped. The moon lights two paths. One immediately to her right, to the barn. The other to the lift, up to the workshop. The noises coming from the latter are even louder, now that she is closer. She doesn’t recall ever hearing these noises, during the day or otherwise. But perhaps there were, back when she could still sleep at night. She clutches her black-bound book and charcoal to her chest, and looks at the barn.
She approaches the unlocked gate.
It is always locked.
A dim light emanates from inside, and when she looks through the gap between the gate doors, she sees it comes from a lantern at a man’s feet. A man, she concludes, based on the broadness of the figure. His back is turned away from her. She inches a bit closer, but too late she realizes it is too close when she bumps it with her shoulder and it creaks with the slight movement. The man inside stiffens, but does not turn around.
The book and charcoal at her chest dig deeper. Her only comfort.
“Sir. You’re not meant to be in there.”
“Neither are you.”
It is a man, as she’d thought, but she doesn’t recognize the voice, said with an accent she can’t place. It’s not any of the men from the village.
“I’m still outside the gate.”
A deep chuckle comes from the man. She shifts on her feet. The sound puts her on edge. Makes her feel unsafe. Uneasy.
“So you are,” he says.
“You should leave. Lord Heisenberg doesn’t take kindly to trespassers.”
At least, that is what she has heard from the others. According to Anton, the last time someone intruded on Heisenberg’s territory was when she had been maybe five. Almost thirteen years ago. Anton had said the man’s name was Constantin, and he had entered the workshop looking for spare parts of some kind (Anton hadn’t remembered what), and later they had found him outside the sawmill. What was left of him. Anton said there hadn’t been much. Scraps of fabric and bits of his lower body. The face was left intact enough to identify.
It had been said in the village for years that Heisenberg had a certain amount of control over the lycans. The incident with Constantin, however, had convinced most of the villagers that Heisenberg was a lycan himself, albeit more man than monster. Some thought he had been the one to maul Constantin, and leave the face intact enough for the others to identify. For Constantin to be an omen. A warning.
“He doesn’t, does he? You’re a bit too young to remember what happened to the last one,” he says. His tone speaks of amusement, not worry. “Bit of a mess to clean up, if I recall.”
The man stands, and he is as tall as he is broad. He brings the lantern up with him. Now, she can see a hat on his head. A long coat draping to his knees. Big, heavy, and black boots on his feet.
“Do you guard my workshop, Scufiţa Roşie ?”
She trembles, but not from the cold. He steps closer to her, the lantern swinging in time with his movements. She pulls her book somehow even closer, the spine hurting where it digs into her chest. He’s so tall and so broad when compared to her small and slight figure. She has never seen Lord Heiseneberg this closely before. She wonders if anyone ever has.
“You’re out late, darlin’. Not scared of the lycans?”
He flashes her a smile full of sharp white teeth, and fleetingly she considers that perhaps the rumors are true and Heisenberg might take those canines to her throat. Instead, he takes her wool shawl between his fingers, tugging at the scarlet fabric. She stands still, unsure of what to do. Stay where she is? Say something? She knows she’s meant to hold her tongue until prompted to speak, but he had asked her a question.
Even if it had sounded closer to a taunt than a genuine question.
He tugs her shawl again. Harder.
“Couldn’t sleep. I was only going to draw,” she says quietly, her eyes trained firmly on his boots. They’re dirty. Muddy. Possible oil stains. She expected blood.
The lord drops the crimson fabric. “Don’t see much drawing going on.”
“I thought you might have been someone else. Wanted to warn you.”
“Eyes up, honey.”
She doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want him looking her in the eyes, and doesn’t want him to see the fear etched in her face. But it’s an order and every single one of the villagers knows to listen when one of the lords gives a direct order. They do not like to repeat themselves.
Why doesn’t she listen?
“Eyes. Up.”
She raises her head, cranes her neck up to look at him like he ordered. In the dim lantern glow, she sees the raised scars marring his face and the fine, coarse grey and black hairs of his beard and her own pathetic visage in the reflection of his glasses.
The charcoal threatens to snap between her fingers.
He cocks his head toward her house. “You live there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Name?”
“Cole-” she stops abruptly. That’s not her real name. “It’s Amicia.”
“Miranda’s heretic.”
She notes the way he pronounces Miranda’s name. Er, not ah.
Colette also takes note of the smirk lining his lips. He knows of her. Doesn’t even need to hear her surname. It must be her awfully uncommon, too French first name. Her name is her only connection to this village and its people.
She supposes she might be a heretic, though she’s not quite sure what she did to earn the brand. She shrugs her shoulders, letting him decide himself what to make of her. She lowers her head again, and shuffles her feet. Lifts her empty hand up to rub the side of her nose.
“Eyes up. Not gonna say it again.”
She lifts her eyes.
“Go draw or whatever it is you’re gonna do,” he tells her. She waits for a moment, making sure it is actually fine for her to leave Heisenberg’s presence. He cocks an eyebrow at her and she turns her back to him.
“You have charcoal on your nose.”
Her hand comes up to rub her nose again. Too late she realizes it’s the same hand that already has charcoal on it. The lord laughs behind her. She’s made herself look like an idiot. Now Heisenberg knows she might be one.
It may be safer to turn her back on a lycan.
She retreats into the barn, away from the lord, to draw. She lights a lantern and places it at her side in the hay, while she rests her sketchbook across her knees. There’s several unfinished sketches she could continue, but most of them would be difficult without their subject. The one she is most proud of is the sketch of Castle Dimitrescu. From where she sits on the grounds of the church, she can make out some of its profile beyond the wall. There’s another of the windmills, barely started because she’s rarely brave enough to venture far enough to get a good look at them. There’s a few of the other villagers: Anton with his beer; Oskar with his horses; Roxana with her husband. There’s a drawing of her favorite chicken, the one that somehow manages to look angry, the feathers on its head flopping just the right way.
She doesn’t know what to draw.
The lycans have begun their crying again. They sound closer than they did inside the house. Even knowing Heisenberg is nearby gives her little security. It might be worse having him near. He scares her.
She poises her hand over the paper, still a blank page. Nothing comes to mind.
Heisenberg doesn’t help. He makes no effort to keep quiet.
Scufiţa Roşie .
Little girl in a red cloak. Wolf waiting to eat said girl.
Colette moves her charcoal over the page, beginning with sharp canines and an elongated snout.
“You still in there, sweetheart?”
Colette opens her eyes, the booming voice startling her awake. She didn’t remember falling asleep. The light of her lantern has long since burned out. How long had she been asleep? Her charcoal, at some point, had fallen out of her hand and rolled away. Her sketchbook lays upside down, pages splayed open on the ground.
Heisenberg stands at the opening of the barn. It’s still dark out, but the lightening sky tells her the sun will be out soon. She blinks her eyes a few times, and gets to her knees, reaching for her book and charcoal.
“Fuckin’ hell, baby, you gotta death wish, stayin’ out here all night?” he chides.
She wishes he would stop with the endearments.
“If the lycans wanted to eat me, an old wooden door wouldn’t stop them,” she retorts in a sleep-laced tone. The drowsiness loosens her tongue.
“Should consider yourself lucky I was willing to stay to watch you. Fuckin’ cold out here, too.”
It is cold, and she shivers as soon as he acknowledges it. She has her doubts that he watched over her all night, if at all, but he still acts as though he is her knight, protecting her from the monsters lurking in the darkness.
“Thank you, Lord Heisenberg,” she mumbles.
“What was that?”
“I said,” she raises her voice, “thank you, Lord Heisenberg.”
He grunts as a response. Is a thanks not what he was looking for?
“Get inside. If the lycans don’t get you first, then sickness will.”
She nods and he moves out of her way when she leaves the barn. She doesn’t turn back to look at him, but his voice travels over the wind one more time.
“Still got charcoal on your nose.”
She rubs her nose again.
With the hand dirtied with the stuff.
She’s berated by her mother later, when her parents have woken, for going outside in the middle of the night. She doesn’t mention Lord Heisenberg, knowing the change it would bring in her parents. At first, it would be fear. Their stupid, troublemaking daughter had attracted the attention of the dangerous, monstrous lord. Then it might melt to delight and exaltation that their only daughter caught the attention of the roguishly handsome lord, and the lord protected her from the lycans. There would be praise to Heisenberg and to Mother Miranda for keeping stupid, reckless Amicia safe.
They don’t ask if she’s alright. She tries to prove to them she’s fine anyway while holding back a fit of coughs caught in her throat.
Her mother and father allow her to leave after a combination of “I understand” and “Yes Mothers” and “Yes, I will be careful. No, I will not cause problems”, with a promise to never go outside after dark again. They also don’t allow her to leave until she promises them she will find the merchant and fulfill the list they give her.
She has them repeat the list three times, to make sure it is drilled in her head. Two of the items only the merchant who travels to and from the village is able to source. She prays he has them, for coming home with uncommon items might help ease future chastisements.
The merchant is a mysterious fellow. A large, rotund man with sandy hair, gaudy rings on thick fingers, and a quick wit. The only one who ever leaves the village, and the only one who ever returns. He can usually be found up the village square, in the hub where each of the lord’s territories meet, working in his caravan pulled by two beautiful black horses. His wares are expensive, but well worth the lei. The merchant calls himself the Duke.
She enjoys talking to the Duke when he is in the village. And he was one of the few who would continue a conversation with her. He didn’t hate her, and he called her by her preferred name. As brief as some of their encounters could be, and rare it was that they lasted longer than fifteen minutes, it acted as a reprieve from the constant “oh Mother Miranda” this and “praise Mother Miranda” that. He could tell an entertaining story, and like her, he enjoyed good gossip, which she always made sure to bring plenty of in hopes that one day she might earn a discount on her next purchase. It has yet to work.
Though the center of territories is where Duke most often sets up his shop, for both the villagers’ and the lords’ benefit, his shop has made its way to other parts of the village. The last time she saw him had been near the windmills. Both were surprised to have seen the other there. It wasn’t Duke’s normal prowling ground and she hadn’t been meant to even be there. The windmills were home to Lord Moreau and only he and the fishermen were supposed to be there. The Duke knew this, but instead of threatening to tell Moreau or Miranda or giving her a warning to leave, he offered her new charcoal. Colored charcoal. She declined (she could never afford the colored ones) and left the windmills, hoping he wouldn’t say anything. Considering she is still alive, and not been paid a visit by the lord or Miranda, she’s assumed he kept her visit to the windmills a secret. Today he is in the hub. There is a small altar in the center, but she has never known what it is for. Sometimes others leave offerings for Miranda on it. Even the others have little idea what it could be used for.
“Hello, Duke,” she greets the large man.
“Colette, my dear girl! How are you this fine morning?”
“Doing well, thank you.”
“Pardon me, my dear, but your face is rather flushed. I do hope you’re not ill.”
“I was outside all night. It is nothing.”
He frowns when she has an immediate coughing fit, though he doesn’t continue to prod. She thinks of the list her parents gave her, and despite asking for it three times, has difficulty remembering the few things they asked for.
“Were you able to get the sugar I asked for the last time? 250 drams?” she asks.
“But of course, Colette! You wouldn’t be doubting me now, would you?”
“Of course not!”
He puts it down in front of her.
“And I understand you might not have it since I didn’t ask for it last time, but salt? It needn’t be very much.”
“As it so happens I do have a bit.”
“I’ll take it.”
The bags he gives her are not heavy, but Colette has never been a strong girl, not with her slight and frail frame and thin arms. Perhaps if she passed Oskar, he would be willing to help her carry the sugar. He never said no to her.
“Do you have any stories for me today?”
“You wouldn’t be doubting me, would you?” she says, throwing his words back at him, which he accepts with a loud guffaw. “Of course I do.”
“Let’s see,” she says aloud while also trying to count out her lei. “Fifty… Oskar almost fell down a well trying to follow me two days ago. Drunk again. One hundred… Ana is having an affair; I’m sure of it. And I think it’s with Daniel. You know, the tavern owner. And one hundred fifty.” She hands him the money. “I met Lord Heisenberg last night.”
“Did you now? And how did this happen?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I went outside to draw. There were noises coming from the workshop, so I went to tell the person inside that Heisenberg would be angry with them. You remember what happened to Constantin, yes?”
She interrupts herself with a series of violent coughs.
“Lucky for them, I suppose. Unluckier for me, it was Heisenberg.”
“What did you make of Lord Heisenberg, Colette?”
“Terrifying. He’s… well… he’s scary. Have you heard he may be a lycan himself?”
Duke laughs. “An apt description of him, I daresay. And yes, I have heard those rumors. Quite humorous, are they not?”
“Perhaps not if they prove to be true. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“Not particularly, but I can understand why you would say he’s fearful.”
“Please don’t tell anyone I saw him. I didn’t tell Mother and Father because I knew what they would say. Offer him praise, just as everyone else would. They would say I didn’t deserve such an esteemed honor,” she says.
“My lips are forever sealed, Miss R é my, as is the case with all of the wonderful stories you share with me.”
“And I thank you for that. I should be going. I need to get these home.”
“Safe travels. I do look forward to seeing you again.”
“And you as well.”
The salt she finds isn’t too heavy, and the sugar not much heavier. Together they aren’t enough to impede her, had she been carrying them herself. Carrying both is a struggle for someone small like her, especially when she does live a fair distance from the altar. No one offers to help her (a pity Oskar isn’t wandering around) but that is something she expects. She’s the pariah. With enough sweet words, Oskar would help her. He always did. His persistence to spend time with her might have sometimes come across as an annoyance, but in her heart she enjoys his presence. Oskar is kind and strong and handsome and in another life she could have loved him as more than a friend.
She gets the bags home, and retrieves her sketchbook and charcoal to finish one of the many uncompleted sketches. After the incident with the Duke and realizing how easy it would be for her to get caught, she dare not venture back to the windmills. Duke might not say anything, but if Moreau caught her, she would no doubt end up in Miranda’s clutches. He is entirely and completely devoted to her.
She ventures back outside and lingers for a moment outside her home, and, to her dread, a now unlocked workshop. She ignores the cracked open gate, though finds it odd that Heisesnberg would be in there at this time of day. She had thought he only made appearances in the night when everyone, or at least those unlike Colette, would be asleep. It would be twice in less than a day’s period he had been here. Abnormal for the solitary lord.
Colette supposes she can return to the church and continue her work on the castle. Finish it, even. Perhaps if she can find where Oskar is, either the tavern or the stables, she can get him to pose for her. Find another chicken to draw. She has considered trying to draw Heisenberg’s factory; climb up the mountain behind her house and try to draw what of the outline of it she could see. From that vantage point, a drawing of all four territories would be something new to do, she considers. It’s terribly boring to have to draw the same things over and over.
Something sharp hits her cheek, pulling her from her contemplations. It stings, the object cutting into her cheek. Despite the pain and quick anger, she continues her walk, ignoring a group of three older boys who often taunt her. Adrian, Emilian, and Iacob. They follow, pitching stones at her back. Their aim is awful. Most of them miss, but some hit their mark. The stones hurt, but she doesn’t turn back to tell the boys to leave her alone. They bully her because they can. Because few will stop them. One particular stone, which must have been thrown with a violent amount of force, strikes her shoulder, and only then does she turn around to confront the boys.
A mistake, for she is too late to react to the stone Iacob has pitched from his hand.
It hits her nose. Hard. Blood begins to seep out from her nose, and she raises the hand not holding her things to staunch the blood. Crimson flows over and through her fingertips. Tears well up in her eyes and she wills herself not to cry in front of the boys. They laugh at her, though Iacob does appear apologetic. The boys are not cruel, not really. They only act the way they do because of what she is. A heretic. Different. It’s what they’ve learned from observing the others who interact with her in a negative manner. Hurt the pariah and earn Mother Miranda’s favor. That must be how it is.
She picks up her own stone, but does not throw it at the boys. She’s better than that. The stone sails into the forest.
If only she were that stone.
There’s a sudden clang from the workshop, and despite the blood flowing from nose and cheek, and because of her newfound damning curiosity, she goes to the gate to see if it is Heisenberg in there again or if it is another Constantin.
She peers into the workshop the same way as she did the night before, but this time there is no lantern illuminating the lord’s features. Now, with the dim light peeking from behind the clouds, she can see Heisenberg fully. Again, a long coat, dirty black boots, and an old hat bend over a pile of scrap. She watches him stand upright, and she can hear, even from her position, the crack of his back.
“Trying to sneak up on a man like me is dangerous, you know,” he says without looking back at her. “Stupid, too.”
Colette thought she’d been quiet.
“Wasn’t trying to sneak up on you,” she says honestly. “You’re never here during the day.”
“Forgot somethin’ this morning.”
“What?”
“You’re chattier than last night, sweetheart. Think it might make you more annoying.”
She shuts her mouth and finally lowers her hand from her nose. There’s already blood staining her dress. More on her collar might earn sympathy from her mother.
Unlikely, she thinks of the woman who says Colette deserves the stones.
Heiseneberg pockets something. Something shiny.
She watches his massive, gloved hands. Considers the claws that might be hiding within the leather confines. Considers them wrapped around her throat.
“Move, honey. Gonna lock up and you’re gonna forget I was here.”
She backs away from the gate and watches him lock up his workshop again. He doesn’t use a key, but the lock still clicks shut. A smarter girl wouldn’t ask about that.
“How’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Lock the gate. You didn’t use a key.”
“Magic trick.”
It’s the first time during their short interaction that he looks at her. The neutral expression shifts into a frown. Colette wonders for the hundredth time, perhaps thousandth time in her life, what she has done wrong.
“Got more than charcoal on there now.”
The blood. He’s looking at the bloody mess her face has no doubt become. She realizes she must be a shocking sight. An embarrassing sight. A mess of red blood and brown dirt and white skin. Were her parents around, they would say this visage of hers is disgraceful, especially in the presence of a lord.
“Yes,” she agrees, dropping her head. She mustn't let him see her this way.
“Eyes up, honey.”
“I’m not supposed to let you see me like this. It’s an embarrassment to me and my family.”
“I get to decide that. Do I have to repeat myself?”
He makes things difficult. He is supposed to be the one dictating and enforcing the rules and he is encouraging her to break them. But a lord’s word is law. She lifts her head. Then is immediately attacked by a cloth more brown than white. He’s rough, trying to wipe her face clear of blood.
… Lord Heisenberg is trying to clean her face.
“Someone do this?”
“No.”
She can’t fathom why she lies to him.
“It was those boys who came here.”
“No.”
“They do this often?”
“No.”
“Amicia.”
His tone is firm and his hand falls away from her face. This shouldn’t matter to him. It’s trivial for someone like him. Heisenberg shouldn’t be asking these questions and he shouldn’t remember her name.
“It happens sometimes,” she admits quietly, fingers tapping the spine of her book. She almost lowers her head but then remembers he doesn’t like that. Instead she only drops her eyes and hopes he doesn’t notice.
“Eyes.”
Damn him.
She looks back up at him. He pockets the cloth, more red and brown than white. He scares her, she thinks, more than the lycans. He looks human, like another man in the village. He’s hairy, but not like a wolf. He’s not like his siblings; not refined like Lady Dimitrescu or even Lady Beneviento, but he’s not a monster like Moreau. Heisenberg looks like a man. This doesn’t reassure her.
But for now she can pretend.
“They don’t like me,” she mumbles. “You said it yourself. I am Miranda’s heretic.”
“You’re young.”
“Doesn’t mat-” A sudden wave of coughing cuts her off. “That doesn’t matter to anyone.”
“Told you you’d get sick.”
She wants to retort that she's not, but she’s fighting back another cough.
“So no one cares if those little fuckers pelt rocks at your head?”
She shrugs. Oskar does. If Oskar had seen them he would have hit them. Oskar was bigger than all three of those boys and held much more strength in his arms. Oskar would always try to keep her safe. He loves her.
She doesn’t love him enough.
“Go back home, Amicia. Fucking, I don’t know, draw or whatever it is you do.”
She doesn’t find it prudent to tell him that was her plan nor to say that he shouldn’t remember details like that. She nods her head. He leaves then, muttering under his breath in a language she doesn’t recognize.
Colette returns to the house to scrub her face. As she thought, her pale flesh is streaked with brown and red, a mess of colors in the cracked mirror. She does her best to get the blood out of the fabric, but little can be done about what has seeped into the fibers and stubbornly remains.
Her parents are furious with her again, mostly for the blood on her dress. They care little for the stones the boys threw. It’s her fault for being a threat to the community. For being different. For not being entirely devout.
Colette doesn’t sleep again that night, but not because of any howling.
It’s quiet.