Donskoy seated Marguerite, then walked to the opposite end of the table. As if by some silent cue, Yelena reappeared, bearing a tray. She decanted red wine into the goblets. Then she lifted the lid from a platter. Four tiny carcasses Jay at the center. She presented three to Donskoy, and the last to Marguerite. They were birds, prepared with their shriveled heads still attached, laid to rest in nests of barley. Yelena scuttled out of the room.
"A local delicacy?" Marguerite asked, picking at the fragile, bony mass before her. With each probe, the head jostled on its broken neck.
"Seasonal, I suppose you might say," Donskoy replied. "They're vista-chin. Migrant birds. I netted them myself for the sport of it. Mot much meat, but they make a satisfying appetizer."
Marguerite took a few bites to be polite, but she refrained from any further dissection. It discomforted her to devour the songbirds who trailed the Vistani. Some peasants in Darkon claimed the birds were spies. Her grandmother had once told her they might even be gypsy spirits, for they shared the Vistani's uncanny ability to flit in and out of shadows, slipping so easily into the Unknown.
Donskoy did not appear to notice her hesitation. While he snapped off little wings and raked them through his teeth, she sipped her wine and feigned a smile. She thought it odd that he had not removed his black gloves before handling the moist flesh.
Yelena reappeared, struggling with an even greater platter. Marguerite took inventory with growing hunger. This fare was much more familiar to her, and the rich aromas resurrected her appetite. Soon her plate was heaped with succulent hare and enormous mushrooms, accompanied by creamy white turnips and blood-red beets. Marguerite was ravenous. She had to force herself to eat slowly, so as not to appear uncultured.
The wine flowed readily with the meal. Donskoy chatted idly about the food and the room, the recent period of misty weather. He raised a toast to her health, their union, and their future sons. Before she realized it, the wine had seeped into every sinew, loosening her finely woven defenses. Her head grew light.
Donskoy speared his last piece of hare and devoured it heartily. "I hadn't much appetite before you came," he said. "I should thank you for returning it"
"I'm glad you're pleased," Marguerite replied. "I was afraid you might actually send me back," The words escaped before she could contain them. She hoped they wouldn't plant a suggestion.
"Mot at first sight, certainly," said Donskoy, licking the juice from his lips. He gazed at her with an appreciative little smile.
Marguerite felt like the next course, but she didn't entirely mind.
Donskoy motioned to Yelena to refill their goblets yet again. "You are truly quite lovely,I' he said, wiping his lips on a cloth. "And more charming than I had allowed myself to hope."
"Thank you," she replied. "You are very kind."
"Some might consider a girl of twenty a little old for marriage, but you remain appealingly fresh."
Marguerite did not know how to answer such a peculiar compliment. Still, she was glad not to have appeared stale.
Donskoy continued, "And do I please you as well?"
"Of course," she answered quickly. "I am very fortunate."
He looked at her for a moment, then smiled. "You are lying just a little," he said. "But that is all right,"
"No, I do feel fortunate," she protested. "I—"
He raised his hand to interrupt her. "I have steered the conversation badly, toward topics that will either become treacle or uncomfortable. We understand one another's needs, I believe, and if not, that will certainty come in time." He paused, dabbing his mustache with the cloth again. "Why don't you tell me about yourself and your family?"
Marguerite hesitated. Ironically, these were not comfortable subjects either. She was unsure precisely how much Donskoy knew. She would be truthful, she resolved, but discreet.
"I come from a village in Darkon called Malanuv," she said. "Just south of Nartok on the Vuchar River."
"About a week's ride from Avernus, Lord Azalin's castle, is it not?"
Marguerite was surprised. "You know of Darkon's Avernus?"
"By reputation," he replied. "Geography is one of my interests. I traveled a great deal in my youth. And, of course, Lord Azalin's name is quite familiar to me."
"I have never traveled farther than Nartok before this trip," she said. "So I am not as worldly as you, my lord. I still do not quite understand how the gypsies brought me here. Perhaps it was magic."
Donskoy chuckled.
"No, I mean it sincerely," Marguerite prattled on. 'Have you ever heard the assertion that the mists can be magical, perhaps even animate? And that the gypsies can mold fog into mounts and ride them whenever they please?"
"Your description is rather fanciful," Donskoy replied. "I myself find the mists quite nauseating and oppressive. And I can assure you, your journey had more to do with gold than magic. Which is to say, with my payment, as well as your father's contribution. Tell me about your family."
Marguerite winced. "My father is the village master." At least, he would be if he were still there, she thought. She hoped her parents had fled Malanuv. Otherwise they might be dead.
"Yes, that was my understanding," said Donskoy. "That your father was a petty bureaucrat—no insult intended. He had come down a bit in the world, I believe."
"You are well informed. Father was a baron; he ruled a small city in the north before I was born. He claimed he preferred the simpler life of Malanuv, further removed from the politics of Lord Azalin's court." Marguerite began to stumble over her words, fearing that she had painted herself as too common. "I do not mean to say we were poor, of course; we lived very well by local standards. Though, naturally we did not live as well as this,"
"Indeed. You must feel proud to be marrying so well. All this is yours to enjoy, with scarcely a dowry." He spoke mockingly, and Marguerite could not tell whether his words were sincere.
Donskoy's eyes lowered briefly, sliding to her bodice, then back to her face. "No holdings, but your other charms are obvious," he said. "How is it that you did not marry sooner? Certainly there must have been suitors."
"One," she said quietly.
"But you did not marry, or. . ."
"Ohf no," she replied. "He died before any formal arrangements were made."
"How very unfortunate," said Donskoy evenly. He watched her closely from across the table. "How did it happen?"
"His neck was broken." Marguerite chose her words with care. "No one saw it happen. Apparently he was thrown from his horse." Though she had meant to be honest, this was only half true. Her beloved's spine had been snapped by the same member of Lord Aza-lin's kargat who had opened her eyes to the secret terrors of Darkon.
She waited uneasily for Donskoy's reply. The wine had diminished her self-control; without warning, she found herself on the verge of tears. She did not wish to offer or remember anything more.
Donskoy broke the silence. "It seems we both have known tragedy. Let us forget the unpleasantries of the past, then, and focus on the future—at least for tonight."
Marguerite nodded at him gratefully, saying nothing until the wave of emotion passed.
He smiled and continued, "Yes, we have happier topics before us. Such as our own marriage. I hope you will be content with a very simple, private ceremony. The subsequent fete will be somewhat grander."
■| will be content with whatever pleases you," she said softly.
*My land is remote and without many inhabitants, As I have become more reclusive through the years, so too has the local population. Occasionally I entertain guests from neighboring lands. Otherwise visitors we rare. But I can muster a priest. And I will leave other arrangements to Zosia. Will the day after tomor-fow be too soon for you?"
"No," she replied.
"Good." He rose from the table. "Then I shall see you in your wedding gown, the day after tomorrow.
We shall marry after the sun has passed its peak."
"Won't I see you be
fore then?" she asked.
He walked over to her chair and took her hand, then kissed it lightly. "Would you like to?"
"Yes," she answered truthfully. Courtship was by no means inherent to their arrangement—nor was companionship, for that matter. Still, she had hoped to get to know him better before the wedding. Or, more to the point, before the wedding night. The thought of it sobered her.
Donskoy touched her shoulder gently. "As much as your eagerness pleases me, I regret that I cannot comply. I have other matters to attend to before we wed. Tomorrow, I'm afraid, you must find a means to entertain yourself. Perhaps you could take a walk outside. Ekhart will accompany you to see that you do not become lost or injured. The terrain can be challenging."
The thought of a stroll with Ekhart did not appeal to Marguerite. "Or I could look around inside the castle," she suggested. Td like to get to know my new home."
Donskoy paused. "If you wish to explore the keep, I would prefer to accompany you. Or that you ask Yelena to do so. Unfortunately, she will be rather busy making preparations for the wedding."
"Am [ not to roam freely?" Marguerite asked, somewhat affronted.
"Of course. Within limits. And when you are familiar with the dangers. Until then, you are free to pass along the corridors you already know. You are hardly a prisoner."
"Ekhart warned me about the pit in the foyer," Marguerite said. "And I will certainly exercise caution."
"The pit is not the only danger. The keep has many twists and turns, and much of it lies in disrepair. The doors in the lower levels are particularly unreliable, and prone to holding fast. You might become disoriented or lost. Or worse." He smiled at her. "And I would not wish to lose you so soon."
"I see," Marguerite replied.
"I have an extensive library that you might enjoy. The room at the crest of the stairs near your chamber houses part of my collection. You can read, [ assume?"
Marguerite felt a little sting. "My upbringing was perhaps simpler than some, but not without education. In fact, I used to read stories as a glutton eats sweets. I also read music, and I can play the clavier and lute."
"Really," he answered dryly. "I was unaware of such talents. I am not a great lover of song, but the castle does have a music room of sorts. No one has visited it in years. I will have to show it to you after we wed."
Lord Donskoy gripped her shoulder a little more firmly. Marguerite sensed his annoyance,
"I will look forward to our time together," she said. "And tomorrow, a walk outside and a visit to the library will make for a full day."
He took her hand and kissed it again. "Until the wedding, then. Now Yelena will escort you back to your chamber."
He left her.
Marguerite and Yelena walked quietly through the winding corridors and up the stairs, cutting a glowing path through the darkness with a torch. When they reached the door, Yelena opened it and went to check the fire. It was fully stoked. Apparently, someone had prepared the room earlier.
Yelena turned and slunk from the room, pulling the door shut behind her. A moment later, Marguerite heard a dull metal click. When she went to the door to investigate, she discovered it was locked. No key was in the lock on her side. She knocked softly. "Yelena?" she called. No one answered.
Marguerite sighed. Tomorrow morning, of course, or perhaps even later tonight, Yelena would return to restore the fire. In the meantime, she was to remain alone and in this room. Despite Donskoy's assurances as to her freedom, she felt more like a prisoner than the mistress of the keep.
She walked to the window and drew open the shutters. The glass was covered with a delicate frost. Marguerite blew upon it and watched a dark spot appear. The water melted away in a peculiar pattern, forming three lines running parallel toward the sill. Marguerite shrugged and wiped away the rest of the frost, looking off to the terrain she would explore tomorrow- An amber light pulsed deep in the wood. A fire, she thought to herself. Or perhaps a gypsy camp. But then she remembered Arturi's refusal to venture any farther onto Donskoy's land. More likely, it was simply a traveler or a distant farmer's watch.
Shivering against the cold, Marguerite closed the shutters. Then she stripped off her fine gown and crawled onto the soft, feathery bed, pulling its curtains closed behind hen
THREE
Marguerite woke once during the night, roused by a woman's hearty laughter. When she realized it must have been a dream, she sank back into slumber's deep embrace. In Darkon, dreams had often disturbed her sleep, bringing unwelcome visitors. But thankfully, for the rest of this night, no other phantoms made their presence known.
When she woke again, her mouth was dry and cottony, and her head felt leaden. She sat up and drew on her morning coat, vowing to imbibe less wine in the future.
The room was cold. A tiny cloud of breath took shape before her lips, then drifted away and dissolved. Beyond the bed's velvet curtains, the morning light beckoned. She rose, cringing at the touch of the icy floor beneath her feet. One of the shutters on the window had swung open, allowing a sunbeam to penetrate the chamber. She must have failed to latch the shutter the night before.
The castle seemed unnaturally quiet. Embers glowed softly in the hearth, but the flames had died out. Marguerite scurried to the heavy door and tried the handle. It still held fast. Disgruntled, she strode to the hearth and tossed another log onto the grate. The coals stubbornly resisted her offering. She poked and prodded at their charred remains until at last they relented, and the log burst into flame. For a moment, she watched the tongues of flame devouring the wood. Then she went to the nightstand and lifted the water pitcher to her lips, drinking gratefully.
From outside came the muffled echo of wheels grating harshly against stone. Marguerite padded to the window and drew open the remaining shutter, wincing at the sudden brightness. Though a delicate pattern of frost partially obscured the view, on the drive below, she could still make out a black carriage behind a team of dark horses. A slender, feminine form stood beside the coach with a gray-haired man. The woman merged with the black shape of the carriage, disappearing inside. The man patted the door.
Ekhart, perhaps? thought Marguerite. No, this man was not as tall or as rigid. Further, his hands were black. Marguerite remembered Donskoy's gloves. She rubbed the glass hastily. The man stepped out of view and the coach lurched forward. Marguerite noticed a long dark crate secured to the back of the conveyance—the same crate that had accompanied her to the castle. Shortly thereafter, a horse cantered away from the keep. It overtook the carriage and assumed the lead. Apparently Donskoy was providing an escort. The road turned sharply, then both the rider and the coach disappeared into the dark folds of the forest.
Marguerite recalled the laughter that had roused her during the night. It had been a woman's. While the source could have been a servant, it certainly was not the tongueless Yelena, and Marguerite had observed no sign of frivolity in anyone else at the castle—save Ljubo. The explanation that came to mind did not please her. Donskoy had entertained a visitor, one he did not wish to reveal, A paramour perhaps? It was not out of the question. Yet he had claimed that guests were rare. All that morose banter over not embracing life, she mused. And meanwhile, he was embracing the warm flesh of a woman.
Perhaps. Perhaps not. There were probably countless explanations- The mysterious visitor could have arrived only that morning, for example. And the laughter Marguerite had heard might well have belonged to someone else, if not to her own fertile imagination.
But who was this woman, then? A well-wisher? Family? Marguerite reminded herself that she knew very little about Donskoy's history. The Vistani in Darkon had claimed he lived virtually alone, but that did not preclude a visiting relative or two. This woman might have been Donskoy's cousin, for all she knew, or his sister. Better a sister, of course. Cousins were still competitors.
The door opened behind her. Marguerite turned as Yelena entered, carrying a tray with bread and a pot of tea.
"Good morning, Yelena," Marguerite said eventy. She abandoned her conjecture about the woman in the carriage. It was time to interrogate her jailer.
Yelena nodded shyly.
"I would like to ask you a few questions," said Marguerite.
The tongueless girl looked surprised and pointed meekly to her lips, shaking her head.
"No, of course I don't expect you to answer. Not with words, But you are quite capable of understanding me, and communication is not beyond you."
The servant stared at the floor, and Marguerite's anger was softened by pity—softened, but not dissolved.
"Did you lock me in this room last night?" she demanded.
Yelena looked up, her eyes wide beneath the ruffled rim of her cap. She shook her head no. Marguerite was almost convinced. Duplicity seemed beyond this poor girl. But appearances, Marguerite knew, could be deceiving. Even the innocent could mask the truth.
"Well, someone did," she continued, "and now you are here. So you must have used a key to enter."
Again, Yelena shook her head no. She walked to the door.
"Do not leave yet," Marguerite commanded.
The mute paused and pulled at the door, with no result. She tugged again and it opened, scraping against the floor. She looked at Marguerite with a questioning expression.
"That proves nothing," said Marguerite harshly. "It was locked before. Mow it is not."
Yet even as she said the words she began to doubt her conviction. It had been locked the night before. She had heard the key, and had pulled with all her might. But this morning? Perhaps she had not tried as hard. She began to wonder whether it was worth pursuing the matter with Yelena at all. The girl's fearful expression told her it was not. For now, the servant's life seemed difficult enough.
"All right, we'll forget about the door," Marguerite said softly. "But wait here while I dress. I'd like to eat breakfast downstairs in the kitchen."
Yelena shook her head and pointed at the tea pot.
To Sleep With Evil Page 4