lingered in any place.
Marguerite knew, however, that she would volunteer nothing to Donskoy. While she regretted the subterfuge, her guilty conscience would not control her. The matter had been settled already. Now was a time to look forward. She was grateful to Zosia and Yelena for their assistance. They had risked a great deal with their web of white lies, and she did not wish to betray their kindness. Moreover, if she were honest with herself, she would have admitted that she enjoyed sharing a secret with this pair; together, they had created a fortress of feminine wile. After all, what had Donskoy been doing yesterday? She would never be allowed to question it.
A knock came at the door, and Zosia entered without waiting for a reply. She surveyed the scene, shaking her head. 'Zo little progress,' she said in her inimitable husky tone. 'You haven't eaten, Marguerite, and your bath is growing cold.'
'I'm not hungry,' Marguerite replied.
'Tsk. Then do as Zosia says. Into the tub now.'
Marguerite stripped to the skin and dutifully stepped in, immersing her legs to the knees, it was a standing tub; there was not room enough to sit. The water had been scented with rose petals. Zosia reached out and gently turned her backward, then forward again, inspecting her as if buying a bolt of cloth. Then the old woman began to bathe her, humming softly as she stroked Marguerite's limbs. Occasionally Zosia voiced the words to the tune, as if she had suddenly remembered them, but the song was in a language Marguerite did not understand.
Marguerite studied her own body in the mirror opposite, wondering what Donskoy would think of it, if she would please him. Her plump, round curves proved that she had eaten well, though not to excess; her family had never known famine. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, save for the faint marks on her throat. She drew her fingers across the flecks, wondering if they would be apparent enough to draw her husband's notice when the two of them were alone and unclothed. The marks of the snake.
Zosia said softly, 'You needn't worry. The vampire only touched you at the neck, did he not? You are still pure enough for Lord Donskoy.'
Marguerite's mouth dropped open. 'How did you know?'
Zosia cackled. 'Your secrets are not so secret after all, eh? Your lord knows of this incident as well, but it doesn't concern him. He is a worldly man, quite capable of overlooking the unpleasantries he deems it best to ignore. What matters to him is that you are strong and pure, the perfect wife, the appropriate vessel for his child. You have worried for naught.'
Marguerite was amazed. If Donskoy knew these things, why had he questioned her so over dinner? The answer was obvious. He had wanted to test her. Fortunately, she must have passed, for their wedding was soon to occur.
Yelena stood beside the bed, struggling to unwrap the ominous black bundle Donskoy had delivered the previous night. Marguerite had hesitated to open it herself, fearing the contents might look as grim as the cover. She had once read a tale about a place where brides wore black to signify the death of their youth and innocence. Here in this macabre fairy-tale keep, anything seemed possible.
In her trunk lay the simple but precious dress she and her mother had prepared together: a white shift with a gaily embroidered bodice, and a wide-sweeping overskirt adorned with a profusion of multi-colored ribbons. Her mother had cried with virtually every stitch, half with joy, half with sorrow, in a way that only mothers can. Marguerite wished she could have honored that memory by wearing the gown, but her mother, she knew, would understand. A wedding marked a turning point, after which a bride honored her husband above alt others-after which there was no turning back.
The black bundle was so well tied that Yelena had to fetch a knife to cut the string. To Marguerite's relief, the servant extracted an ivory and blush gown from within. It was sheer and glistening, and flowed from its hiding place like liquid silk. The long train trailed behind as Yelena stepped back from the bed with eyes wide, as if she were pulling a worm from the earth and had discovered it was endless. The gown's cut was narrow and slim through the bodice, flaring slightly at the hips. The sleeves were wide and flowing. It was a masterpiece, made of layer upon layer of translucent fabric, each no thicker than a layer of skin.
The remaining preparations passed in a blur of nimble hands and muffled compliments. Before she knew It, Marguerite stood in her gown before the mirror, wondering where her own flesh ended and the dress began. The fabric was remarkable; soft and velvety to the touch, yet faintly crinkled, and shot through with tiny glistening threads like capillaries.
Zosia took Yelena and left, saying that Ekhart would come to escort Marguerite to the chapel. Marguerite was dismayed, but did not object. As the castle cook, Zosia would be busy with preparations, as would Yelena. Besides, the role of escort called for a fatherly figure, and, aside from Donskoy himself, Ekhart was the only man appropriate. Certainly, Ljubo would not have made a gallant figure for the short journey.
Marguerite sank into a chair before the fire, letting her eyes close, forcing her breaths to become more even. A log burst, erupting in sparks, and she leaned forward quickly to check her skirts. Something hissed and spat beside the grate. Marguerite looked closely. It was the book Lord Donskoy had thrown onto the fire the previous night. Amazingly, it had not been destroyed. The cover seethed and bubbled faintly, but the pages were still visible at the side; they had not been reduced to ash.
Glad for the distraction, Marguerite reached into the fire with a poker and dragged the book forward, allowing it to cool. It seemed a shame to burn any tome, especially a scholarly work. She took the black shroud in which her wedding dress had been wrapped and placed it over the book, lifting it carefully from the floor so as not to soil her hands or gown with soot. Slowly she pushed the cloth into place, until the book was securely wrapped. She looked around the room. The cabinet door hung open. Marguerite laid the charred book inside, near the back.
A knock sounded from the hall. Marguerite bareiy managed to close the cabinet before Ekhart opened the chamber door and stood at the threshold, saying nothing. Marguerite felt a sudden chill. She went to him quietly, forgetting the dead bouquet of flowers that had been on the table when she awoke.
The pair walked in silence. At the first turn, Ekhart turned and stared deliberately at her-a look full of contempt and condemnation. Marguerite's temper flared. Who was Ekhart to judge her? Who. . Her unspoken tirade quickly faded. Her mind had slipped easily into this diversion, but she knew this was no time for a battle of wills. She struggled to focus on the upcoming ceremony, and she felt a sudden, peculiar desire to look 'fresh.' The word echoed in her mind, though she could not determine why.
Ekhart led her through the castle with a slow, stiff gait, never varying his even pace. Once, she stumbled on the hem of her gown and, to her horror, left a ragged piece lying on the floor. The torn fabric seemed to shrink and curl, becoming dark pink at the edge. Ekhart tugged on Marguerite's arm, and she abandoned the piece behind her.
Soon each twist and jog in their winding path was mirrored by a turn of her stomach. Wedding jitters, she repeated silently. Every bride succumbs.
In time she and Ekhart stood at the threshold of a chapel. How they had reached it, Marguerite could not say. Ekhart sank his bony fingers into her elbow and whispered, 'Stay here until the priest calls you forth.' He looked at her, then sneered and added, 'If you can manage.'
Ekhart stepped across the threshold and walked toward the front of the dark chapel. His silhouette quickly faded into the shadows.
Marguerite gazed after him. The chapel was small, but the ceiling soared to an impossible height, as if to penetrate the realms of gods. In the inky darkness, she could not discern the apex of the vault; she knew the distance only by the pointed window set high overhead. Light streamed through the crimson glass, creating a pale shaft of color that pooled like blood when it struck the floor near the front of the church, ft was the only light of any brightness. The left wall was rent by a row of tall, narrow windows, but the shutters were closed tightly upon them; each dark, heavy panel was illumined by a small candle fixed in a bracket beside it. The tapers struggled in vain to brighten the nearby area, but inches from each flame the darkness won out.
Slowly Marguerite's eyes adjusted to the scene. Pews blackened with age emerged from the shadows. Near the front of the chapel two dark figures sat flanking the aisle-one tall and slim, the other small and stooped. They were mirrored by another unmoving pair seated near the back of the chamber. Marguerite struggled to discern the nearer couple's identity, but failed; they were facing away.
A light flared at the front of the chapel, revealing a dark figure in a hooded robe. His fingers were stroking a line of candles on the aitar, coaxing the wicks to life. Marguerite blinked. He held no taper, no burning candle whose fire would be shared with the others. Instead he needed only the long, curving nails of his fingers. A mere touch
