To sleep with Evil (ravenloft)

by Andria Cardarelle

  "Wait." Marguerite slipped out from between the walls of her velvet tent. "I want to speak to you."

  Yeiena paused and turned her head, gazing at Marguerite wearily from beneath the little brown cap she always wore. The girl's face was a puffy palette of pale gray-and-purpie shadows, and her lips had fused in a frown.

  "It seems I should thank you again," said Marguerite, "for not giving me away."

  Yeiena's lips parted slightly, releasing a deep sigh.

  "I am very grateful." Marguerite added boldly, "Don't you want to know how I got out?"

  The mute rolled her eyes, then shot a glance toward the tapestry.

  She knows then, thought Marguerite. "Well, as I said, I am very grateful. And you can rest assured that I won't cause this trouble for you again."

  At this, Yelena gave a sharp squeak-a laugh, perhaps, but completely lacking in mirth. The servant curtsied and jerked her head toward the door.

  "Of course," said Marguerite. "You may go. I only wanted to thank you."

  The mute girl curtsied again and departed. Marguerite slipped out of bed, padding after her. She tried the handle on the door and to her relief, found it unlocked. After washing at the basin, she went to the hearth to inspect the breakfast tray. It held a slab of cold meat, faintly green along one edge; the usual piece of bread; and a ewer of cold wine. She sniffed the wine and wrinkled her nose. Despite the heavy dose of cloves, she could tell it was horribly sour; some of Donskoy's barrels must be going bad. Or else Yelena was making a statement. Then Marguerite noticed something else on the tray: a small piece of parchment, folded in half. She opened itt and discovered a note from Lord Donskoy.

  My wife, it read. / trust you slept well. You must content yourself with reading this morning. In the afternoon, come to my salon. -D.

  Marguerite fed the parchment to the fire and stretched. At least the rest of the morning was hers. And the door was open. Given this streak of fortune, she had no intention of languishing in her room with a book. Instead, she planned to visit the stables, where she could examine the cart she had seen returning last night. It would probably be unloaded by now, but certainly Ljubo would tell her about the travelers in the mists. She smiled thinly, recalling her last furtive conversation with the man. Yes, Ljubo would talk. Ljubo, after all, was her friend.

  Dressed in high boots and a simple woolen shift betted low round her hips, Marguerite emerged in the court. It had not been easy to find her way alone, and she had come to several dead ends amid the castle's jumbled and rotting storerooms; finally she had closed her eyes and followed her memory like a dream. Mow she stepped out toward the stables, crossing the flagstones that were slick with mud and dung. She looked for Ljubo or Ekhart but saw only the other animals. The black gaggle of geese moved through the court like a raucous cloud. The goat bleated from its tether, and the peacock continued its walk around the perimeter like a sullen guard. Five dark horse tails and one that was dirty white hung over the stable walls, all in a row.

  The wagon had been parked in an open stall. Marguerite picked her way across the court and peered inside. The wagon bed itself was bare to the rough boards. On the ground nearby, however, lay the black tarp, draped over a jumbled mound. She lifted the edge, discovering a barrel labeled «sugar» and a few unmarked crates- She probed a little further, unveiling a long black chest. It resembled the crate that had accompanied her from Darkon. Marguerite knelt before it, fingering the clasp.

  "Looking for something"?"

  Marguerite jumped, falling backward onto her seat. It was Ekhart, looming behind her, shovel in hand.

  "No, I-," she stammered. "Well, yes, actually."

  Marguerite brushed herself off and stood to face him. They stared at one another, her own eyes liquid and challenging, his gray and frozen.

  Ekhart said sourly, "And that would be …?"

  "It is none of your business," retorted Marguerite huffily. "I am the lady of this castle now, and you shall address me as such."

  Ekhart stretched his thin lips into an even wider line, which for him counted as a smile. "All right then. Lady Marguerite," he mocked. "Is there some way that I might assist you?"

  "No, Ekhart. Thank you," she said stiffly. "I was

  looking for Ljubo."‹

  "Indeed. And what would you require of my manservant?"

  "Your rnan-servant?"

  "He answers to me."

  "I thought he might tell something about your excursion yesterday."

  "Did you? Why don't you ask me instead?"

  "Ail right, Ekhart. I wanted to know what became of the travelers."

  "Travelers?"

  "Yes. The people lost in the fog. I heard them calling out myself, so spare me any denial."

  Ekhart rubbed his chin and chortled. "No. I would not even attempt it. What is it, precisely, that you would know?"

  "Just as I said. What happened to the travelers?"

  "We were unable to locate them in time."

  "You mean they are dead?"

  "Yes."

  "How?" Marguerite's voice was quiet.

  "The mists hold many dangers," Ekhart replied matter-of-f act! y.

  "But what kind of dangers? Surely you must have some idea what occurred."

  "Animals. Predators. It's difficult to say. Not much evidence remained, if you can grasp my meaning. Or shall I paint you a more detailed picture?"

  "No, thank you," she replied. She waved a hand toward the crates. "And these things," she added. "You took them."

  "Of course," said Ekhart. "The dead have no need of such possessions where they are bound. Why should we not benefit? Don't pretend you are shocked, milady. Half the gowns you wear were obtained in this fashion." He tapped the shovel against the dirt floor and stared at her, one white brow raised. "Will that be all then, Marguerite?"

  "Yes, Ekhart. Thank you. You may go."

  He laughed. Tm afraid not, Lady Marguerite. I take my orders from Lord Donskoy. I am here on his behalf, in fact. And I believe it is you who must go. Are you not expected soon in Lord Donskoy's salon?"

  "Mot until this afternoon," she replied.

  "You have underestimated the hour."

  Marguerite looked up at the sunless sky. Was that possible? Had she slept so long before she arose?

  "And of course," continued Ekhart, "you will want to change your attire before you see your lord, and 'freshen up1 a bit."

  Marguerite flushed with annoyance. His comments were rude and improper, but he was right. When she returned to her room, she exchanged her boots for silk slippers and donned the purple silk gown, the one she had worn on the night she had first met Donskoy. Perhaps the gown would bring her luck.

  She found her husband in his salon, sitting beside the hearth, nursing the tip of his water pipe. He greeted her with a red-eyed leer and smiled.

  "Do you dance, Marguerite?" he asked abruptly.

  Her mouth gaped. "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "I mean, do you dance? I mean do you strip yourself bare and bend like a willow, and weave your wicked little spells in the moonlight?"

  Marguerite paused, her expression blank. He was delirious again.

  "No," he said. "I didn't think so." Then he patted the pillow beside him on the floor. "No matter. You can dance for me another way."

  The following morning, Marguerite found a new note on her breakfast tray. Donskoy carefully dictated her whereabouts in the castle-her chamber, the music room, the library, and of course, his salon. Ekhart had told him of her visit to the stables, and Donskoy had not been pleased. He said that such forays were «beneath» her. Further, he instructed her to keep contact with "all servants" to a minimum, for to behave otherwise was unbefitting the lady of a castle. When Marguerite sought out Zosia or Ljubo, she could not find them.

  A week passed. Marguerite entertained herself by reading a few mundane selections from the library, and, when that grew stale, she collected the makings of a tapestry with Yelena's help and set to work on it in the m
usic room. Her hand was not steady or practiced. She often pricked her fingers and had to stop the work to keep from staining the fabric with blood. It was a wonder, she thought, that she had once helped in preparing her own wedding gown-the white gown she never wore. It saddened her to think of it. Darkon. her mother's face softly illumined by the fire. the long nights spent stitching and chatting together: these images rose before her. Sometimes, she knew, her mother had torn out Marguerite's own poor stitches and later redone them in secret, in the hours just before dawn. Marguerite had not minded. It all seemed so distant now, so unreal, like stories she had read in a dream.

  Soon the days gained their own kind of rhythm. First breakfast in her room, alone. A visit to the music room. Reading and stitching. And, if the weather was passable, a short walk with Ekhart at Donskoy's behest, "to keep her healthy and fresh." Then, as the afternoon waned, the obligatory visit to Donskoy's salon for the ritual coupling. This was followed by dinner with her husband, who clearly preferred that they eat in silence. After a while, Marguerite preferred it too.

  TWELVE

  One day merged with the next, until more than a fortnight had passed since Marguerite's arrival. A cold gray haze hung over the land, unchanging. The routine in the castle remained the same as well, but with the slow progression of hours, a certain tension began to emerge between Marguerite and her husband. She could do nothing to ease it, despite numerous attempts. Twice she suggested to Donsky that they again ride over his lands. And twice he declined, insisting she walk the grounds with Ekhart instead. In another effort to please her husband, Marguerite spoke of the travels they might one day undertake with their children. Lord Donskoy became venomous and spat at her.

  "Do you seek to torment me?" he hissed. "You know I cannot leave." But Marguerite did not know, and she did not really believe him.

  The true cause of Donskoy's displeasure was clear. Once, while he lay with Marguerite in his red salon, Donskoy rested his hand upon her bare stomach.

  "Do you not share my desire for an heir?" he asked, tracing a circle across her skin. He proceeded to draw another circle within it, mimicking the pattern Zosia made on the mornings of her frequent pregnancy tests. After the first divining, Donskoy had remained patient, as he had promised. But now his patience was wearing thin, and Marguerite felt its loss acutely.

  "My lord," she said, noting that the pressure of his fingers on her stomach had increased. "You know I desire a son as much as you do." The scene was so queer, yet so typical, that Marguerite began to wonder if she were the one who partook too freely of the hookah smoke.

  "Yet I doubt your sincerity," Donskoy replied, moving his hand, plucking idly at her skin. "I wonder if perhaps you do something to keep my seed from taking hold." He pressed his sueded finger into the cleft between her ribs, and Marguerite felt pinned to the floor like a bug collector's specimen.

  She swallowed hard to steady her voice. "Surely you don't really believe that, Lord Donskoy. Why would I do such a thing?"

  "I could not venture a guess," he replied. "For certainly you must know what happens to wives who don't conceive."

  Marguerite kept silent,

  "They are set aside," Donskoy continued, "discarded for the useless vessels they've become. Sloughed off like old skin and cast into the mists." He paused, chortling darkly. "Or they're sold, passed to some gold-rich party who has no interest in their capacity to multiply. Sold for pleasure. Sold for parts. " His fingers trailed across her body, and he kissed her gently on the thigh. "But I'm sure you wouldn't allow that to happen to you, my dear."

  "No, my lord," she replied quietly. Marguerite closed her eyes to block out the scene, but what she saw behind her lids was worse. "No," she repeated, in a voice too soft for anyone to hear.

  *****

  Two days later, when her blood came, Donskoy could not contain his rage and struck her, Stunned, Marguerite fled the salon and hurried to her room, where for the first time, she wished the door could be locked from the inside.

  Briefly, she thought of leaving. But to go where and do what? She had known only two homes in her life, and despite her idle daydreams, she had never wandered far from either. Life with Donskoy was still preferable to eternal unlife-the fate she surely would have known had she stayed in Darkon. And she had pledged herself to be his wife, giving her sacred promise before a priest-though a priest like no other she had ever seen. If only she could bear her husband an heir, her fortune would turn.

  The following morning, her tray contained the usual note from Donskoy. It included a veiled apology and announced that he would not require her companionship that day- For a moment, Marguerite imagined him making arrangements for her sale. Then she managed to dispel the notion. /Vo, she thought, he would remain in his salon, savoring the tender bite of his hookah, oblivious to everyone and everything beyond the boundaries of his own mind. Marguerite dressed and went down to the kitchen to seek the only solace possible. To seek the assistance of a Vistani witch. She hoped that Zosia would be there.

  The smell of garlic and boiling meat grew stronger in the passage as Marguerite approached the kitchen. She paused at the threshold, staring into the room. On the table lay a pair of rabbits, skinned and readied for the spit, their pink muscles firm and glistening. Nearby was a mortar and pestle, a pile of little skeletons resembling frogs, and a large wooden bowl fitled with mash. Small piles of dried herbs rested in a circle upon a wooden platter. At the center of the platter lay a slimy heap of tiny purple-red orbs, presumably roe. It occurred to Marguerite that she had seen comparatively little evidence of Zosia's cooking until this time-usually she saw only the results when Yelena materialized from the shadows bearing a fully laden tray.

  Zosia squatted upon a three-legged stool before the fire, her black skirts spreading on either side. Her dark, kerchiefed head was bent toward the sooty maw of the hearth. The embers glowed red, and a thick, churning smoke swirled from beneath the lintel, but Zosia appeared oblivious. She hummed a sort of dirge as she worked, slow and somber. A pair of cauldrons dangled above the fire on metal hooks. As Marguerite looked on like a curious mouse, the oid woman swung one of the pots toward the fire and floated her hand above it, sifting a dark powder into the steaming mix.

  If Zosia was aware of an audience hovering in the doorway, the witch showed no sign. The longer Marguerite stood watching, the more reluctant she became to announce her presence. She began to wonder if the old woman ignored her expressly; perhaps Zosia knew of Marguerite's failure to conceive, and now disdained her as much as Donskoy.

  After a few moments, Zosia ceased her humming and clucked impatiently. "Well, come in, come in, girl. Don't just stand there gaping."

  "How did you know I was here?" Marguerite asked, stepping into the room. She sat on the bench beside the table, eyeing the collection of ingredients.

  Zosia shrugged, pulling the pot away from the fire. She gazed at its surface intently, as if expecting some response. Then she tossed in a pinch of black powder. A puff of blue smoke rose from the pot, hovering, then fled up the chimney. "You ask a question of very little consequence," Zosia continued. "How do I know you are there? I have ears and a nose, do I not? And I have eyes."

  Suddenly Marguerite felt someone else's eyes upon her. She turned and discovered two yellow orbs shining at her from a shadowy corner. Gradually, she discerned Griezellbub's black body squatting in the murk. The toad's meaty tongue shot out toward an unseen target. Marguerite blinked in surprise. When she looked again, Griezelt's throat was swollen and lumpy, with a snake's tail wriggling between his tips.

  "Ask me something of value," Zosia continued. "For today I am seeing quite clearly again. Like old times, almost. Do you not seek my help?"

  Marguerite pulled her eyes away from Griezell. "Yes," she said. "How do you know?"

  Zosia shrugged again. "Why else would you visit? I know welt what occurred last night. Where else could you turn? Fortunately for you, I can assist."

  "How, when even I do not kno
w what I am seeking?"

  Zosia chortled. "But you do, Marguerite, you do. You wish to avoid another month like this one."

  Marguerite stared at the floor. "Yes. At least the ending."

  "Donskoy was most displeased- He accused you of spoiling your own field, did he not?"

  "He did," replied Marguerite, her eyes growing moist.

  "And he accused me earlier of assisting you. Did you know that, my child?"

  "No. I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused."

  "Tsk. I can handle your lord. Of course I dissuaded him of any notion that I was responsible. I promised him once again that you would become pregnant soon. And you must, Marguerite, before another month is out, or things will become very unpleasant for us all."

  "Why did you promise it, Zosia? You have only made things worse. Isn't it possible that I cannot have a child by Donskoy? Such things are not in your control."

  Zosia cackled. "If you believe I am powerless, then why are you here?"

  "I didn't know what else to do," stammered Marguerite, "who else to see. Even this is a risk. Donskoy prefers I remain alone, that I seek no one's company but his. But of late-"

  "Silly girl," said Zosia soothingly. "Have faith. I will help you. The years spent here have diminished my powers, it is true, but I can still lay the course for what must be. I know of a potion that will help you conceive a child."

  "And it works?"

  Zosia scowled at her. "Ts/c. Of course it does. Why else would I suggest it?"

  "And are there risks?"

  Zosia clucked impatiently. "Everything holds a risk. If you do nothing, the risks are greater. Now, do you wish my help or not? I have no time for games."

  Marguerite paused. "Yes," she said. "Make me the potion."

  "Nothing worthwhile is that simple, my dear. First, you must do something for me. Go out into the forest and find the web of a spider, a white spider. The time is right for this harvest; the moon is waxing. When you have found the web, bring the silken strands to me, and I will make a philter for you to drink."