by Dana Manoli<\/p>\n
November, 1355<\/em><\/p>\n The horses\u2019 hooves pound near my carriage like stones against my flesh.<\/p>\n \u201cPrincess Ana.\u201d The commander\u2019s voice cuts through the padded walls, making me frown. \u201cIt\u2019s the Red Tower. We\u2019re close.\u201d Our seven-day journey through a plague-stricken land is nearly over.<\/p>\n I slip the red-wax-sealed parchment into the bottom of my embroidery basket.<\/p>\n \u201cBy the mercy of God, I, Nicolae Alexandru, Great Ruler and Lord of Ungro-Wallachia, to the most illustrious and Christ-loving Tsar Ioan Alexandru, greetings.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Ioan Alexandru, Tsar of Bulgarians. My father.<\/p>\n I draw my cloak closer, murmuring another complaint about Kera Despina, who burned my fur mantle a week ago out of fear of the plague. My skin is the color of mold on apples.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you think they will have heated rooms for all of us?\u201d I ask Kera Despina. The convoy jolts forward and I slam into the hard backrest.<\/p>\n Her cane hits the ceiling. She snorts. \u201cIt\u2019s a disgrace,\u201d she says a moment later, \u201cbringing a princess to a border fortress instead of the king\u2019s court.\u201d She takes out her vial of rose water and rubs her temples. Wrinkles crease her cheeks, and the cold air has cracked her face skin.<\/p>\n I draw back the curtain and peer outside. Forested mountains rise abruptly from the bank of a slow, dark river. The thick scent of damp resin invades the carriage. \u201cMost Holy Mother Mary, ease my thoughts,\u201d I whisper.<\/p>\n Kera sighs, and tucks my unruly strands beneath the pearl-adorned hair net and straightens the velvet headband. \u201cLet us get you ready, Princess.\u201d She smoothes the scarlet quilted cloak draped over the syrma<\/em>, my travel garment embroidered with silver thread. Then pinches my cheeks.<\/p>\n \u201cIn this cold?\u201d I mutter.<\/p>\n \u201cYou are ready.\u201d She clicks her tongue and lifts my chin.<\/p>\n I pray until the carriage stops.<\/p>\n When the commander helps me down, pain flares in my joints, but I make no sound. Not a single muscle in my face stirs as I step into the empty rectangular courtyard, stone-paved and lined with a few large barrels held together by rusted hoops.<\/p>\n A young woman in a short sheepskin coat approaches me in haste, her hair loose down her back.\u00a0 \u201cWelcome, Princess.\u201d She makes an awkward curtsy, but her voice is cheerful. I like her, the friendly glint in her honey-coloured eyes keeps me from resisting.<\/p>\n \u201cPrincess, we are \u0218tefan, commander of the fortress, and Lady Dorotea. We greet you,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n Beside her stands a tall man with a sharp moustache. He refuses to meet my eyes, straightening his leather breastplate.<\/p>\n Kera Despina steps in front of me. \u201cWhere is Prince Radu?\u201d She stamps her foot.<\/p>\n \u201cThe pestilence.\u201d Dorotea lowers her gaze to the ground. \u201cHe must stay as protected as possible.\u201d<\/p>\n I step in. \u201cThank you for hosting me in your fortress.\u201d I\u2019m glad the meeting with my future husband will happen later.<\/p>\n My retinue moves toward the single-storey building with carved wooden pillars and a ground floor faced with river stone. Bare grapevines cling to the entire fa\u00e7ade. Winter-trimmed rose bushes line the cobbled path.<\/p>\n Roses are a good sign.<\/em><\/p>\n Not another soul stands in front of the modest building.<\/p>\n \u201cPlease come, Princess.\u201d Dorotea touches my elbow. \u201cI must show you the little lord.\u201d<\/p>\n Her wide smile reveals a row of white, pointed teeth, marked by a daring gap.<\/p>\n I climb the solid steps of rough, unfinished wood, trying to ignore the smell of scorched furniture, and find myself guided into a heated room. The bare wooden walls still bear the marks left by bark burned in fear of the plague. The floor is empty.<\/p>\n Near the stone fireplace stands a tiny cradle, a baby sleeping inside.<\/p>\n \u201cIsn\u2019t he wonderful?\u201d The diffuse light from the yellow flames makes Dorotea\u2019s eyes shine with a radiant warmth.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are we doing here? The Princess is due more respect.\u201d Kera Despina ignores the baby. The dent in her forehead has not faded since we left Bulgaria.<\/p>\n \u201cPrincess, will you watch over him? It was my sister Marta\u2019s fervent wish. Her last words on her deathbed.\u201d<\/p>\n Darkness stretches behind me. Surrounding me.<\/p>\n \u201cThe baby\u2019s mother.\u201d Dorotea\u2019s voice is now barely a whisper.<\/p>\n \u201cWhose child is this?\u201d I murmur.<\/p>\n Dorotea tugs at the fur-trimmed edge of her vest. \u201cPrince Radu\u2019s. Your fianc\u00e9\u2019s. Marta\u2019s husband. She died in childbirth.\u201d<\/p>\n He has a child?<\/em> I want to run, but my legs are unsteady. I want to scream, but my mouth goes dry, as if I have just swallowed a spoonful of powdered herbs. Oh my God, have mercy on me. Grant me the strength of Saint Catherine, the beautiful and learned.<\/em><\/p>\n Fervent prayers I had offered for nothing. I had wished my husband-to-be were a scholar, blessed with the same four gifts the saint had asked for. Instead, he is nothing more than an uncouth prince who treats me with disdain. I wished to join a nunnery, but my father other plans, and I must obey him. Prince Radu is twenty-seven. I am fifteen. My prayers in vain.<\/p>\n I close my eyes. My brother\u2019s body, blackened, pustules as large as fists, changed everything for me. It convinced my father, the Tsar, to send me to be married in neighbouring Wallachia to the very man who called off our wedding just before last year\u2019s journey, only to marry a young local noblewoman instead. A political alliance with a man whose wife died only weeks ago, and who already has a child.<\/p>\n They say this is the Lord\u2019s will, but I hate him. I keep my faith. One day my prayers will be heard.<\/p>\n \u201cCome, my princess. We must prepare you for the wedding.\u201d Kera Despina pushes me out of the nursery.<\/p>\n My convoy\u2014four ladies-in-waiting and ten servants given as part of my dowry\u2014are unloading chests of clothes, icons, books, and gifts for our hosts.<\/p>\n Kera escort me to a separate room and have me sit on a chair with a wide back hewn. The heavy wooden lid stands unlocked, its thick metal clasp hanging loose. She pulls back the thin cloth that protects the green silk gown embroidered with gold. Rose petals stir across the floor.<\/p>\n I long for my tall chamber in the palace on Tsarevets Hill, with its painted walls and dozens of icons. There I could think. And breathe.<\/p>\n I let them dress me, and once I am ready for the wedding, I am ushered toward the tiny chapel at the back of the fortress. My eyes cling to the large icon of the Mother of God painted above the church entrance. The blue of the Virgin\u2019s robes is the same blue as a clear sky.<\/p>\n \u201cNow.\u201d Kera Despina propels me before the gilded throne of the Wallachian ruler.<\/p>\n The man standing beside him must be Prince Radu. My husband-to-be.<\/p>\n Lowering my eyes, I curtsy.<\/p>\n \u201cNiece, welcome to your mother\u2019s land.\u201d The ruler\u2019s voice is thin. \u201cBy God\u2019s will,\u201d he continues, \u201cwe celebrate the wedding planned so long ago. You understand the meaning of serving your country. Let us not waste time.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you, Uncle.\u201d I keep my voice controlled, its slow cadence shows the proper respect.<\/p>\n Prince Radu is tall and unlike his father\u2014whose hair has thinned with age\u2014his wavy chestnut locks remain thick. He wears a long Byzantine robe of dark blue Florentine broadcloth. The scar of an old wound runs along his left jaw.<\/p>\n \u201cIn the name of the Lord, let us pray.\u201d An old priest, thin, with a white beard and a hoarse voice, reads from the Bible. We stand before him. Prince Radu casts a brief glance at me. The darkness in his eyes drains my strength.<\/p>\n I try to focus on reciting the Psalter, but the priest rushes through the words and I cannot keep up with him. He reaches the Mysteries, and I falter, for he is ready to declare the marriage valid.<\/p>\n The priest gives me the communion wine to sip. Its bitterness stings my tongue. The incense I once longed for now suffocates me. I hold back a cough, my eyes filling with tears. I lift my gaze to the gilded icon. Smoke from the candles has faded the painted wood, but the holy face of the Son burns into my eyes.<\/p>\n Help me, God. I promise I will return.<\/em><\/p>\n Time for the blessing. I have never attended a briefer service. The priest takes Prince Radu with him to the altar, and I turn back toward my attendants.<\/p>\n The church is empty. Not even Kera Despina stands behind me.<\/p>\n A yelp escapes my throat. I fold my hands over my chest. A wordless prayer.<\/p>\n My husband\u2019s breath sends a shiver down my neck. I wait for him to speak to me.<\/p>\n \u201cWill you join me at the banquet?\u201d he asks. Radu doesn\u2019t smile, and he\u2019s not looking at me, but he offers his arm.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me about the child?\u201d I replies, taking his arm and matching my steps to his.<\/p>\n Radu clears his throat. \u201cI\u2019m sure the letter\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. The marriage offer doesn\u2019t mention a child.\u201d I blush all the way to the tips of my ears.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not our decision.\u201d His voice has a harsh edge. \u201cWe obey, if we are to withstand Ottoman attacks and Hungarian pressure.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou chose Marta. I was sent to a nunnery.\u201d I need him to tell me why he rejected me. Humiliated me. My kin, as they keep saying.<\/p>\n Radu stops. A heaviness seeps into my bones and muscles under his dark stare. Kera Despina would say the devil lives in him. I keep my gaze lowered, wringing my hands.<\/p>\n \u201cDid you refuse to do your duty? The envoy waited fifteen days for the tsar\u2019s answer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. I was at Kilifarevo\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Radu strides ahead, leaving me alone in the darkened corridor, like a tree in the middle of a flood.<\/p>\n I follow him and step into a narrow room where a small table stands in the centre: silver plates, a carafe of wine, and a platter of roasted meat. Nothing refined. Nothing fit for a royal wedding.<\/p>\n I sit on a chair.<\/p>\n He pours the red wine into the cups.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy are we alone?\u201d I ask. \u201cWhere is my uncle? And Kera Despina?\u201d I moisten my lips with the tart liquid.<\/p>\n \u201cThey have all left. My father sent everyone elsewhere to keep this fortress secure.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd Dorotea?\u201d I can\u2019t help but ask. \u201cHas she left as well?\u201d<\/p>\n The baby in the warm room will not leave my mind.<\/p>\n \u201cNo. But she\u2019ll stay in her chamber tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n His son is still in the fortress.<\/em><\/p>\n Radu eats with appetite, smacks his lips, drinks his wine, and stamps his foot for the servants to bring more bread.<\/p>\n How I wish him to choke. In this very moment. Like the man who wanted Saint Anastasia as his wife, and the divine providence saved her.<\/p>\n I swallow small pieces of bread and some meat. Then I clasp my hands beneath the table, holding my shoulders straight, just as Kera taught me.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2014\u201d but I don\u2019t have time to finish my sentence.<\/p>\n Radu rises and walks ahead. \u201cNow we go. It\u2019s the wedding night.\u201d<\/p>\n I tighten my grip on the emerald ring encircled by small diamonds on my little finger and follow him in silence. I falter.<\/p>\n Next to the narrow dining room lies a modest bedchamber: a wooden bed, two icons and a cross on the wall, a rough table where a carafe of wine stands beside an overturned cup.<\/p>\n \u201cSit here.\u201d He gestures to the edge of the bed. \u201cLift your skirts first.\u201d<\/p>\n My cheeks burn. My palms caress the roughness of the wool blanket.<\/p>\n He takes a swallow of wine and steps closer. \u201cHave you been taught your duty as my wife?\u201d<\/p>\n I shake my head.<\/p>\n Kera Despina never whispered a single word. I have no mother. I was only two when my father cast her out. Lord\u2019s will. He sent her to a nunnery.<\/p>\n Prince Radu pushes me onto the bed. He lifts my silk skirt and touches me between the legs. I am going to be sick. I try to curl in on myself.<\/p>\n He bends over me. Seizes my hair. Pins me down with the weight of his body.<\/p>\n The closeness of the scar on his face is unbearable. My eyelids drop shut. I breathe in the smell of blood-seared meat mixed with wine. My fingers clutch the folds of my gold-embroidered gown. I sob.<\/p>\n Here is the miniature I was painting in gold and red pigments when the second letter proposing marriage arrived\u2014the martyrdom of Saint Catherine: a wheel, three spikes, a dove, a book.<\/p>\n Please, God, make him stop.<\/em><\/p>\n A tearing pain. A cry from my lips. He steals my breath. From the large flowers on his coat, delicate tendrils, fine as spider silk, creep into my eyes and nostrils, curling even around the loose strands that have fallen from my tightly wound bun.<\/p>\n \u201cEnough. You may arrange your skirts.\u201d<\/p>\n Breathe, Ana<\/em>. My eyes ache from the strain. I cannot open them. I draw from my bodice the silk handkerchief steeped in rose essence and press it to my nose.<\/p>\n I need time to slide out of bed and kneel beneath the cross on the wall.<\/p>\n \u201cThank you, Lord, for Your protection. Have mercy on me, Lord, my Heavenly Father\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Philokalia, but the nausea is just as strong.<\/p>\n \u201cYou are now a princess of Wallachia.\u201d Radu shakes me by the shoulder. \u201cYou\u2019ll stay here until the pestilence has passed.\u201d He sees I don\u2019t understand. \u201cI have received other orders.\u201d<\/p>\n Abandoned in a foreign land, with a language I\u2019d rather not use. With customs I hate. Married to an unimportant who fancies himself a prince.<\/p>\n Before leaving the room, Radu says, \u201cDon\u2019t worry, Princess. Your road back to the nunnery has begun.\u201d<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n November 1371<\/em><\/p>\n Dan will bring Ana in my study, his footsteps fade along the palace\u2019s corridor. She will leave the velvet cushion beneath the Virgin\u2019s icon for my son. Ana has taken care of him, perhaps she even loves him.<\/p>\n Her devotion is so excessive that I had to forbid her from spending weeks in the abbess\u2019s cell at Cozia or losing herself in the writings of Saint Dionysius the Areopagite. Now she lingers in the church where my brother and I are painted on the walls, both crowned\u2014though only he ruled for ten years.<\/p>\n Click, clack. Ana\u2019s wooden heels echo along the balustraded corridor. One heavier than the other.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you think she\u2019ll put basil under her pillow?\u201d Dan\u2019s voice still carries a childish resonance. In two weeks it will be Saint Andrew\u2019s Day, and he hopes the chancellor\u2019s daughter will think of him.<\/p>\n \u201cPray before the icon too,\u201d comes Ana\u2019s reply.<\/p>\n She startles at the sight of me, lowering her gaze and smoothing the nun-sewn black dress. At least she is prepared for what is coming.<\/p>\n \u201cDan, go to the stables and check on the farrier.\u201d<\/p>\n It is not a prince\u2019s task, but Dan does not protest when I order him. He helps Ana to seat, kisses her hand, and leaves.<\/p>\n \u201cRadu, my lord, you summoned me.\u201d<\/p>\n Her tone give me an irritating chill. \u201cVlad has sent word,\u201d I say, but my voice is not as firm as I would like.<\/p>\n Ana straightens her shoulders when she hears my brother\u2019s name.<\/p>\n \u201cOur Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n She knows I hate it when she prays while I\u2019m talking.<\/p>\n \u201cYour brothers will not relent,\u201d I raise my voice, though I should not.<\/p>\n The tsar died in February, and Ana\u2019s brothers have divided Bulgaria among themselves. The internal fights are intense. Vlad is as worried as all their allies.<\/p>\n \u201cThy kingdom come\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe Ottomans decided the youngest will win.\u201d I want her to flinch. Ivanko was just six when she headed off from Bulgaria. She cared for him from the cradle, though he is only her half-brother. The eldest will not get the throne.<\/p>\n \u201cOur Father, who art in heaven\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n She\u2019s so stubborn. That\u2019s how she\u2019s been from the moment I met her.<\/p>\n \u201cThe sultan wants Tamara for his harem.\u201d If she showed more respect, I\u2019d pick my words more carefully.<\/p>\n Tamara, her elder sister is a widow with two children. Ana has not seen her since she came to Wallachia.<\/p>\n Her fingers roll the beads of her prayer rope. For fifteen years, she has been my wife. She\u2019s still a stranger to me.<\/p>\n I need wine. After I fill my cup, I drink it all.<\/p>\n \u201cAlliances change. You,\u201d I say, and then I pause. \u201cYou are returning to Bulgaria. To the monastery.\u201d<\/p>\n Ana drops to her knees. \u201cHave mercy on me, O God, for great is Your mercy.\u201d Her tears soak the hem of her dress.<\/p>\n \u201cVlad has decided,\u201d I repeat, uselessly.<\/p>\n Her face turns red. \u201cAre you repudiating me?\u201d<\/p>\n I look at her through lowered lashes and weigh my words. \u201cDidn\u2019t you pray to God to send you back?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs the son I gave you not enough? Nor the son I raised?\u201d Her eyes burn.<\/p>\n \u201cYou have done your duty.\u201d I keep my distance. Moving closer to the fire, I clasp my hands behind my back.<\/p>\n A cry tears from her throat. I feel her nails\u2019 scratch on my cheek. Her reek of roses makes my stomach revolt. Reminding me of my Marta, covered in them on her bier.<\/p>\n I push Ana away, but she keeps coming. She shoves me, tries to tear at my clothes.<\/p>\n I strike her across the face. \u201cEnough. What will the servants say?\u201d<\/p>\n I force her down onto the chair. \u201cYou leave today.\u201d<\/p>\n Her prayer rosary snap, bone beads scattering around us. I pour myself another cup of wine. Sour taste scratches my mouth.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd the children?\u201d Her voice is hoarse. She tries to hide the tremor in her hands by gripping the edges of the chair.<\/p>\n \u201cYour dowry returns with you to Bulgaria.\u201d I will do anything to make her leave at once. This is a good plan. \u201cYou\u2019ll take back the holy icon of the Mother of God clad in silver. And the icons from your bedside.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnastasia and Catherine. And the reliquary chest.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAll of it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy will you not let me stay in this land?\u201d<\/p>\n I turn my back on Ana. \u201cDorotea has arrived. The servants have prepared the chests. I will send the rest later.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll use my dowry.\u201d<\/p>\n I do not know what to say. I throw a thick log onto the fire. The orange light casts warps shadows over Ana. I shake my head. Maybe Vlad will agree, but I should ask him.<\/p>\n Dan enters with my sister-in-law. Both smile at Ana, both with the same gap between their teeth.<\/p>\n Dorotea embraces her. She has grown stout. Beside Ana she looks like a sturdy tree shading a fragile sapling. Dorotea wipes Ana\u2019s tears and straightens the black veil on her head, drawing Ana against her breast.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you ready?\u201d I ask my sister-in-law. I search her face for traces of Marta, but find none. How I long to hold Marta again, to rest my head on her left breast as I used to after we made love.<\/p>\n \u201cI still think she should stay one night.\u201d Dorotea strokes Ana\u2019s back.\u201cIt\u2019s time for vespers.\u201d<\/p>\n I narrow my eyes, and Dorotea falls silent. With her arm around Ana, she helps her out of the room.<\/p>\n \u201cMother, I will come visit you. I promise,\u201d Dan runs after them and wraps his arms around Ana\u2019s legs.<\/p>\n I stamp my foot. Dan is fifteen. Ana has spoiled him with too much tenderness.<\/p>\n \u201cMay the Holy Spirit protect you, my son,\u201d Ana says, making the sign of the cross over my heir. \u201cTake care of your brother. And tell the maids to sew your shirt. Look. The velvet trim on your collar has come loose.\u201d<\/p>\n Ana looks me straight in the eye. \u201cAnd Mircea? Will he not come to say goodbye to me?\u201d She asks about the son born of our only union, the son whose birth tore her body and left her lame.<\/p>\n Dorotea strokes her cheek. \u201cHe\u2019s looking after Tamara\u2019s daughter. I am leaving the girl here, it\u2019s safer for her than in Bulgaria.\u201d<\/p>\n Thank God, Ana finally goes.<\/p>\n I drink a cup of wine. I remain in the study until I hear the carriages moving away.<\/p>\n Four days for their procession to leave the country. Four days before I can tell Vlad that I have banished her. He\u2019ll believe I did it for him.<\/p>\n I breathe. After fifteen years of humiliation, my ghostly soul is finally free. From being called a barbarian, a man without faith. From being treated as insignificant, never loved. From being forbidden to educate my own children because of the assumption that imperial families possess superior ways. I possess only memories of the past.<\/p>\n Beside my brother, the ruler of Wallachia, I remain devoted.<\/p>\n Ana\u2019s shadow no longer defines me. Her\u2014I will erase.<\/p>\n \n The end<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" by Dana Manoli November, 1355 The horses\u2019 hooves pound near my carriage like stones against my flesh. \u201cPrincess Ana.\u201d The commander\u2019s voice cuts through the padded walls, making me frown. \u201cIt\u2019s the Red Tower. We\u2019re close.\u201d Our seven-day journey through a plague-stricken land is nearly over.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1872,77],"tags":[1897,1873,1123],"class_list":["post-16336","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-egophobia-89-90","category-english","tag-dana-manoli","tag-egophobia-89-90","tag-english"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/s6DakB-devoted","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16336","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=16336"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16336\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16337,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16336\/revisions\/16337"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=16336"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=16336"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=16336"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}