formalize his attire, meeting with some success; he wore a clean black woolen tunic over his tattered trousers, and his ragged fingers had been freshly wrapped in crisp white bandages, already soiled by the juices of the bird.
It occurred to Marguerite that she had assumed the castle harbored a few other hands to serve Donskoy- that somewhere, in the keep's foreboding recesses, lurked chandlers, chamber maids, pantlers, footmen-not many, perhaps, but certainly a few. Now she began to wonder if the foursome she had already met maintained the castle in its entirety. Even given the genera! state of decay, it seemed impossible. She looked around for any sign of Ekhart or Zosia. Neither was present; perhaps they were employed behind the scenes.
Ljubo plunked his platter directly in front of Jacque-line, who sneered at him, then teasingly blew him a — ;ss. Ljubo chortled as he and Yelena retreated.
'A toast,' said Donskoy. 'To my bride,'
'To new faces,' added Jacqueline, lowering her eyes to cast a knowing look at Donskoy. If he reacted, Marguerite did not notice.
As Yelena and Ljubo brought forth other dishes and bread, the feasting began. Donskoy carved a piece of the peacock and placed it on Marguerite's platter. 'It is my pleasure to serve you, my dear'
'Take note of that, Marguerite,' cooed Jacqueline. 'Such words rarely come from his lips. You may never hear them after tonight.'
Donskoy ignored the remark, a fact that annoyed Marguerite even more than the comment itself. She fought to keep the heat from rising to her face.
'You mentioned home,' said Marguerite, intent on taking the high ground as hostess. 'Where is that, Jacqueline?'
'Barovia. My estate lies there.'
'Is it a difficult journey?'
'It can seem that way at times, especially for someone who lacks my resourcefulness.'
Jacqueline withdrew a dagger from somewhere under the table; Marguerite assumed it had slid from a sheath on her thigh.
'Always carry your own blade,' said Jacqueline, relieving the bird of half its flesh. 'It's an old rogue's adage. Most hosts fail to supply something suitable, though Milos is, of course, an exception.'
'A rogue's adage?' Marguerite asked. 'You don't look the type.'
'Really. , And how does the type look?'
'More utilitarian in dress, perhaps. Less fragile.'
'I assure you,' said Jacqueline, 'I am not so fragile. But I will take that as a compliment. It has indeed been many years since I had to struggle amongst savage company to maintain myself. Many years, in fact, since mutual interests led me to Donskoy. Do you still remember that night, Milos?'
'I do,' he replied.
'Those times were perhaps rougher,' said Jacqueline, 'yet in many ways richer. As I recall, Milos, you were flush with the rewards of a successful venture.'
'Yes,' he replied, smiling. 'Highly successful. And, as I recall, you intended to share in those rewards- without an invitation.'
Marguerite intervened, fearing their reverie might soon become a wait that encircled them completely. 'What kind of venture'?' she asked.
Jacqueline merely smiled, and Donskoy sat chewing, as if to consider his reply before answering.
'Does it surprise you, Marguerite, to learn that I was not born to this so-called grandeur?' He waved his hand at the room.
'No. I suppose I knew it.'
'And how is that?'
'No mention of family, perhaps, no coat of arms, no portrait gallery. I'm not certain.'
'Perhaps I simply prefer to keep my ancestors well-buried.'
Marguerite pondered for a moment. She had known that Donskoy was not born to this castle. Then she recalled. 'I believe Ekhart told me you were not the keep's original owner, and you yourself said you 'came'to this place.'
'Indeed, that is possible. It would seem my lovely bride harbors a deep memory, as well as a clever wit. I II have to take care what I say.'
'I wish you wouldn't,' Marguerite replied. 'A husband and wife should share all things intimately, and thereby build a fortress, and let no others assault it.'
Jacqueline chortled. Donskoy silenced her with a lancing gaze, but a smirk pulled gently at the corners of his lips.
'You've been reading the Good Woman's Primer, I wnagine,' he said with some amusement. 'And of course you are correct.' He stroked his goblet against Marguerite's cheek, letting it drop to her collarbone. She felt a trickle of spilled wine and quickly dabbed her chest with the edge of the tablecloth. 'But do not trouble yourself,' he whispered. 'Later we shall share things intimately.'
Marguerite tensed; clearly her husband's demeanor was getting loose. 'So,' she said, 'you were telling me about a successful venture.'
'Was I?'
'Please do. I want to share in all your successes, past and future. What sort of venture was it?'
'How shall I put it…?'
Jacqueline chimed, 'May I assist?'
'You may not,' Donskoy said firmly. He patted Marguerite's hand. 'I have played many roles, my dear, but at the time in question, I was a procurer-no, a kind of savior. I made it my business to fulfill certain special and difficult needs of those who had the means to pay well. Great lords in name, some of them, though of course I was their equal by right. If not their superior.'
'Don't you mean by rite. Lord Donskoy?' quipped Jacqueline.
Marguerite did not catch the meaning.
'I do not,' he growled in disgust. 'Such are your own concerns.'
'Forgive me, Donskoy,' said Jacqueline, in a voice as smooth as melted butter. 'I could not resist the pun.'
Donskoy sneered. 'There is very little you resist.'
'Touche, mon cher.'
Donskoy added, 'Besides, to linger on events long past is a mark of weakness. This is a time for looking forward.'
'I agree entirely,' replied Jacqueline. 'The future is rich with possibilities.'
Marguerite wanted very much to hear more about Donskoy's history, but she decided not to press the matter. Staring at Jacqueline's young face, she could not imagine that this woman had seen anything 'long past'; Jacqueline was remarkably well preserved, doubtlessly by some dark magic. Donskoy steered the conversation toward more banal topics, such as the quality of the wine, which he described as 'a recent import.' The feast progressed; eventually the great pig arrived. It offered an obscene amount of meat. When Marguerite commented as much, Donskoy suggested she learn to enjoy such excesses, then informed her that Zosia had a way with old flesh; it would hardly go to waste. The body of the pig went to the associates. Ljubo planted the boar's head on the lord's high table. The mouth was stuffed with the ani-mal1s own heart. As Jacqueline and Donskoy smacked their lips noisily, Marguerite sipped at her wine, trying not to meet the boar's shriveled stare.
'So, Marguerite,' ventured Jacqueline. 'You are from Darkon.'
'Yes, from a village near Martok.'
'I've heard an interesting legend about Darkon,' said Jacqueline. 'Do you know it?'
'How could I,' quipped Marguerite, 'when you haven't described it.' She felt emboldened by the — ine.
'They say that Darkonian soil leeches memories from those who tread upon it too long.'
If they were correct, we'd all be amnesiacs.'
'But how would you know?'
“I beg your pardon?'
'How does a man know what he has forgotten, after he no longer knows he knew it at all?'
An interesting point.' Marguerite paused for a moment. 'But an amnesiac understands his plight because he
