Other Earths (collection)

“No,” said Mrs. Mad’r, “not exactly. But in his message your father referred to a guiding star—another thing I didn’t understand at the time. Csilla—star. And so I guessed. I thought if I told you about the bravery of another Csilla, you might respond. About your father—you have to understand that he was in great danger, of going to prison or worse. But he was very brave.”

“I could have been brave too,” said Csilla.

“I’m sure he knew that,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “But like the king of Hungary, he loved his daughter too much to put her in danger. And like Erzs’bet, you’re going to have to make a choice.”

When Erzs’bet could not sleep, M’rta would stroke her hair and tell her about the Daughters of the Moon or how Saint Istv’n rode the White Stag. She was stroking her hair now. “Do you see why I brought you here, Erszike?”

Although she could hear the forest around her, the rustling and scurrying, and the crackles of the dying fire, she felt the stones of the Wartburg pressing against her, so that she could not breathe.

“To escape the landgravine?” But she knew, as she said it, that it was not the reason.

Cec’lia took her hand and looked at the spot where the thorn had pierced, which had already stopped bleeding. “To give you a choice.”

M’rta stroked her hair again, but now it offered no reassurance. “You could help the T̈nd’r, Erzsike. If you stayed at the Wartburg …”

She had not noticed when the piping had stopped. S’ndor lay by the fire with his mouth open, snoring slightly. He had taken the baby from his daughter, and it lay beside him, wrapped in his ragged coat. Green curls tumbled over the baby’s eyes. Its thumb was in its mouth, and it made a sucking sound in its dreams.

Erzs’bet looked down at the mark on her finger. Then she said to Cec’lia, “M’rta and I have to get back before dawn. Will you distribute the money?”

“There’s more,” said Csilla, because Mrs. Mad’r had stopped.

“Is there?” said Mrs. Mad’r. “You see, I don’t know the rest. We know our stories only in fragments. But your grandmother knew more of those fragments than anyone.”

“Yes,” said Csilla. “You’re missing the most important part.”

* * *

The chapel was filled with the thump of boots sewn from embroidered leather, the shush of sleeves edged with ermine.

I am a cloud, thought Erzs’bet. I am a mist, creeping across the room. I am invisible, like air …

“Elizabeth!” said the landgravine. “Father Conrad, this is the Princess Elizabeth.” The pearls in the landgravine’s hair glowed in the light that came through the stained glass window, turning her left cheek a delicate blue. “Elizabeth, surely you know enough to kiss the Inquisitor’s hand?”

It happened, as Erzs’bet knew it must, when she bent to kiss the wrinkled fingers, dirty under the nails and wearing an iron ring engraved with a cross. Out they tumbled, the rolls that she had stolen from breakfast, stolen for the woman who waited in a corner of the scullery, anxiously holding a child whose head was wrapped in a ragged scarf. How carefully she had wrapped them in her skirt, how carefully she had held her skirt so they would not fall out. And now they lay on the chapel floor, where boots stepped aside and skirts drew back to avoid them. What good was it being at the Wartburg, when all she could do to help the T̈nd’r was steal rolls? Lenke, the scullery girl, could do more than she could.

“Bread?” said the landgravine. “Why do you need bread?” She watched the rolls rolling, as though she had never seen bread before.

Erzs’bet felt as though she could not breathe. What should she answer?

“Speak, child,” said Father Conrad. “Speak as truthfully as our Lord taught us.” He smiled, a smile that he might have thought was kind. But his eyes glittered like steel.

What had M’rta whispered, lying beside her at night when she could not sleep? The T̈nd’r could call the blossom from its bud, the rabbit from its burrow, the fox from its den. They could smell the storm coming while the sky was still blue. She was one of the T̈nd’r, but none of these skills would help her now. What good did it do her, having the blood of the Moon?

Then suddenly she heard it: soft, insistent. The cooing of doves in the courtyard. Usually they stayed in their cote beside the kitchen, where they were kept for their eggs, and for pie.

“Come,” whispered Erzs’bet. “Come to me.” It was not much, it was probably less than nothing, but it was what she could do. Because she was one of the T̈nd’r.

“What was that, Elizabeth?” asked the landgravine.

“Speak up, child. Father Conrad can’t hear you.”

Then a rush of wings, and the doves, so many of them, white and brown and gray and speckled, were stepping over the chapel floor—pecking, pecking, until the very last crumb was gone.

“Surely these are the birds of God.”