Magia Posthuma ✓

Thirteen

Hermannstadt, mid December 1769

Irina felt her blood run cold as she peered into her father's chamber pot. She'd poured over every book she owned, tried every combination of herbs she could think of and yet still, he suffered terribly. The Duke had languished in bed for a whole week, groaning in pain and throwing up anything he ate – the vomit marbled with fresh blood.

The Duke looked up at his daughter from his cocoon of pillows and furs and smiled. "...Oh dear," he strained, reaching down to stroke Scapino – who was curled up on the bed beside him. "As bad as that?"

Irina's lashes fluttered as she covered the chamber pot with a napkin. She handed it to Fiebe, who whisked it away and out of sight. "...It's fine," she insisted, rubbing her hands in the apron she was wearing to protect her pink, satin gown. She shrugged, "Your body is simply... purging itself."

Her father released a throaty chuckle. "Liar."

Irina perched on the bed beside him and took his hand. She squeezed it and forced a smile, "You're just having a bad week, papa," she insisted with a nod. "That's all."

"A bad month, you mean," he replied.

Irina's gaze hardened; she couldn't deny the fear that was clawing at her like a hungry cat, telling her over and over again that it wasn't just a bad week or month, that it was the beginning of the end. "You've been working too hard. You need to eat, and you need to rest," she told him, arranging the furs over his swollen belly.

The Duke looked up at her and frowned. "It simply won't do, Liebling. I feel as if I've been in bed since we arrived here," he complained. "I hate feeling so useless. There's work to be done, the whole system here needs reforming, the serfs need seeing to; the Empress is counting on me to–"

"Well, she'll just have to wait, won't she?" Irina snarled. She wanted to snap that if governing Transylvania was really so important then the Empress shouldn't have sent such an old man to do it in the first place, but she bit down on that thought; it wouldn't help anyone now. "...Look, it's almost Christmas, papa. I imagine that back home in Vienna they're all probably far too busy feasting on honey cake and pickling themselves on Glühwein to care about what's going on here."

No one's interested in what's going on here, she thought to herself. But then she changed her mind; there was one thing occupying their attention.

Just as she'd feared, news of her upstaging Doctor Tarsus and her appearance in a local brothel had travelled all the way back to Vienna on the wind and to the editors at The Chronicle who had immediately pounced on it, teasing their readers with a lurid tale about a certain Little Duchess with a gruesome interest in flesh. Irina couldn't believe it. She was angry and humiliated; she dreaded to think what everyone was whispering about her back at court. The only blessing was that her father hadn't read the article – she'd balled it in her fist and flung it into the fire almost as soon as she'd finished reading it.

He certainly noticed the way she was staring through the floorboards though. "...What is it, Liebling?"

Irina tapped his hand as she stood up and untied her apron - shifting from Doctor to Duchess. "Nothing, papa. I was just thinking that you'll be back on your feet by Silvester Eve, I'm sure of it," she lied as she tidied his bedside table, clearing away the soiled napkins and glasses. She picked up a half empty bottle of the digestive tonic she'd made for him and raised an eyebrow, "Perhaps even sooner if you'd take the medicines that I've been making for you."

The Duke sighed. "...It's not that I don't appreciate all the trouble you've gone to, Irina," he told her. "But all these tonics and infusions... they're just not working, and I've never felt so full and uncomfortable in my life"