Written in Blood

The coachwoman's eyes locked on the blood-stained cloth.

The bleeding stopped in a matter of seconds. Returning the fabric to his pocket, the driver mumbled a one-word apology, or perhaps a profanity in his native tongue. I gleaned not of which he spoke.

The driver moved to my side of the coach, gallantly assisted me in my descent. Stiff and unyielding, my limbs were a complication after sitting in the cold air for so long, and my cheeks flushed from the coolness of the night's frosty breeze. Leading me to the door of the woman's carriage, he opened the entrance, helped me as I ascended the single step up into the sizeable, luxurious coach. I found the change refreshing.

While the air was no warmer inside, the coach's walls about me cut the bite of the biting wind. An expansive, white blanket made of goat or sheepskin lay on the seat beside me. When I wrapped this skin around me, the sensation was, oh, so, warm. My luggage now loaded, the first driver, once again, took his place on his own conveyance. In an afterthought, I leaned out the window and thanked him.

"Be safe," he said.

The woman turned to him, with her eyes holding the flames of hell, "Old friend, you best say your prayers, Dacians trash. You offended my mistress." She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, curled her long, thin fingers into a fist.

"Amintiți-vă, că morții sunt rapizi," she said. I thought the language was Romanian, but I had not the faintest idea what the words were. I later discovered the woman had spoken the words, "Remember, the dead are swift." The assertion held every earmark of a threat.

The coachwoman turned back to the beasties, whipped the air above them, and the horses sprang to life. The ornate carriage pulled away from the drab conveyance in which I had previously journeyed. With a twist of my head, I glanced back through the coach window. The man slumped on the bench seat, clutching his chest.

Superstitious twaddle, I thought. The mere suggestion of some curse frightened the man, becoming the sum of his fears. Considering I'm a modern woman, a medical doctor, and a scientist. Therefore, I have no room for irrational belief in my world. This held no mystery, only an example of the mind succumbing to suggestion.

A creepy fear slithered over me, for I saw little of the outside world, with my line of sight limited to only things close to the carriage's lanterns, which blazed at the front and sides.

With a hurtling speed, we moved in an upward ascent, and I found myself leaning further back in the comfortable seat. The beasts ran hard, snorting, pulling against their harness as the coach made our way on the tricky road. Though I think the perception of speed might have been exaggerated because of the circumstances of the flight. My limited view, the darkness, and trees seeming to race by all contributed to my unease.

The trail, for this roadway, was but a whisker, broader than the coach, wound round the mountainside, twisting along ridges between peaks, dipping back down only to return to the rising grade. The trees thinned, and the wild countryside grew harsher as the sure-footed beasts hauled us toward our destination.

The road ran along the edge of a precipitous cliff, while the mountain rose as steep as the other side's incline. The carriage threaded the tight space between the two. Casting my gaze out of the coach, I gawked at the wheels, inches from the sheer plunge.

My head spun at the dizzying sight, darting back inside, snapping my gaze away from the window. I had not realized how tight the roadway was. A little disoriented, I moved to the center of the seat and refused to examine the outside further.

At some point, I dozed off, despite my trepidation at our elevation. The rhythm of pounding hooves, the clatter of wheels on the rocky path, and the weaving and bobbing of the coach lulled me into slumber. Sometime later, the clattering stopped, and the carriage stilled. The absence of a clamor roused me awake from my catnap. Sticking my head out of the brougham's window, I turned my eyes to the driver.

"We are here," she said. Leaning down, she peered back at me, pointed her hand to a massive door at the top of a stupendous run of stone stairs. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed off the blanket, missing the warmth at once.

With my gloved hand, I gathered my dress and reached for the door, but the coach door swung open before I touched the thing. Descending to the pavement, I turned to thank the footman. No one was at the carriage door. The woman still sat on her bench atop the coach. I stood by myself next to the carriage.

The courtyard was empty.

The coachwoman regarded me with a silent stare. Impossible for me to tell much about the servant -- the woman's voice, deep, lyrical, and accent was undefined. I neither judged her height nor build as she never moved from her seat. She sat on the bench seat with a pure perfection of posture, which lent elegance to her appearance.

Her eyes glowed red in the soft light of the carriage's lamps. Some trick of the flickering, flames of the lanterns, I supposed. Her clothing was loose and black, covering her from head to toe with only her eyes and forehead visible. With a slight nod of her head, she veered forward in her seat, cracked the whip again above the livestock, urging the equines into motion once more. They carried her and the carriage away, under an arch, where she was soon lost from my sight.

Had I not fallen asleep, inevitably, I would have spotted the structure where I found myself. The edifice was massive -- a u-shaped courtyard, with the sizeable arch opening at the far end leading elsewhere. I turned to view my location. The building gave me an impression of being small and insignificant. A profound silence engulfed me until a multitude of crickets started chirping. A high wall covered the front of the courtyard. In the wall, I caught sight of another arch.

This other archway must have been our entry point. The building behind me was tall, at least five stories. The stronghold was old and, somewhat, in need of repair. Spires rose into turrets, standing guard, high above the rest of this citadel. In retrospect, I had done this building an injustice. Saying the castle was enormous had the same effect as calling Lyndhurst Manor a charming, country cottage.

With quick steps, taking two stairs at a time, I ascended the stone staircase to the enormous double doors.

"How shall anyone inside ever hear me?" I deliberated, for no means of announcement, on or around the door did I find. No knocker or doorknob on the face. Finding no bell handle to twist, nor rope to pull, no means of wrapping with a stick, for no rod presented itself. I wrapped my knuckles on the wood, aware the sound my efforts created would not penetrate the castle's walls. Stepping back, I considered the entryway again, searching for some other means to signal my arrival.

A dragon, carved in the stone, above the arched doorway, the wings spread, not unlike the dragon adorning the carriage door. This winged beast towered over a knight, dwarfing him, standing firm as the dragon appeared ready to devour the poor adventurer. Inscribed in Latin above the dragon was the phrase, "Dracones praecedentes in domum suam." Translating the words in my head, I perceived they meant 'home of the dragon' or perhaps 'the dragon's home.' A sinking engulfed me as I stood at the unyielding entrance. How might I gain ingress into the house?

In a moment, a symphony erupted. In the distance, somewhere, in the night, beyond the castle walls, the baying of wolves joined the chirping crickets. In the darkness, a terrifying scream of some animal came from another direction.

High above me, the hooting of owls, sitting atop the room, combined with a screeching-squeaking and a leathery flapping, like a frenzied beating of a multitude of featherless wings, reverberated in the night's air. The effect of everything taken together caused me to shiver an involuntary tremor, not wholly from the fridge conditions.

A gnawing rankled inside my consciousness. Dark perceptions of the world around me invaded my awareness, heightened by the strange, feral music of the night. Thoughts of wild beasts running into the courtyard to devour me, much as the dragon carved in stone above me, poised to destroy the hapless character below him, filled my being with dread.

The coolish air of the night sent shivers over my body. I searched my mind, for any reason, for being unable to get inside, to the warmth and safety the castle afforded.

Said precious safety was feet from me, and yet I discovered no means of procuring entry. I'd pay every dollar I had on me to open the door. Seldom had things so unnerved me, for I had never been so positive of my own helplessness in all my life. In those precious moments, I was thankful Michael was not here to witness, yet I would not be as worried if he were here.

"Silly woman," I berated myself. "What foolishness. You don't need protection." Disheartened, my soft voice held a foreign and unwelcome tone, which was not me at all. Turmoil heightened my emotions, panic ... fear ... dread ... all those darker, animal reactions tried to rear their ugly heads in me. Yet having now established some grip on my senses, I refused to abdicate my reason to blind terror.

"Emotions are the enemy of reason," I said, my voice strengthening. Taking a deep breath, I rapped my knuckles upon the door. The wooden barricade remained steadfast as I closed my hands and pounded both my fists against the massive, timbered, closed obstacle to entry.

"Let me in!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. This was most unladylike, and after a few humiliating moments, I stopped my pounding, collected myself, and walked a few paces back a few paces on the platform.

As apprehension shook me, I gazed at the door, my hands smarting, and turned my mind to the conundrum, as though by force of will, I summoned the accursed thing to open for me.

"Open, sesame."

After my outburst, I resisted the urge to break out in a sudden burst of hysterical laughter. Nothing happened, and I considered the possibility I may never gain entry.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Jane?" I said as I stood alone before the mammoth obstruction. The warnings of the coach driver and the passengers wound their way to the foreground of my thoughts, where I squashed them down with some degree of difficulty.

Fighting panic, I resisted the insane urge to grip the cross around my neck. The sounds of the night echoed in the courtyard. The wolves' yapping swelled louder in a hunger, driven rage. Those awful beasts, I feared, were mere feet outside the walls of the castle.

Chapter 2

For what seemed an eternity, I gazed at the door, unable to fathom how I might make anyone inside understand I was here. All the while, I believed the carriage woman informed them of my arrival. Despite nothing to indicate I was correct.

"This is a fine kettle," I said, despite the fact no one might hear the words. Frightening cries of wild animals outside the walls rose in unison, sending a new prickling deep into my bones, and I struggled to preserve my composure once more. Would they come into the castle's courtyard? Would they devour me? All the while, safety was only a few feet and an immense, heavy door away from me.

"This talking to yourself must stop, Jane," I scolded. "They shall think you a lunatic." A thought dawned in my mind, how I referred to myself in the third person. "This does not bode well for you, old girl."

Attempting to quell the fear in my heart, I allowed my thoughts to slip back to when this all initiated and the fateful letter in April the previous year, arriving out of the blue.

The envelope contained Countess Valarie Drago's invitation to come and study under her and assist her in the new field of psychotherapy. Together we would probe the mysteries of the psyche, peel back the enigma of the human mind, layer by layer.

I had phoned Doctor Cantor, we discussed this job opportunity at length. Doctor Cornelius Cantor stopped short of wholehearted approval, stating how difficult the journey was. He believed her home and sanitarium would be far too primitive for me to be comfortable. I had resented his condescending attitude. Coupled with anger, despite his enlightenment, Doctor Cantor still did not view me as an equal. Realizing hurt my feelings, he fell silent, excused himself, and hung up the phone.

The Countess and I exchanged letters at regular intervals. After each exchange, I called Cornelius, and each time his enthusiasm for my traveling to the sanatorium increased. And yet, inexplicably, he would retreat from his support toward the end of our conversation, recommending I not go to Castle Drago.

The odd behavior of my mentor cast doubts in my mind, and I suspected something darker in his reservations. Something sinister and ugly might have reared its head, and I had grown concerned. After all, chauvinism and jealousy might be at the heart of the matter. Was he worried his student's light might shine brighter than his own? I mused if the idea of a female student, reaping more praise than him, might not be more than his brittle male ego might bear.

Those guarded fears found relief as the 20th century dawned. For early this year, Cornelius's attitude turned 180 degrees. He reassured me the move was the correct one. Though, to speak with exactitude, I had determined to take the position without either his blessing or encouragement.

The old man's blessings aside, to refuse this opportunity was imprudent. I would learn much, garner respect and admiration among my peers. Few men in the field were willing to admire a woman doctor lest she proves herself with some measure of frequency. For my own self-esteem, I required a degree of respect to advance my career beyond the mundane and ordinary. The fact was, I realized I was extraordinary, and I would allow nothing to stand between me and my goals. This is not vanity; it was, and is, a fact, for I possess a superior intellect.

In March of this year, I contacted the Countess again and agreed to become her research assistant. The money exceeded my expectations for any position available in my own country by an immense sum. An adventure deep into this far-flung land appeared as a fairy tale, where perhaps some handsome prince would sweep off my feet.

But no, this would not happen, for I have a beloved fiancé, and I'll not allow a dalliance, be a pebble which bruises my heel. A whole year away from Michael, from the man whom I hold so dear in my heart. This is, indeed, a burden to bear but not an intolerable one. Truth be told, I worry more for Micheal in my absence than for myself being detached from him. Michael needs me fare more than I require him.

The Countess's offered a proposal I could not resist. Being a doctor specializing in the fledgling field of psychiatry, learning under the tutelage of a pioneer in the discipline, how would any woman, of ambition, turn down such a proposition?

This woman regard held as high as Sigmund Freud's himself, or so Cornelius insinuated. I would not miss such an opportunity. A woman's chances in this male-dominated world are scarce. Sadly, we do not have the luxury of being the chosen sex.

Men, those precious darlings, are always so eager to protect us. This is why they call us the fairer sex, the weaker sex, as though these words are flattering's to our nature. Words designed to hold women fast in our place, barefoot and pregnant, as they say. All the while, stirring a pot of gruel for our man. Whereas, the man is out and about, attending to critical things in the world.

We, women, must earn our respect, which is much harder for us than men. For women have this stereotype, which we must break free of, and precious few of us appear to have the desire or strength to do so. An independent woman is a rarefied creature. If for no other reason, a man garners respect for carrying the equipment, which makes him a man.

A woman must grab hold of opportunities, clutch them with a tight fist, preventing some man from snatching her future from her. After she has earned respect, she must still demand appreciation and refuse to allow men to deny them their due.

Understand me, I am not a man-hating female. Despite this, the truth is ugly -- women's oppression by men stretched back centuries, indeed, millennia. This, too, shall pass; I must believe, else, all is in vain.

Poor Michael stood no a chance against my will in this matter. This took convincing, however, but in the end, I forced Michael to understand. While he acquiesced to my wishes with some anxiety, he did, in the end, yielded. Michael always let me have my way.

I'm not saying he is weak, far from helpless. He understands which of our intellects is more logical, whose will is stronger. He, possessing his own type of wisdom, yields to my position as superior to his own emotion-based aspirations. Michael's most significant weaknesses are a need to be accepted, a willingness to surrender to others for acceptance, and a desire to be well-liked.

After the battle was over, a struggle we had, make no mistake, we agreed to exchange letters daily. Once approved, this condition, his final one, set my journey in stone, and I had no difficulty acceding to daily communications. For my part, I would write detailed accounts to him. Michael, being no less committed to our relationship, would do the same. The deal brokered between us; I had concluded my arrangements down to the last detail. Had we not made the bargain, he still would've yielded to my desire.

However, none of this mattered a hoot if I didn't gain admittance to this castle to begin my studies. My thoughts returned to the present. As if on cue, a clanking beyond the door made me jump. The door moaned, creaked and groaned, as the massive structure pulled free of the stout jam and swung.

With somewhat shaky feet, I took a hesitant step back from the looming opening, my heart pounded, and shock turned to fearful trepidation. A shaft of yellow light fell from the doorway, piercing a bright ray of hope through the black of the courtyard. As though the radiance reached out to me. Casting my eyes upward into the beam of light, the figure of a woman standing a few feet inside the door demanded my attention.

As my eyes adjusted, I scrutinized her more closely. Tall and shapely, she held a steady gaze in my direction, gazing upon me contemplatively. She wore a long black dress, which clung to her every curve. Not a spot of color about her attire, save a blood-red rose pinned on her left breast, above her heart.

Her eyes caught my attention, for they were a brilliant, pale blue, captivating me, drawing my consideration to her face. Her long, silken, black hair held copious streaks of silvery-gray. Possessing an elegant nose, with a slight break at the top, lent a beak-like appearance, adding to her regal presence. Surrounding the woman's eyes were a multitude of fine wrinkles.

My first impression, semi-blinded by the light shining into the darkness of the black night, had been what a magnificent creature. With her standing before me, my eyes now accustomed to the illumination, I perceived my observation was quite correct. She was beautiful.

Transforming her serene features, a friendly smile spread across her face, deepening the deep crinkles of laugh lines around her mouth. Placing her hands together, on her chest, as though she prayed, she spoke to me, a warm and hearty invention.

"This is my humble home," she said. "Freely enter here, for your presence shall brighten this place. And when you depart from us -- oh, my dear, you must leave something of your happiness behind to remind us of you. Welcome, I am Countess Drago, and Doctor Jane Hanson, make yourself at home in my ancestral abode."