The velvet walls at the foot of the bed parted, as a stage curtain might be drawn back to reveal the opening scene of a drama. Zosia crouched before the fire, prodding at something beneath the grate. Enshrouded in her coal-black blouse and skirt, with a black kerchief covering her head, she reminded Marguerite more than ever of a Vistani witch.
Yelena's small rough hands pulled aside the remaining bed curtains, anchoring them to the posts. She shyly avoided her mistress's gaze but nodded feebly when Marguerite greeted her with a simple "Good morning." Zosia's dark head bobbed along with the girl's. Donskoy pointed a finger at Yelena and motioned toward the corner. The mute curtsied meekly, then shuffled to her place, head bowed. She stiffened, a sudden victim of taxidermy.
"I am ready to begin now, lord," said Zosia crisply. She withdrew a small iron rod from the hearth and lifted it toward the window, turning it slowly to examine it in the light. A slick green-biack mass covered the end of the instrument. She approached the bed, holding the rod before her as if it were an eager divining stick and Marguerite were the hidden water.
Marguerite hoisted herself to the edge of the bed and swung her legs around so they dangled above the floor. "But surely it's too soon for such tests," she said quickly, making an effort to sound bright. "Surely you can't tell in a day." The sudden movement made her head swim.
"It's never too soon," Donskoy replied firmly, regaining the voice of command. "Lie back and keep still." Then he added softly, "You have nothing to fear, Marguerite." He looked over his shoulder. "Does she, Zosia?"
Marguerite lay back and blinked hard. Perhaps she was dreaming. Perhaps this was a farce.
"Oh nay, nay. " said the old woman soothingly.
She stepped to Donskoy's side and spread her lips in a genuine smile. "Mot from my feeble hands." She blew on the tip of the rod as if to cool the slimy glob clinging to it. The center of the mass glowed vividly from within, like a dying ember teased back to life, except that the heart shone green.
Donskoy pulled Marguerite's nightshift up to her chest. Instinctively she moved her hands in a gesture of modesty, then forced herself to remove them. The blood rose to her cheeks, coloring them scarlet.
Donskoy gave a husky laugh. "Still so shy? I should be affronted, but it becomes you, Marguerite. I will turn away and let Zosia apply the salve to your abdomen. This is women's work, after all. My part is done." He took a seat before the hearth.
Marguerite eyed the rod in Zosia's hand nervously. "Won't that burn?" she asked. If ever there were a rude awakening, surely this was it.
"Of course not," chided Zosia. "What do you think of me, child? I am letting the mixture cool. I shall apply it with my own finger."
"What is it?"
"Hani" scoffed the old woman, teasing. "Would you have me reveal all my secrets before breakfast?"
Donskoy chuckled darkly.
Marguerite felt the color draining from her face. She had imagined Zosia as her friend, her confidant. But she didn't really know the old woman. She didn't really know anyone here. Suddenly it was just as easy to think of Zosia as Donskoy's faithful executioner, and Yelena the silent witness, Or perhaps Zosia would serve as torturer, applying «justice» whenever he, the great lord, demanded it.
Zosia observed Marguerite's blanched expression. "Don't let your wits scamper off like a mad hare," she scolded. "The salve contains only herbs and a few private ingredients, proffered by your lord," She gathered some of the goop on her finger, then added, "Each is quite ordinary alone, but mingled together they make the test run true."
Zosia gently rubbed the sticky substance over Marguerite's stomach, just below the navel, tracing a pair of warm circles, one inside the other. The salve trailed behind the old woman's white finger like the glistening, slimy wake of a crawling slug. A sour smell pricked Marguerite's nostrils, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Zosia motioned to Yelena, who came forth and wrapped the rod in a linen sheet. The girl took this bundle and retreated to her place in the shadows.
"Do you wish to observe the next step, lord?" Zosia asked. "It is as I described it earlier."
"No," Donskoy replied simply. "But I will observe the outcome."
"Very well." Zosia withdrew a brown egg from the folds of her wide woolen skirts.
Marguerite lifted her brow, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "In these lands, I sense that eggs do more than bind flour." She spoke in a tow voice so Donskoy might not overhear. Zosia suddenly reminded her of a great black mother hen.
The old woman clucked her tongue. "Hush, child. Did no one ever teach you of such spells? Did you never read of them?"
Marguerite could not suppress a smile. Her mother's only spell had been turning cream into butter. "No. But I am aware that customs vary."
"Tsk. This is no custom, as you say. No quaint little fairy-tale ritual. And no trivial matter to your lord." She shot a glance over her shoulder at Donskoy, who coughed, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.
Marguerite realized her faux pas. "Nor to me," she said firmly. Then she recalled an old saying, something the old women in the village had sometimes muttered. "Ovum raptum est," she said. 'That's about eggs, isn't it?"
Zosia cast her a sharp look. " 'The egg has shattered. To the ignorant, it warns of a coming disaster." She dropped her voice low. "Or foretells a miscarriage."
"Oh." The talk of disaster made Marguerite think of her dream and the gypsy's curse. It frightened her, but she did not dare speak of it now-not in front of her peevish husband.
"I know another saying," growled Donskoy. "He who wishes eggs must endure the clucking of hens."
Zosia put a finger to her lips and cast another glance over her shoulder. Marguerite could not catch her meaning. Was the old woman asking her to play along? Her mind raced. If a wedding rite of fertility called for her to swallow the egg, what might she do to prove conception? Hatch it? And if Zosia meant to rig the test, proving a pregnancy where none existed, she would refuse. Time had a way of turning that particular ruse to ruin.
"Finish the test now," said Donskoy. The edge in his voice could have cut stone.
Zosia cracked the egg into a clean porcelain pot beside the bed and motioned to Marguerite. "Your own water will tell the tale. Mind you to hold your shift so the salve does not smear."
Marguerite sighed, then reluctantly complied, half curtsying with her nightshift held aloft. Then she stepped aside, her face red with embarrassment. She'd heard of seers who read tea leaves, seers who divined the future from a still pool, but never seers who looked for their answers in a pool like this. Zosia mumbled something while sprinkling an herb into the pot.
Curiosity won over Marguerite. "How does this work?"
The old woman stared intently into the pot. "if the egg floats to the surface with the yolk swirled through the white, you carry a daughter. If it floats intact, with the yolk whole from the white, you carry a son. But if any part of it fails to rise, your belly lies vacant." Her voice dropped as low as the Abyss. "And if it bubbles and seethes," she said slowly, "if it churns and roils, you carry the spawn of a fiend. A monster child, twisted in body and spirit."
Recalling her dream, Marguerite gasped.
Donskoy exploded, "Faughl What nonsense are you babbling now, you old witch?" He strode to the bedside and stared into the pot with red-faced revulsion, then turned away. He did not meet Marguerite's gaze.
Marguerite forced herself to peer into the pot. The egg lay at the bottom, still and intact.
"You are not with child," announced Zosia simply.
Marguerite almost smiled. The dream-curse had been just that, a dream.
"Wretched hag," growled Donskoy. "You have done the test wrong." He raised his hand, then stayed it, waving the black glove contemptuously.
Zosia's eyes darkened. "I have done nothing wrong, my lord," she said evenly. "The pot tells what it will tell; I am only the reader."
"Then there must be some other test. Do another," he commanded.
"Such decisions are mine alone. What other tricks can you perform?"
Zosia stroked her plump chin, and her black eyes sparkled in their nest of wrinkles. "I can wrap a severed finger in a lock of her hair, and suspend it over her stomach. If the Powers are willing, the finger points out the truth."
"Do it," he said. "Take Yelena's finger; she can manage without one."
Yelena gasped and dropped the rod to the floor; it landed with a muffled thud. The girl clutched her hands to her chest and sank back against the wall, as if the shadows might keep her safe.
Marguerite was mortified. "Surely," she began, "surely, there's-"
Zosia raised her hand. "Alas, my lord, Yelena's finger would serve no purpose," the old woman said smoothly. "The finger must belong to the one who lay with the mother-to-be." She winked at Marguerite. "Mow, I might work the magic with just a fingertip, but the less flesh we take, the more closely the charm holds its secrets. I have seen the appendage of a long-fingered man spin like a maple seed whirling to the ground, while a mere scrap of skin has crumbled into ash before my eyes, too weak to withstand the ordeal of questioning."
"Rubbish," said Donskoy. "A rubbish test. You seek to vex me, old woman. What else can you do?"
Zosia exhaled sharply. "Perhaps you would do better to look toward Marguerite herself, Lord Donskoy. She could stand at a crossroads with a newly sharpened ax, then drench it with her water and bury it. When morning comes, she must dig up the ax and repeat the gesture. Mine times she must water and bury the blade. Then, if the ax shows rust, she is with child."
"Nine days of this?"
"At least," said Zosia impatiently. "And the test is not so sure as the one I have already completed. After nine days of wetting, even an ordinary blade can decay. In your lands, I would consider that a certainty-in half the time."
Donskoy shook his head and began to pace.
Zosia continued, "Moreover, a crossroads harbors danger, Lord Donskoy. Peasants and certain Vistani bury suicides there to hold the restless spirits at bay- even your own lands may not escape such use. And if the dead hear a pregnant woman scrabbling above them-if her scent or her digging disturbs them-then they may rise as ghouls and eat through her belly to reach the tender morsel inside."
Marguerite remained silent, mouth agape.
"Take heart, Lord Donskoy," said Zosia. "And rediscover your patience. Marguerite is young and healthy. She will be with child soon; I have seen it."
"So you have sworn," he grumbled, turning to glare at the old woman. He behaved as if they stood alone; as if Marguerite was of no more consequence than a rug. "Then when?" he demanded.
"it may be never if you continue in this fashion," Zosia replied with a note of warning. "A dry field seldom blooms. You must pay it some attention." She stepped to his side. "And take care what attention you give. Nervous women bear weaklings. The sickly yield worse. If this child is to serve in the manner you hope, you'd do well to heed an old woman's advice."
Donskoy sighed, then returned to the chair by the fire. He drummed his black suede fingers on the armrest, as if to keep pace with his galloping thoughts.
"There is another test I might recommend," Zosia continued soothingly. "The oldest test of all."
Donskoy twisted his face in a wry expression. "What, pray tell? What must we sever or piss upon and bury now?"
"It is the test of time. If the moon passes through its phases and Marguerite does not bleed, then in time she will grow full herself."
Donskoy snorted. "For that bit of wisdom, I hardly needed you, old woman."
"Patience, my lord," Zosia replied. "Marguerite's belly will swell with life soon enough. And! will prepare for you a new smoking potion, to help diminish your internal pain."
Marguerite looked toward the old woman. So it was she who kept Donskoy's pipe burning.
Donskoy growled. "Patience," he muttered- "I should be its master by now." He rose from the chair. "Forgive me, Marguerite, if my eagerness has made you ill at ease."
"I am not so fragile," Marguerite replied evenly.
"Good. For the next month, I shall be the picture of patience. You shall visit me in my salon each day. And after a month, we shall rejoice."
"I am sure you are right, Milos."
"Call me Lord Donskoy," he said, walking toward the door. "Or simply 'lord' will suffice." At the threshold, he paused and turned. "Zosia suggests that I pay you some attention. After you have dressed, join me in the sitting room outside my salon for breakfast. We will discuss how to spend the day most pleasantly." He clasped his gloved hands before him, nervously working the fingers; they resembled two black-furred spiders coupling.
"I'll be there soon, my lord," Marguerite replied.
"See that you are," said Donskoy, stepping across the threshold.
Zosia stood by the hearth, gathering up the components of her strange tests as Yelena hovered nearby. Marguerite gazed at the old woman, studying her dark cronish looks, her unmistakable gypsy looks. Stagnant or not, the old woman had to be Vistani. An outcast, perhaps?
Slowly the pieces of a puzzle began to tumble into place in Marguerite's head. Donskoy's first wife was a black-haired hellion named Valeska. In the water Marguerite had seen a biack-haired gypsy-an apparition, a sign. Could it be that Valeska was a gypsy? Zosia had known her-she had said so. "Soon," she had told Marguerite, "soon you will look upon me as Donskoy's first wife did."
A flurry of questions rushed forward in her mind, each of them angrily demanding attention. Zosia had brushed her queries aside before, but perhaps now she would be more willing. For now, Marguerite was Donskoy's wife.
"Zosia," she said evenly.
The old woman turned. "Yes, my child? You can wipe away the salve; it has served its purpose."
Marguerite struggled to find the words, fearing that Zosia would simply scurry off, avoiding her questions. "I'd like you to tell me about. Valeska."
Zosia's eyes flashed, and Yeiena's dark mouth gaped. The mute dropped the rags she had gathered and knelt to pick them up. When she had finished, Zosia dismissed her with a flapping wave. Yelena scurried out the door. The old woman turned to Marguerite.
"Valeska," she said, as a jailer might question his prisoner. "How do you know that name?"
Marguerite hesitated, not wanting to give away her visit to the crypt. If Griezell was not Zosia's informant, it would be unwise to reveal her escape. "Lord Don-skoy told it to me."
"Hahf" cackled Zosia. "He would never speak her name-especially not to you."
"He was deiirious. He did not know what he said."
"Hmmph."
"And I have seen her as well."
Zosia's brow rose.
Marguerite added quickly, "In a dream."
Zosia smiled. "You are very sensitive for a giorgia. But then, you and Valeska share a connection in Don-skoy."
"Then she was Donskoy's wife. His first wife."
Zosia frowned. "He considered her as much. But it was not a marriage sanctioned by her tribe."
"Were you her mother?"
Zosia shook her head. "But I tended her. We suffered here together. She and I, true Vistani no more." Zosia turned, walking toward the door. "You must dress now. Lord Donskoy will be angry if you keep him waiting."
"Before you go, tell me how she died."
"I have told enough," replied Zosia stiffly. "And I warn you, speak of this no more-especially where Donskoy might hear."
With that, she opened the door.
"Wait!" Marguerite's command sounded more like a plea than an order. "I … I dreamed of a curse,"
To Marguerite's astonishment, Zosia's face showed no surprise or alarm. Without asking any details, she simply nodded.
"You needn't fear the curse, my child." The old woman stepped into the hall. "Valeska means you no harm. She is restless and proud, but she bears you no malice. For you, she knows only sympathy."
> The door swung shut.
TEN
Breakfast was a simple affair in the drawing room outside Donskoy's salon-a piece of dry bread; a slice of cold, salty meat of unknown origin; and a sour wine so laden with dross that Marguerite had to strain it through her teeth. After each sip she dabbed her gums surreptitiously, so as not to smile at her husband with clotted teeth.
Donskoy stared off into space while they ate, as if resigned to her company. I have disappointed him, she thought. But if his coolness came from the results of Zosia's test, his expectations seemed patently unfair.
Donskoy dabbed his mustache with a cloth. "Well then," he said suddenly. "I promised you a tour of the castle, did I not?"
Marguerite nodded.
He sighed, and she added quickly, "But we can undertake it another time, if it displeases you."
"No, no," he replied, tossing the napkin on the table. "This is your home now. And one must feel at home, I suppose, to be at home. In truth, you have already seen the only rooms worth occupying. But if it will dispel your curiosity and make you content, then perhaps a quick tour is overdue. At any rate, it will allow me to point out certain dangers of which you should be aware."
At once, Marguerite thought of Valeska floating in the underground river, and of the dripping mark of the curse. She wondered whether Donskoy would take her to the dungeons. And if he did, would the tralak remain? Would he too see Valeska's body rising from the water? Such an event might push him over the edge. Unless he knew, of course; unless he had seen these things himself. And in that case, she could not imagine he would take her below.
Donskoy rose and stretched, assessing her. "This is bound to be a dirty business. Would you like to change your attire?"
She shook her head.
"Then wait here for a moment."
He slipped into his salon, closing the small arched door behind him. When he returned, a ring of large skeleton keys jangled in his left hand. "The tour begins."
Donskoy began by leaving the sitting room and leading Marguerite across the foyer. He gestured to a door beside the main stair. "The guard room, at one time," he announced. "With an armory and sleeping quarters above. Unless you wish to impale someone with a polearm, this room should not interest you."
To sleep with Evil (ravenloft) Page 13