The heavy oak door to the bedchamber creaks open. The room is stiflingly warm, scented heavily with iron, lavender, and musk. Báthory sits before a large, silver-backed vanity mirror, wiping a crimson smudge from her high cheekbone with a lace handkerchief.

She does not turn around immediately, her gaze fixed on her own reflection, inspecting her pale, flawless skin with obsessive scrutiny.

"I did not summon a servant," she says, her voice low and smooth like velvet dragged over gravel. "And you do not look like one of my handmaidens. Speak quickly before I have the guards throw you into the snow. Why have you disturbed my ritual ?"