The Master Did Warn Me...

The town's fragile façade of calm was shattered almost two months later by another incident, which plunged Valtara into even greater panic after the buzz surrounding Rosamund's disappearance had somewhat died down and the locals had offered little more than condolences and sympathies to her uncle Olav and his wife.

The midsummer night was misty and unusually chilly. Around midnight, when Valtara was deep in slumber, Anya, the thirteen-year-old daughter of the blacksmith, crept out of her home to meet Ivor, the tanner's son, close to the edge of the forest.

It was so simple to avoid her parents' prying gaze that she slipped passed the cottages with a grin rising in her throat! She's too young for that boy, too young to look at any boy at all, her mother constantly said—ha! How completely her mother was wrong. She tossed her head arrogantly, thinking she was almost a woman grown. Ivor would eventually marry her, and they would coexist peacefully. The others just didn't understand what true love was.

A heated flush blossomed across her freckled cheeks, and her pulse throbbed in her ears. Excited by the late hour and the excitement of what was to come, she rushed past the granary and the tavern. As she ran through the churchyard toward the tree line, she couldn't help but think of Ivor's lovely blue eyes. As gentle and alluring as it had been beside the well that afternoon, his words reverberated in her mind: "Come to me by midnight, meet me by the woods behind the churchyard."

Her pace stopped as she fell among the tombs, though, and a chill from the cemetery crept up on her. A spectral fog started to form.

She became aware that her desire had caused her to arrive several minutes early. She scowled and mutely pleaded with her suitor to hurry over to join her. Despite her disdain for superstition, she had a nagging feeling that it was dangerous to be alone at night. She clenched her fingers around the rosary she was holding.

She pulled her cloak in. The branches in front of us were twisted and bare, their leafless bodies writhing against the sky like skeletal hands. She entered the growing forest through the cemetery gate, trembling.

She peered into the pitch-black woods and said, "Ivor?" No stronger sound could escape her dry throat.

From the grove came a rustling sound, like bushes stirring. She stopped.

"Ivor?" She trembled as she squeaked. "Please tell me it's you, Ivor."

Out of the trees rose a silhouette, and it was not her beloved.

Though there were many suggestions, the Valtara people could only surmise as to what had happened. The following morning, Anya was found lying half-dead in the cemetery, her body swollen, bones shattered, and her flesh smeared with horrific injuries, including severe cuts that tore across her face and pierced her neck. Amazingly, though, she continued to breathe.

She was laid gently on a straw mattress, her wounds cleaned with herbal washes, too weak to describe her tale, lost in a fog of agony.

As the village pharmacist examined her, her mother sobbed in the adjacent room. His outlook was bleak.

With an ominous tone, he informed the blacksmith and his wife, "She has lost a great deal of blood." The wounds appear to be contaminated—possibly with venom or poison, or anything else that isn't normal. I can't guarantee she'll make it through the night.

"What the devil is going to do to my baby?" The mother let forth a cry. "What caused her to do this?"

"I apologize, ma'am, but—her wounds." The chemist stumbled and pulled uneasily at his collar. "They appear to be bite marks."

Rosamund nibbled her lip one evening while she sat by the dining room fire, threading her needle into fabric, her attention straying from her sewing to the thoughts racing through her head. She was perplexed by Ivar's actions that evening. He had been exceptionally polite over the past two weeks, never being abrasive or intrusive. Her bitterness toward him had started to lessen. However, he had appeared oddly anxious as they sat by the glow of the hearth tonight.

He had stiffened in his chair at a distant, faint sound, like if the wind had called his name. She cocked her head in an attempt to hear what he had said.

"For what purpose are you listening?" She had inquired, intrigued.

His expression had darkened.

"Oh Lord," he had whispered to himself. He leaped to his feet and walked confidently to the door.

He called over his shoulder, "I have some things to take care of." Dear Rosamund, remain here. I won't be here long.

"Where are you heading, though?" She had inquired, perplexed.

Before she could go any closer, he had disappeared through the threshold. The sound of Castle Dravenstone's huge door slamming behind him echoed down the corridors.

Hours later, she sat by herself, still confused by his abrupt departure. Anxiety drove her movements as she completed her stitching, her fingers darting faster.

She tensed up. Count Ivar's return from whatever enigmatic mission had taken him was signaled by the harsh creak of hinges.

As it went across the hall toward the spiral staircase, she sprang to the doorway and looked into the foyer, catching his silhouette.

What has he been up to, I wonder? "He probably won't tell me," she thought.

She trailed silently, her footsteps shrouded in darkness.

She had never spied before, yet she was amazed at how easily she followed him. As though it were an ally, the darkness appeared to envelop her, hiding her; might this be some aspect of herself that she had been hiding and was only now realizing?

Maybe his haste to get to the top floor allowed her to follow undetected—he appeared desperate as he climbed. As he stepped into the master bedroom, she hid behind a pillar and then slipped forward to peep around the doorframe.

With a basin of water in front of him, he crouched over the vanity. She moved a little and held back a start.

His lips were dripping blood.

He bent over the basin and spat out a viscous, dark stream that looked like molasses while she watched.

He mumbled, "Ugh," shuddering as if it disgusted him. He used the water from the pitcher to rinse his mouth.

Even worse, he had blood stains on his hands. She watched him use a towel from the dresser to dry them after cleaning them.

Pulling back, Rosamund pressed herself against the wall and covered her mouth with her hand to stop a sob. She felt horror twisting within of her.

There is no way that it could be! He would never hurt an innocent person! I am more familiar with him than that.

However, these reflections led to the horrifying conclusion of how much she had grown to believe in his kindness and how much she had trusted him. If she had miscalculated him, the betrayal was more painful now. Wouldn't he have brought her along if he had only been hunting game? Why the secrecy?

"Rosamund!"

She let out a gasp. He had seen her. His stunned face undoubtedly reflected hers.

His voice was low and slow as he added, "Rosamund, it's—it's not what it seems." "I am aware of how horrible this must appear."

How have you been spending your time? Her voice rose to a sharp yell as she demanded. "What's causing your hands to be covered in blood?"

His statements became more emotional as he exclaimed, "I—good Lord, I understand how this appears." "I apologize, Rosamund, but I am unable to disclose my actions for tonight."

Her mouth dropped open in a sob.

"No, no, no," he begged, holding her face tenderly in his hands and fixing her eyes on his. "Please trust me when I say that I would never, ever hurt an innocent person. I realize this seems damning, but please, honey, believe me. I would rather burn at the stake than kill a defenseless person.

His expression was gentle and pleading, and his plea was unfiltered. Rosamund nodded reluctantly and slowly.

"I think you're real," she muttered.

Relief flickered at the corners of his mouth as he blinked.

I'm grateful, Rosamund. I promise that I will earn your trust. Even if I haven't earned it yet, I will.

She closed her eyes slowly, a strong desire growing inside her to firmly accept what he had spoken. More than anything, she wished she could fully trust him.