THE IMPALER'S WIFE

30

ILONA

December 1468

Dracula's Mansion in Pest, Hungary

The baby will not come. Two days now. The ladies cry and pray. It is God's punishment for defiling the chapel with our lust. Two babes born within a year is not a gift but God's punishment.

I have no tears left. Death's icy hands claw at my body. Two midwives—when did the other arrive?—huddle with Aunt Erzsébet in my insensible haze. I will die like Mother. In agony and blood.

Another pain severs reality. My body floats off the bed, my neck arcs back. My mouth opens wide to let a serpent emerge. An inhumane wail shatters the quiet.

Death's hands grab my thighs and ankles. Satan smacks my face. A mountain falls on top of me. I split in two. The mountain becomes a raging river.

"My babe," I whimper into the gray droning fog shrouding the room.

The midwife shows me an unmoving bundle. "A girl."

The babe is lifeless, her face purple with torment. Coiled around her neck, my daughter's cord of life delivered only death.

I hold out my arms. "Give her to me."

"My lady..."

"Give her to me." I say between clenched teeth, my mind's fog clearing.

The ladies weep, Margit vomits, Bernádett buries her face in her hands. Aunt Orsulya sobs in Zsazsa's arms. Aunt Erzsébet squares her shoulders and departs the room to give Vlad the bad news.

I cradle my perfect daughter, unwind the death cord, kiss her cool head, and baptize her with my hot tears.

I weep and weep and weep and the fog descends again.

"You must eat," the midwife says as Bernádett tries spooning mămăligā into my mouth. I turn away and wish death had claimed me. I thrash out when the ladies sponge me clean, stiffen my arms when they put a fresh nightgown over me, and cry when they brush my hair.

"Ilona?" Vlad creeps into the room, his voice low.

"Why are you here?" I turn away. A dead daughter deserves no visit.

Vlad stands at the foot of the bed, his hands clasped behind his back, his face unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed. "I have named our daughter Oana. God is gracious."

"Gracious!?" I snarl like a wounded dog. "Better a dead daughter than a dead son?"

Vlad reels back as though struck with a blade. Stunned, he stares and shakes his head. "God graciously spared your life." Vlad regains his composure, his face turning icy, and speaks to Bernádett sitting by the bed. "I want a daily report of Lady Ilona's recovery." He turns on his heels and stalks to the door. "I expect your swift return to Matthias's court," he says without looking back.

I open my mouth to call him back—to apologize for assuming the worst—but shame squeezes my throat closed.

Bernádett smooths the blanket. "Men are heartless."

"Prince Vlad is not heartless." I was the cruel one to assume he cared more about having another heir than my life.

"He left without—"

Gizella enters the room with Dădacă carrying Vlăduţ.

"We passed Prince Vlad in the hall. My lady, I've never seen a man so distraught over a stillborn girl." Gizella sets down a tray of bread and cheese.

Bernádett wrinkles her nose. "You're the daughter of a loyal boyar. You side with him."

"I side with my lady," bristles Gizella before turning to me. "I know many noble ladies whose husbands only visit the lying-in chamber if a son is born."