We were stopped a mile from the city by a band of Ottoman soldiers patrolling the borders of their camp. They brandished their spears, but we made short work of them. We left their bodies in a heap on the ground, blood seeping through their clothes, a spear sticking up out of one of their chests.
“Where are we going?” I panted, struggling to keep up with you in my heavy dress. I thought I might collapse under the weight of it, even with my growing preternatural strength. The night was moonless, and I trusted your night sight better than I trusted mine.
“There’s a coach waiting. I paid off anyone who mattered.”
You pulled me along by the wrist, almost dragging me when I slowed too much. We scrambled through the weeds, the distant sound of explosions battering Vienna’s walls urging us along.
“And then?”
“Spain. One of my associates is expecting us.”
Another explosion sounded, loud enough to rattle the ground under my feet, and I gasped and rushed forward. Sickness, age, and a simple knife wound couldn’t kill creatures like us, but I wasn’t sure that being blown to bits wouldn’t.
The coach was waiting just as you said, with faceless hooded men waiting with two identical black horses. They were the kind of rough folk whose loyalty could be bought for a week or two, highwaymen mostly likely.
You opened the carriage door for me and held out your gloved hand.
“My lady,” you said.
I let you help me inside and pressed myself against the side of the coach, my face an inch from the window. As we took off with a lurch, I watched the city shrink to nothing behind us.
From such a great distance, the faithful torches burning along the outer wall made it look like Vienna was on fire.
PART TWO
We travelled by coach for days, dowsing in the sunlight hours and passing our time with quiet conversation or solitary activities by night. You became more withdrawn the closer we got to the Spanish border, referring to notes and letters you kept tucked into your datebook over and over again. I wanted to ask who exactly it was we were going to meet in Spain, but I would have been met with one of your gentle rebuttals, or worse, a flare of your unpredictable irritation. I had learned by then that it was better not to ask about your plans, since I didn’t have a say in them anyway. Better to ride along as your quiet, beautiful consort, taking notice of everything and everyone without making any demands of you.
I knew we were going to pass a few nights with one of your many correspondents, a Spanish noble of some prominence who had dazzled you with their cutthroat political philosophy.
“Like a modern Machiavelli,” is all you had murmured, half to me, half to yourself as you reread the letters.
I never expected her.
Magdalena insisted on receiving you the instant you arrived. She was waiting for us outside her manor, flanked by her staff. She was one of the most striking women I had ever seen, with a fine-featured face of cutting cheekbones and a soft, thin-lipped mouth, framed by a confection of black curls. Her dusky skin was set off by the high color of her cheeks. Rouge, probably, despite its impropriety for someone of her station. She was dressed in black satin trimmed with crimson silk, and her dark eyes flashed like twin daggers when she saw you, a smile breaking across her face.
She was utterly, wrenchingly gorgeous. I felt my heart tumble down through my ribs and hit the ground.
“What is this?” I whispered to you, suddenly terrified.
You tore your eyes away from her long enough to bring my wrist up to your mouth and press a kiss to my skittering pulse.
“A gift, if you want it. And a few days of reprieve among high society if you do not. You know I love you, Constanta, don’t you?”
“Another woman,” I said, betrayal thick in my throat. “You’ve been keeping another woman.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been carrying on correspondence with a dear friend, one who is very eager to meet you. I would never discard you, Constanta.”
“But you would collect us, like baubles?”
You grimaced, straightening your cuffs and reaching for your hat. Outside, the servants were deftly unloading our coach. We only had moments together before we were thrust into the scrutinizing gaze of high society, silenced by the demands of decorum for only God knew how long. The entire visit, perhaps.
“You’ve never complained about my trysts before, nor have I complained about yours.”
“We hunt together,” I corrected you. “We take lovers together, or find bedmates to amuse ourselves for a few hours alone. They have never been affairs .”