Jadwiga Poleszuk tilted her head slightly, her gaze unwavering as Olgierd gasped for air, his face still flushed with residual rage. The air in the grand hall, thick with dust and the lingering scent of ozone from his transformation, felt strangely still around her. She tapped a finger against her chin, a faint sound in the sudden quiet.
“The terms, Lord Olgierd, are what define the arrangement,” she stated, as if discussing a delivery manifest. “My understanding is that I am to be an offering. This implies a finite term, an endpoint for my services, as it were. I propose a clearer delineation of responsibilities and benefits.”
Olgierd stared at her, his jaw slack. “Benefits? You are meant to break a curse, not… negotiate a severance package!”
“Indeed,” Jadwiga conceded, “but even an offering requires a conducive environment to perform its duties effectively. A well-managed estate, for example, contributes to overall spiritual efficacy. From a logistical standpoint, a neglected asset is less likely to succeed.” She paused. “Also, a clean bed. And a non-lethal diet. The last maiden you mentioned, what was her diet like?”
Olgierd pinched the bridge of his nose. “She was offered the finest venison and cloud-root wine! She just… screamed a lot. And eventually fainted.”
“Wasteful,” Jadwiga murmured. “My terms, then: I remain at Wyrwidąb Manor until the Starfall Curse is demonstrably broken, or until your transformation becomes permanent and irreversible. In return, I require full autonomy over the manor’s administration and upkeep, a stipend for necessary supplies, and access to all records pertaining to the estate’s history and the curse itself.”
Olgierd dropped his hand, staring openly. “Full autonomy? Over my manor? What do you intend to do, organize my dust bunnies into military formations?”
“If the dust bunnies are a fire hazard or impede vital pathways, then yes, their strategic relocation would be a priority,” Jadwiga replied, entirely serious. “The structural integrity of this hall alone suggests years of neglect. A proper inventory, a schedule of repairs, pest control protocols – these are fundamental. Also, a proper accounting of the curse’s associated costs. I imagine it’s been rather exorbitant.”
Olgierd gaped. “Exorbitant? It’s a centuries-old curse! It consumes my very soul! What costs could you possibly quantify beyond my existential despair?”
“Maintenance of the curse-warding wards, replacement of broken artifacts, special enchantments to contain the Gloomfang’s… output,” Jadwiga listed coolly. “These things don’t fund themselves. Someone is paying. And unchecked spending can drain resources vital for actual curse-breaking research. It’s practical, Lord Olgierd. Consider me your chief logistical officer for the end of the world.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then a slow, incredulous smile stretched across his face. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, but one born of utter bewilderment. “You… you want to manage my cursed manor. To break the curse. For a stipend. Instead of screaming.”
“Precisely. It offers a clear path to a resolution, either way,” Jadwiga confirmed. “Do we have an agreement?”
Olgierd let out a strangled laugh. “An agreement! Yes! By all the weeping saints, yes! This is… profoundly unexpected. Very well, Miss Poleszuk. You are hereby appointed… Chief Logistics Officer of Despair.” He made a sweeping, dramatic bow that nearly sent him tumbling.
“Just Jadwiga will suffice,” she said, unperturbed. “Now, where might I find the current inventory ledgers and a map of the estate?”
She spent the remainder of the afternoon systematically mapping the manor’s public spaces, much to the bewilderment of the ancient majordomo, Grzegorz, who seemed to materialize from shadows only to sigh dramatically before retreating. Jadwiga’s initial survey confirmed her suspicions: the manor was a labyrinth of disarray. Cobwebs draped chandeliers like ragged netting, and a persistent draft suggested more than just porous insulation. It suggested outright holes in the walls.
Her mapping eventually led her to a grand, spiraling staircase that terminated at a heavy, oak door. A faint, earthy scent emanated from within. She pushed it open to reveal a cavernous library. Shelves rose to dizzying heights, packed with books whose spines were largely unreadable due to layers of dust. The air was cool, dry, and carried the aroma of ancient paper and something faintly metallic, like old ink.
As Jadwiga stepped inside, a book on a high shelf shuddered, then slid out, fluttering down to land softly at her feet. Its title, stamped in tarnished gilt, read: *Rituals for the Respectful Interring of the Undeserving Dead*. Jadwiga picked it up, noting the precise diagrams of funereal arrangements. *How appropriate*, she thought, given her initial purpose here.
She placed it back on the shelf, then ran a hand along a row of crumbling tomes. Her mind, however, drifted to the sagging support beams she’d noticed in the grand hall, and the faint, persistent creaking she’d heard from the roof. Without a sound, several books on a lower shelf *shifted*. One, bound in sturdy leather, slid forward. Jadwiga plucked it out. *Architectural Stability: Preventing Catastrophic Collapse in Ancient Structures*. She arched an eyebrow. The library, it seemed, was attuned to her pragmatic concerns, rather than Olgierd’s melodramatic ones.
She continued her exploration, moving deeper into the stacks, her footsteps muffled by thick, patterned rugs that were more threadbare than pile. Behind a particularly unstable-looking stack of books on forgotten alchemical formulae, she found a small, hidden alcove. Inside, tucked beneath a loose floorboard, was a battered, leather-bound ledger. It wasn't the kind of meticulous financial record she had hoped for, but rather a personal account book, dense with cramped, spidery script.
She opened it. The entries, dated over decades, detailed expenditures that made her squint. “*To Master Borislav for Gloomfang-containment wards – 300 silver crowns.*” “*Payment to Witch of the Weeping Mire for calming draughts after full transformation – 50 marks.*” “*Replacement of dining room furniture, post-Gloomfang ‘episode’ – 150 coins.*” And then, one that caused her to stop dead. “*Annual retainer for… ‘sacrificial services’ – 1000 silver Thalers, due at Starfall.*”
Jadwiga blinked. One thousand Thalers? For what amounted to an unwilling participant in a dramatic ritual? This wasn’t a sacrifice; it was a ruinous, recurring contractual obligation. The curse wasn’t merely a drain on Olgierd’s soul; it was bleeding his coffers dry, paying for every failed attempt and every destructive aftermath. The annual bride price was the most expensive part.
Hours later, as twilight bled through the library’s tall windows, Jadwiga emerged, the ledger tucked securely under her arm. The manor was quiet, save for the whisper of the wind through broken panes. She found her way to a small sitting room where a meagre fire crackled in the hearth.
Grzegorz materialized by her side, a steaming cup on a pewter tray in his gnarled hands. “A special tea, Miss Jadwiga,” he said, his voice raspy. “To help you rest after your… industrious afternoon. The Lord Olgierd insists upon a tranquil night for his… guest.”
Jadwiga took the cup, inhaling its sweet, herbal aroma. “Ah, vervain and dream-larkspur, with a touch of crushed slumber-thorn bark,” she noted, without tasting it. “Potent sedatives, Grzegorz. You’ve blended them expertly. One might sleep for two days after consuming this.” She handed the cup back, untouched. “Thank you, but I find a clear head more conducive to problem-solving. And to waking up when necessary.”
Grzegorz’s thin lips pressed into a tighter line. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, flickered with an unreadable emotion. “As you wish, Miss Jadwiga. Rest assured, your comfort is paramount.” He bowed, then retreated, the untouched tea steaming gently on its tray.
Later that night, long after the manor had fallen silent, Grzegorz stole through a hidden passage behind the kitchen hearth. In a small, cramped chamber smelling of damp earth, he lit a single, sputtering candle. He unrolled a small parchment, dipped a quill into a hidden inkwell, and wrote a terse message. He then tied the note to the leg of a sleek, dark raven perched patiently on a wooden stand. The bird ruffled its feathers once, then launched itself through a narrow, grated window, disappearing into the moonless night. Grzegorz watched it go, his brow furrowed with resolve. “Witek,” he murmured to the empty air, “the new one is… problematic. She’s not screaming. And she knows too much about the tea.” He snuffed the candle, plunging the chamber into darkness, his mission accomplished. The note carried a stark message: *She found the ledger. She’s not like the others. You must act soon. Before she truly understands the arrangement. He must be freed.*