'Congratulations,' announced Donskoy. 'You are my bride. Until death do us part, you are mine.'
The four onlookers held their palms to the sky and rapidly snapped their fingers. Apparently, this counted as applause.
Her husband turned to the audience as if he were addressing a large crowd. He flung his arms wide to embrace them ail, crying, 'And now, my friends, we must celebrate!' Then he turned to Marguerite, grinning wildly, 'Ah, yes,' he said in a low, guttural tone. 'And now we must feast!'
Ljubo shambled to the wall and flung open the first shutter. A glorious shaft of light entered through the blue glass and pierced the room. He proceeded to the next window, and then each in turn, until he had flooded the chapel with a riot of colored rays-red, blue, green, and gold. Marguerite's heart lifted with each new exposure.
Lord Donskoy put his arm around her waist and began steering her down the aisle. It was not until they reached the last pew that she noticed a fifth guest had entered the chapel.
In the back row, well away from the windows, sat an elegant young woman in a jet traveling cloak. She looked like a porcelain doll with dark curls, ghostly skin, and enormous green eyes. A wide red ribbon encircled her long, slender neck.
As Donskoy led Marguerite toward the door, the woman's lips parted in a perfect smile. 'Congratulations,' she said, mouthing the word so slowly that Marguerite could see her shining white teeth and her tender pink tongue. The word itself was barely audible.
Donskoy stopped and stared, as if surprised to discover the new guest. Then he nodded curtty to the woman and swept Marguerite across the threshold.
SIX
After departing the chapel, Marguerite and her new husband entered the keep alone. A single torch flickered far ahead, a feeble beacon shining across a sea of blackness. She found herself nearly blind, but Donskoy seemed unaffected by the murk. He slipped his arm around her waist and led her up a narrow sloping passage, sweeping her along as the wind carries a leaf. When they had walked for several minutes, he paused, drawing her aside.
'How do you feel?' he asked, pressing her back against the cool, damp wall.
'A little strange,' she replied. Strange, yes, and somewhat unraveled-still loose from the wine, perhaps. But not so loose that she had forgotten the woman in the chape!.
Donskoy stroked her cheek with his glove, then lifted a handful of her hair to his nose. 'In a good way, I trust,' he said. He snuffled the hair softly, then drew a lock over his tongue.
The gesture seemed oddly bestial, and Marguerite knew that she should reply, but her own tongue had become heavy and uncooperative. 'Yes,' she said finally. 'In a good way.'
Donskoy's fingers slid to her shoulder, drawing her gown aside. The hand slipped to her waist, resting on her hip, as his teeth scraped teasingly across her bare collarbone.
He has announced a feast, Marguerite thought. Perhaps I am to be it. Perhaps, after all, there will be no jubilant celebration, and no one to ferry me to a carefully appointed wedding bed. Lord Donskoy intends to seal our union in the dungeons. She braced herself.
Donskoy pulled away, smirking slyly. He winked, not saying a word, then straightened her gown and patted her shoulder. They continued their winding ascent.
Marguerite smiled. It appeared that her husband had a sense of humor. In a corner of her mind, a great door was slowly closing, locking out the past. Admittedly, Donskoy was mercurial and the apparent product of arcane traditions, but he was not the horror she had fled in Darkon. Isolation and despair had made him rough; he would mellow in time. She would help. And they would succeed as man and wife, if left unimpeded-if no one interfered.
'Who was the woman in the chapel?' Marguerite asked boldly. She already suspected the answer.
'The woman?' Donskoy's voice was casual. 'That was Zosia who joined us at the altar.'
Marguerite kept her tone equally casual and light. 'No, the woman in the back of the chapel. Wearing the black cloak.'
'Ah.' He paused briefly. 'An unexpected guest.'
'You did not invite her?'
'Not directly.'
Marguerite found this curious. 'I hope i am not the cause of some misunderstanding. Certainty I would welcome any friend of yours to the castle.'
'How generous,' said Donskoy curtly. 'And how amusing that you consider such invitations within your purview.' His tone remained light, yet it carried a subtle note of warning. She had asserted herself too forcefully.
'I only mean to say that I look forward to meeting any friend of yours, and that you do not have to worry about my reception. I shall entertain any visitor with the same graciousness as you do yourself.'
Donskoy gave a throaty chuckle. 'That is generous indeed.'
'Is our guest Jacqueline Montarri?'
Lord Donskoy halted abruptly, his fingers pressing into her waist. 'How do you know that name?' he asked. His tone was soft, yet measured.
'I saw Miss Montarri yesterday morning. I saw her only briefly, and Zosia told me who she was.' Marguerite did not reveal that she had seen Donskoy as well,
'Zosia speaks far too freely.'
Marguerite answered chattily, as if deaf to any underlying tension. 'Actually, Zosia told me very little. Just the name, and that Jacqueline Montarri is an old friend.'
'I see …'
They walked on, and Marguerite patiently awaited his next response.
'Well, it doesn't matter,' Donskoy added resolutely. 'Jacqueline's presence comes as something of a surprise, but you would have become acquainted with her soon enough. She visits quite frequently. I must warn you that she may seem rather coarse, despite her elegant exterior.'
Marguerite was not at all surprised by this last revelation.
Donskoy continued, 'She will join us for the feast I have planned. My associates are already waiting in the great hall to meet you. We shall celebrate the marriage.'
'Your associates?' Marguerite asked. The term was peculiar. Certainly a lord might have henchmen, soldiers, hirelings. .
'Loyal followers,' explained Donskoy, 'companions even before J became a lord. But that is the past. And now, we look forward.'
Without warning, they had gained the foyer, Donskoy led her to the opposite side, to a pair of wide doors. 'Ready?' he asked.
She nodded.
He flung open the doors, exposing the castle's great hall. Marguerite gazed in awe at the immense chamber before her; it was at least four times the size of the room in which they had previously dined. She felt as though she had shrunk. The ceiling vaulted upward through the next two levels of the keep, past a narrow gallery and into the shadows. A row of chandeliers descended from this darkness-spiders of iron and wood, dangling from strands of rusty chain, their legs aflame with myriad candles. An enormous, gaping fireplace glowed in the left wall. Smoke and ash whirled before the open hearth like gray snow stirred by a sudden draft.
At the far end of the hall rose a dais supporting the lord's high table, which was freshly dressed in white linen. Marguerite noted that table seemed small; but perhaps this was intentional, to make the lord seem large. Twin rows of rough-hewn tables and benches created a broad aisle that led directly to the honored position. All of the tables were empty, save the pair just before the platform, which were occupied by about two dozen men, sullen and silent. Marguerite felt a catch her throat.
A man in a black and red doublet rose from his seat, lifting his palms toward the ceiling. He began to snap his fingers. Slowly, the other men followed suit, one by one, until the room was filled with a sound like a hundred pebbles dropping.
Donskoy gripped Marguerite's hand. 'Smile,' he said. 'And show them how tovely you are, how full of life.'
