air above the turf, creating clouds of fine, stinging spray. She made a plan as she raced. She would go directly to her chambers. If Donskoy confronted her about her wandering, she would not lay the blame on Zosia-it was a feeble excuse anyway, and it might only serve to bring the old woman's wrath upon her. She might say she left by the front door, meaning only to walk the clearing, then foolishly succumbed to the lure of the forest. Contrite and apologetic, she would admit to having lost her way; that much would be obvious from the circumstances. But as to Ramus, she would not mention him.
She hurried up the long flight of stone steps, twice slipping on their wet surface and falling to her hands and knees. She prayed the doors would not be locked, sparing her the humiliation of battering on them till someone- probably Ekhart-appeared from within. By the time she reached the summit, she was soaked to the skin.
To her astonishment, Yelena stood at the entrance, holding the great door ajar. The tongueless waif motioned frantically for Marguerite to hurry, emitting gravelly little squeaks from her cavernous mouth. Marguerite did not need the encouragement.
They flew up the stairs. Marguerite slowed their progress twice-first to seize a torch to light their way, next to stop at the library near her chamber. Indiscriminately, she grabbed three books from a shelf while Yelena fidgeted and squeaked behind her. As Marguerite turned to leave, Yelena ran toward her and knelt on the floor, using her own skirt to mop up a muddy puddle. It had barely been perceptible.
When they reached the room, Zosia stood by the hearth. She put a finger to her lips. Yelena grabbed the books from Marguerite and dropped them on the table by the fire. A pot of tea rested there already, beside a cup with a trace of leaves at the bottom, as if it had just been emptied. Yelena proceeded to strip Marguerite of her garments. Then the giri shoved a linen shift over Marguerite's head, handed her a pair of slippers, and pushed her into the chair by the hearth. Marguerite responded like a puppet, too exhausted to resist. She put her faith in her accomplices.
Yelena rubbed a shawl over Marguerite's damp hair in a fruitless attempt to dry it. The mute was still struggling when a knock came at the door. Marguerite grabbed a book and opened it to the middle, quickly righting it when she saw the volume was upside down. Zosia motioned to Yelena, who picked up the tea tray and shuffled toward the door, head bowed low. Tears welled in the mute girl's eyes. Apparently, she feared for herself; Marguerite could not imagine that the servant felt such empathy for her.
'Yes?' Marguerite called. But the door had already opened, and Donskoy now stood upon the threshold, surveying the scene. He held a square bundle under one arm, wrapped in black cloth. Yeiena slunk past him, never meeting his gaze.
Donskoy entered the chamber and flung the package onto the bed, then strode to her side.
'So,' he said, reaching down to kiss the back of her fingers. 'Are you enjoying my library, Marguerite?'
'Yes, thank you,'f was her only reply. It took alE her concentration to keep the hand Donskoy held from shaking.
He let the hand drop and pulled the book from her lap. 'Secrets ofSwordplay,' he said. 'My dear, are you expecting a contest?'
'I'm a little curious about the subject,' she replied.
'Ekhart tells me you wandered out without him this morning.'
'Yes,' she said, 'I'm sorry, I-'
'I sent her out with Yelena,' Zosia interrupted.
Donskoy sneered. 'Yelena had other matters to attend to.'
'It was for a very short time,' said Zosia smoothly. 'Ekhart's company is hardly pleasant for a young woman.'
'Ekhart told me she has been gone the entire day.'
'Ektiart,' replied Zosia, in a low, gravelly voice, 'is mistaken. Apart from her excursion, Marguerite has visited your upstairs library. She spent the remaining time with me in the kitchen, where we discussed how a bride might please her husband.'
Donskoy chuckled darkly, 'if I catch your drift, old woman, you are not a suitable instructor.' He lifted the other two books from the table, and smiled as he read the first title: UA Good Woman's Primer. Let's read a bit shall we? 'When you go out in public, shun questionable associates, but surround yourself with companions who are suited to your position. Keep your gaze eight feet in front of you and on the ground without looking at any strange woman and most certainly not at any strange man …. ' Donskoy smiled with amusement. 'This should be an easy matter for you. Your only suitable companion here is me, and rarely would you meet a stranger.'
The second volume, Marguerite saw, was titled Van Rtchten's Guide to the Vista.nL
Donskoy did not voice the name. Instead he scowled and flung the book into the fire. 'Worthless slop,' he muttered. 'I must pay more attention to my library. And what are you doing here now, Zosia?'
'I have been reading Marguerite's tea leaves and telling her what a wondrous day she will have tomorrow.I'
Donskoy was silent, smiling slyly. Marguerite felt sure he knew the entire scene was a ruse, but for some reason, he chose to accept it-or to ignore it.!f he acknowledged that his wife and his servants had deceived him, he would have had to act upon it.
He pointed to the bed. 'I have brought you a gown,' he said solemnly, 'for the wedding.'
'Thank you,' Marguerite began, «but-» She saw Zosia's admonishing look and Donskoy's own tense reaction. 'But you are too kind.'
'Until tomorrow, then,' he said. He kissed her hand stiffly, squeezing it so tightly that Marguerite winced. Then he turned to leave the room.
Marguerite exhaled slowly. «Zosia-» she said.
The old woman put a finger to her lips, then tipped her head toward the door. 'Yelena and I will come to ready you in the morning,' she said. Then, Zosia, too, left the room.
As Marguerite slumped in the chair and closed her eyes, she heard the dull click of a key in the lock.
FIVE
Marguerite lay half-awake through most of the night. Time and again, she slipped into the murky pool of dreams only to rise abruptly to the surface, panicked and gasping for air. With each ascension, the demons from which she had fled slithered back into the black depths, patiently awaiting her return. Mever did they brave the light and invade her conscious thoughts. When fatigue claimed her at last, morning was near; outside, a pale, cold glimmer lit the horizon. She fell into a dreamless, numbing sleep.
When she awoke, Yetena's hand lay upon her shoulder, gently shaking her awake. The sallow face before her was less troubled than it had been the previous night, but even in her hazy half-lucidity, Marguerite could not miss the new disfigurement; an ugly weal lay across Yelena's cheek. The tongueless girl greeted her with a feeble smile, lips fused as one. Then she went to the window to throw open the shutter.
Marguerite rose and stretched, gazing about the room, struggling to clear the cobwebs from her head. The chamber was dim, but it was as warm and welcoming as she had ever seen it. The bed curtains had been pulied aside and tied with gold ribbon. Flames danced in the hearth, as the logs popped and crackled in contented submission. A tray with tea, bread, and hard cheese sat upon on the table by the fire. A large bouquet of dried flowers lay beside it, faded and mummified, yet still tinted in delicate shades of ivory and lavender.
Marguerite stretched, then shook her head. A round wooden tub had been placed before the hearth and lined with linen sheets. Long, lazy ghosts of steam rose from the water's surface. She could not imagine how Yelena's bony body had managed to haul the tub into her room, much less the heated water. Ljubo perhaps? And all the while she had dozed.
Then it struck her. Today was her wedding day-the day of bonding till death. She had known, and yet she had let this knowledge be blurred by the remnants of sleep. An eddy of conflicting emotion rose within her-hope churned by doubt, longing tainted by fear. It's only wedding jitters, she thought, releasing an unconscious laugh. Every bride succumbs. But she did not feel like 'every bride.'
The events of the previous day drifted back to her on a wave of guilt. Perhaps she should tell Donskoy about her experience after all. So many questions remained unanswered. The rotting vardo was a curiosity; did Donskoy know of it? Who was Ramus, and why was he in this land? Donskoy probably didn't know, but he might be interested in learning of the gypsy's presence. Of course, by now, Ramus had doubtlessly moved on. Vistani seldom
