My mother, the beautiful but stubborn countess Theodora Goldstein, later told me why they called it a Blood Apple. Although no one was exactly sure why, there had been many stories told. One of them suggested the reason was the red and juicy insides of the apples. Some said ancient tribes killed each other and spilled blood to get their hands on it.
This was the kind of apple that had not only lifted a seven-year-old curse, it had secured a safer economy for the land of Styria, which had been struggling, almost starving, in the previous years of drought and never-ending snowstorms—probably the nameless witch's doing too.
Before that, Styria's economy had mostly relied on exporting apples.
There was also this one last folk story that didn't make much sense to me, my mother told me. It was about a boy named Pyramus and a girl named Thisbe who had been in love, opposing their parents, two feuding families who couldn't stand each other. They lived in Ancient Greece when apples were still white fruits—a reality few historians know about. Later, in unusual circumstances, Thisbe killed herself after mistakenly thinking Pyramus had poisoned himself. Thisbe took her own life with a dagger. It was said the blood spattered all over the apples on the trees nearby, and that the gods honored their True Love by turning apples red until Judgment Day. Those first apples were Blood Apples.
"Many years later," my mother had told me, "a man named Shakespeare stole the story, only he called it Romeo and Juliet. Just like he stole most of his other stories."
"But the servants say Shakespeare is the greatest writer of all time," I had protested.
"The peasants know very little, Carmilla," she had said. "Always remember that the truth is usually stranger than fiction, and that the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to make you think he was someone else."
Although I was too young for my mother's deep warnings, I still loved the Shakespeare story. I loved it even more that I was connected to the Blood Apples in one way or another, thus connected to a great love story—years later, some fortune-teller told me a similar story would repeat itself in my Kingdom of Sorrow, but I haven't witnessed that yet.
A few days after my birth, Blood Apples began to grow everywhere in Styria—so frequently that trees almost bent over like hunchbacks under the heavy weight.
Noble families from all over Europe crossed hundreds of miles on their majestic carriages to visit the House of Karnstein, only to lay eyes upon my little figure cradled in a royal crib.
I had small, chubby arms and feet, and even fat cheeks—I was generously fed. Mostly apples, of course.
My smile, my golden hair, and my blue eyes were said to glitter like stars. Poets wrote about my reddened cheeks, which they described as "flowery red, like Blood Apples." The servants said I was always surrounded by an unseen aura, that angels were protecting me. Again, angels that smelled of ripe apples.
They said my presence was my greatest charm, though. Even as a child, it took one's breath away. No queen or countess stood before me without feeling it. I was the presence of a miracle, a child capable of ending a wicked curse with its birth. A child that turned a land, once forgotten, into a paradise of shimmering red bulbs dangling from trees—the apples were so shiny and glowing that travelers used them for guidance through the forest in the murky nights.
But beneath the linen of happiness lay a sinister secret no one wanted to talk about.
No one wondered why no other baby was born in Styria the day I crawled into existence. No one questioned why the seven other mothers expecting babies only gave birth to stillborns.
Instead of investigating the matter in a time in history where the supernatural was always considered, the royal visitors who came to see me wished I'd conjure luck and prosperity for their lands. They thought that wiggling my small toe would equal what you'd expect from a magic wand, that a touch of my hand enchanted them, and that my smile would bless their souls and dry soil.
I was a holy princess in the cradle, almost as holy as a high priestess or prophet. I was a genuine mystery, even to myself.
11
The following years, I was spoiled with the precious love and care of my mother, and especially my father, Philip Karnstein II.
At age seven I was pampered with all kinds of exotic dresses from all over the world. Those I liked best were the embroidery dresses my father said were exclusively designed by fairies in a faraway place called Neverland. I was always surrounded—also guarded and protected—by too many servants eager to please me. Visitors from other lands still came and kissed my hands for blessing.
At the times of gathering apples, we always had the Avalon festival, where I was carried on a high chair by peasants and walked through the land to greet the locals. Avalon was said to mean "apples," and of course I had no idea what was going on exactly. But it never hurt to wave back at the people who thought I was an angel or something.