"You are curious about the gloves." He uncoiled two fingers from the stem of his chalice and waved them subtly, like antennae.
"No." Then she added, "Well, perhaps a little."
Donskoy's face told her she should have held her tongue; the dismay was obvious in his expression, and his response was menacingly low. "It is none of your business."
"No, of course not," said Marguerite, adding quickly, "my lord." She hoped the pause had not been perceptible. Suddenly, she felt as if she had wandered into a trap, had become tangled like a fly in the middle of a spider's web, and now the spider was approaching.
"Do my gloves disturb you, Marguerite?" asked Donskoy, wriggling his black, furry fingers.
"No, my lord," she replied evenly, regaining her composure. "Your fashions may intrigue me, but, as you say, they are none of my concern."
He studied her.
Marguerite pulled her lips into a smile, intentionally demure, then dropped her gaze. She sipped from her chalice, a wary bird.
To her surprise, Donskoy did not drop the subject. "The matter is somewhat embarrassing, and so I rarely speak of it. But you are my wife, so I shall confess to you that I suffer a certain. deformity."
She gave no reply.
"Do you not wish to see it?" Donskoy asked, as if daring her.
Marguerite hesitated, suddenly realizing that she did not wish to look upon his deformity-not really. Once she had seen it, she might be unable to forget it, might think of it hidden beneath the sheath of his gloves each time he probed or caressed her skin. And yet.
And yet she was curious. "Only if you wish to show me," she said. "But it is not necessary. I must admit that! am actually quite fond of your gloves."
"Yes," he replied, stroking a finger across her cheek. "They are very soft and fine, are they not?"
She nodded.
"Another time then," he said.
Marguerite nodded again, and wondered whether her head would soon bob unceasingly of its own accord, tike Ljubo's. Soon she too might be the affable fool.
Donskoy continued, "Let us not speak of this matter anymore tonight."
"Of course. I won't mention it again, my lord." She stared at her lap as if it suddenly held great interest and thought to herself, Another entry to the list of things not mentioned and things not done. Marguerite wished she had not led him inadvertently toward this topic in the first place. Perhaps something trite and inconsequential would break the tension that remained. He might be appeased by some silly feminine remark; it seemed to fulfill his expectations of her.
*l am amazed," she said, "that Yeiena and Zosia can accomplish so much. This food, I mean. And attending to the castle. Granted, we require only a few rooms, but still their efforts are astounding."
"Yes," Donskoy replied. "Somehow they manage. Zosia can be a magician in the kitchen when she wants to. And at times it seems almost as if the castle sustains itself, such as it is." He speared a piece of meat and gobbled it up.
Marguerite ate too, glad to discover that the flavors were pleasing, with heavy notes of mustard, garlic, and onion. She left only the birds untouched. It was a common enough dish, but she disliked picking at the carcasses. The pastries tasted of sweet honey and almonds, and they did not seem stale in the least. For a while, she focused on the food; it kept her from thinking of the liaison to come. Donskoy ate without speaking, licking his lips, eyeing her as if she were edible. When he had finished, he suddenly reached under her skirt and began to remove her stockings. Marguerite held a pastry poised in her fingers, her mouth open with surprise. He moved his hand unexpectedly, and the pastry dropped to the ground.
An hour later, Marguerite found herself back in her room, the door securely locked. Weary from the day's activity, she readied herself for bed, though the sun itself had only just retired, and the sky had not yet gone black. She stripped to her chemise and pulled on a pair of slippers and a dressing gown.
Her first intimate encounter with Donskoy had been strange and surreal, a languid dream, disturbing yet perversely thrilling- It had lasted for hours, or so it seemed, and the details had blurred in her mind. In contrast, the second coupling had been acute, brisk, and rather unpleasant. She had tried hard not to reveal her reaction. Not that he was attuned to such things.
Marguerite noticed that the shutters on her window hung open, and she went to close them against the cold. Something in the darkness beyond caught her eye. Deep in the forest, the phantom fire pulsed again, a heartbeat in the body of wood. Ramus. Marguerite did not understand why he stayed, or if he had gone, why he had returned. What does he want here? she wondered. He purposefully avoided Donskoy; the castle itself did not seem to draw him. Maybe he was seeking his own tribe, awaiting some kind of rendezvous. He had told her that Arturi's caravan was not his own. And it did seem that Vistani traveled the roads, at least as far as the fork. The fork-where Vistani left their marks on a tree for other gypsies to discover.
Marguerite recalled the new tralak she had seen during her outing with Donskoy. In her wardrobe cabinet, she knew, lay the half-charred manuscript penned by Van Richten. With these pages, she could probably decipher the tralak's meaning. Marguerite eyed the closed door of her cabinet suspiciously, as if a fiend lurked behind it. Yet what harm could come from consulting the book? It was only a book after all.
Marguerite's hand was poised on the cabinet door when the sound of an approaching wagon drew her away. She went quickly to the window and saw Ljubo and Ekhart returning. Pressing her nose against the glass, she strained, searching for silhouettes in the wagon. She sighed with disappointment. There was only the tall thin Ekhart, the squat form of Ljubo beside him. The back of the wagon appeared fuller, however. A lumpy mound rose in the bed, covered by a tarp. The three black hounds stood upon it proudly, like climbers laying claim to a summit. Their black shapes swayed wildly with the motion of the wagon. It was a wonder the beasts didn't tumble out. One of them threw its head back and heralded their return with a frightful howl. For a moment, Marguerite imagined a red fire burning deep within in its throat, as if she had seen the door to a kiln thrown open. Then the wagon, and the image, passed out of view.
She longed to get a closer look, to rush to the stables, where she could observe Ljubo and Ekhart unloading the cart. What would she see? An unsettling image came to mind. Perhaps now it was a cart full of corpses-or a cart that mimicked it, whose dead were only sleeping. But then she thought no, not bodies. That was silly. Zosia had planted the suggestion, when describing how some Vistani caravans bore passengers through the mists. But what else might Ekhart and Ljubo have brought? Surely it would be all right if she went to the stables to observe their arrival. Marguerite was halfway to the door before she remembered Lord Donskoy had locked her in for the night.
She gazed at the hounds in the tapestry, and considered the secret passage they guarded- A locked door need not deter her. Yet it could be dangerous to venture away from her room so early. The castle did not sleep. Someone might see her.
Exasperated, Marguerite let out a sigh. She thought of the toad, Griezellbub, who had aided her so deftly in her first escape. He had not visited since that night. She pictured him before her, his mouth wide with a mocking grin. "If you were truly useful," she said aloud, speaking to the air, "you'd be my spy. My spy, you ugly little beast." But she knew he answered to Zosia, or to no one at all,
"I will go out," she announced softly, feeling a sudden surge of recklessness. "And I will simply refuse to get caught." Marguerite tossed off her dressing gown and wriggled into a long dark tunic with split sides. Then she kneeled before the tapestry like a supplicant. The wall god answered her prayer, and she crawled into his arms, entering the passage. The decaying chamber at the other end appeared unchanged. Marguerite tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against the wood. Nothing. She opened it just a crack, grimacing at the familiar protest of its hinges. Turning sideways, she slipped into the hall. She did not carry a light, for it might announce her presenc
e.
To the right lay the stairwell leading to the dungeons. The stables, however, could be reached only by passing through the foyer below-at Eeast as far as she knew. Marguerite turned left, and headed down the hall, as quiet as a mouse. She came to the broad, curving stair and began a careful descent. On the wall, the torches burned in their iron sconces. Below, she could hear a man speaking-Ekhart, perhaps. She dared not venture too close; with her luck, he had the hounds. If he did, the dogs would scent her and scrabble up the stairs to point her out. Fragments of Ekhart's muffled report drifted up to her.
"Five," Ekhart said.". easy. "
Marguerite dared to move a step closer.
14., some silver., jewelry. wine and sugar."
She took another step,
Ekhart continued, "… so we brought…"
A second man snapped out a reply. "Idiot!" Marguerite had moved close enough to hear all his words, and to tell that it was Lord Donskoy himself. "When my wife is near, you'll make no procurements for the mere whims of Miss Montarri."
"As you wish, my lord," replied Ekhart. "It was at Ljubo's insistence. Besides, there was some mention of more to follow, so we thought-"
"Well don't think, old man," Donskoy intervened. "You've managed it badly." The lord paused, then chuckled. "And since when do you answer to Ljubo? No, I know you, Ekhart. And I suspect you have a few whims of your own concerning the cargo. Eh? Am I right?"
A muffled grunt, half a laugh, came in reply.
Donskoy continued, "Though I suppose I cannot blame you. Come with me to the drawing room, then, and share a nightcap while we discuss your instructions."
At that moment, Marguerite heard someone coming down the stairs behind her-coming softly and swiftly. She pressed herself to the wall, hoping desperately that whoever-whatever-was coming would not notice her lurking in the shadows.
Directly behind Marguerite, Yelena gasped loudly and dropped her candle. It rolled down the last three steps and into the foyer beyond.
"Ekhart, wait!11 Donskoy hissed, his voice close below. "Did you hear that? Between Yelena and that disgusting toad of Zosia's, this castle has far too many ears."
Footsteps approached the base of the stairs. "Show yourself!" Donskoy bellowed.
Marguerite put a finger to her lips. Yelena shook her head frantically and tugged on Marguerite's sleeve, pointing to the top of the stairs. Then the mute girl hastily descended the stairs into the foyer.
Marguerite slunk back around the corner, retreating three steps up. She heard a sudden blow in the foyer below, followed by a soft exclamation of pain.
"Worm!" spat Donskoy. "Were you eavesdropping again?" Another smack punctuated his question. "Too many ears entirely. Well that can be fixed. If I catch you skulking about again, I'll cut off both of yours."
There was pause* then Ekhart said, Til handle the cargo. You.needn't worry."
Donskoy grunted his assent. Yelena's soft whimpering accented his words.
"Quit whining, wench/ he muttered. "Go with Ekhart and assist as he requires. And be sure you clean up after him."
Marguerite crept up the stairs, promising herself that she would find some way to improve Yelena's treatment. Donskoy expected the girl to materialize whenever he required, yet if she happened to be near when he did not want her, she suffered for it.
With that vow, Marguerite hurried through the hal! and slipped into the decaying room next to hers as quietly as possible. She stood behind the door a moment, listening. When she was sure no one had followed, she knelt before the wall and opened the secret passage, then crawled inside.
The stones slid into place behind her. She scrabbled quickly through the tunnel, suddenly eager to be safe in her bed. But when she reached out to open the por-tal into her own chamber, the stones remained motionless.
An involuntary groan rose in her throat. Marguerite pushed with all her might, but nothing happened; the wall refused to shift. She remembered Donskoy's warning: "The passages are crumbling and prone to failure, and you might find yourself entombed in a wall."
Her heart thundered in her ears, the only sound in the otherwise still passage. Slowly, methodically, she began to push every stone that barred her path. Still, nothing happened. Marguerite pounded her fist against the stone she recalled as the trigger. This time, the wall gave way. She lifted the tapestry and scrambled to freedom.
Safely in her chamber, she stood, breathing heavily. "Idiot," she whispered. She had been stupid and clumsy, lacking both stealth and common sense. If Yelena could surprise her so readily, then why not Ljubo or Ekhart, or Donskoy himself? Further, she had not even imagined the secret passage could malfunction, though her husband had warned of the possibility that very day. She would not venture through the tunnel again-not without good reason. Ekhart's activity seemed meaningless compared to the prospect of slow suffocation, or the thought of being discovered and relocated to one of the miasmic chambers that typified the keep.
Marguerite removed her tunic and returned it to the wardrobe. Staring inside the cabinet, she recalled what she had been doing before Ekhart and Ljubo's return distracted her. She donned her dressing gown and withdrew Van Richten's Guide to the Vistani from the wardrobe, then took it to her chair by the fire. There she sat and unwrapped the black shroud, spreading it over her lap. The innermost folds of the cloth were coated with ash; she worked slowly, taking care not to soil her garment. The book seemed to weigh no more than a feather upon her thighs. Gingerly she leafed through the pages, those that still allowed themselves to be parted. At length she rediscovered the pictures of tralaks. There again was the symbol that the book had opened to of its own accord, three lines striking a fourth: cursed A shudder ran down her back; she reminded herself of what Zosia had told her, that Valeska's ghost intended her no harm.
What was the symbol on the road? A triangle of some sort, pointing downward. The book showed a triangle and a line, which was titled "recent murder," but the tip pointed up. There was another with a cross through it, entitled "ancient murders." She could find nothing quite like the overturned triangle Donskoy had removed from the tree, but it did not seem a wild guess to think that it had something to do with death, Perhaps it meant «suicide»; that seemed fitting for an inverted version of the murder symbol.
Slowly and carefully, she opened the book to another section, curious what she might find. Most of the tome was illegible, as if the ink had literally ignited and burned away. Whole chapters had been fused together, the pages having melted and become one. It was odd, she thought. She had never seen parchment or ink behave in this way before. Then she laughed at herself: neither had she ever seen a book that would not burn, or that opened of its own accord.
A title on a page caught her eye: "Torture and terror." The chapter appeared to contain Van Richten's theories on curses and the evil eye-the Vistani's strange ability to cause enchantments with a mere look. Most often, those enchantments were malevolent. Marguerite remembered Ramus's penetrating gaze, how it filled her with warmth and threatened to melt away her caution. It had not seemed harmful, but had she not looked away. Suddenly another face came to mind, another set of dark, penetrating eyes. Valeska's eyes. Zosia had assured her that Valeska meant her no harm. But what if Zosia was wrong?
Then she admonished herself aloud, borrowing a phrase from Zosia. "Don't let your imagination run off like a mad hare, Marguerite/ She continued to took through the book for answers; she had nowhere else to turn. She could only make out a few words here and there, describing horrid afflictions that a Vistani curse might cause: a condition called "the body melt," which converted a man into gooey liquid; a passing mention of gangrene; something about the conversion of one's skeleton to a baglike form. She shuddered.
Then an intriguing phrase caught her eye: "black hands." According to Van Richten, they could mark a man who had wronged the Vistani; the author made note of a thief who had robbed a caravan and found his own skin discolored by the act. Marguerite thought of her husband's black g
loves, but there was no connection; they were only gloves, after all. The hands themselves were not black-not that she knew of. He suffered from some sort of deformity; that's what he had told her. She let her mind wander over the possibilities: festering boils, skin like a snake's, a missing digit or two, or the reverse-a skinny extra finger tucked alongside its sturdy brother, like a withered worm. Or a third eye, perhaps, rooted on the tip of his thumb. Whatever Donskoy's deformity was, it did not cripple him; his hands remained strong, his grip hard and firm-like a vise, when he wanted it so.
Marguerite looked down and saw that her own hands had become black from handling the book. She shivered. Carefully she rewrapped the tome in its black cloth and returned it to her cabinet. Then she washed the ash from her hands, relieved to see her own clean skin once again.
Her weariness came back to her, now twice as intense as before. It had been a full day, she mused, full of exploration and of being explored. She removed the dressing gown and, with her last bit of strength, crawled through the bed curtains to curl her body into the pit of the mattress,
She slept for hours. As a cloud of bats wheeled in the sky outside the castle, Marguerite dreamed once more of the dark-haired gypsy, who rose from the black water and parted the rock and stepped out into the green-black sea of trees. Marguerite followed behind her, watching as the Vistana slipped in and out of view, and then disappeared. In a moonlit clearing, Marguerite found her again. The gypsy was dancing, moving slowly, naked but for the myriad snakes that hung from her arms like black scarves.
And then the dream ended. Marguerite shifted in the pit of her bed and slept on, slumbering as the sun climbed from its nightly grave; she slept as it rose high overhead and merged with the cold gray haze that covered Donskoy's land.
*****
When Marguerite awoke, Yelena was stoking the hearth. A breakfast tray lay on the table nearby. The mute girl turned and headed for the door.
To sleep with Evil (ravenloft) Page 16