disappeared, slipping behind oblivion's curtain. 'With child?' she gasped. Then quickly she added, 'I pray that is true, for I know how much it would please you-how much it would please rne as well.' If Donskoy had discerned the slip, or even cared, he didn't show it.
'A son,' he said. 'A son would please me. Last night I was certain my seed took hold. But hope is a vixen, and emotions spawned from passion can deceive even the most potent gods, if one believes in such things. That's why I have asked Zosta to confirm your condition.'
'Zosia?'
'Yes. She knows how such things are determined.'
Even I know how such things are determined, thought Marguerite, and then mentally added, but not the morning after.
The velvet walls at the foot of the bed parted, as a stage curtain might be drawn back to reveal the opening scene of a drama. Zosia crouched before the fire, prodding at something beneath the grate. Enshrouded in her coal-black blouse and skirt, with a black kerchief covering her head, she reminded Marguerite more than ever of a Vistani witch.
Yelena's small rough hands pulled aside the remaining bed curtains, anchoring them to the posts. She shyly avoided her mistress's gaze but nodded feebly when Marguerite greeted her with a simple 'Good morning.' Zosia's dark head bobbed along with the girl's. Donskoy pointed a finger at Yelena and motioned toward the corner. The mute curtsied meekly, then shuffled to her place, head bowed. She stiffened, a sudden victim of taxidermy.
'I am ready to begin now, lord,' said Zosia crisply. She withdrew a small iron rod from the hearth and lifted it toward the window, turning it slowly to examine it in the light. A slick green-biack mass covered the end of the instrument. She approached the bed, holding the rod before her as if it were an eager divining stick and Marguerite were the hidden water.
Marguerite hoisted herself to the edge of the bed and swung her legs around so they dangled above the floor. 'But surely it's too soon for such tests,' she said quickly, making an effort to sound bright. 'Surely you can't tell in a day.' The sudden movement made her head swim.
'It's never too soon,' Donskoy replied firmly, regaining the voice of command. 'Lie back and keep still.' Then he added softly, 'You have nothing to fear, Marguerite.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Does she, Zosia?'
Marguerite lay back and blinked hard. Perhaps she was dreaming. Perhaps this was a farce.
'Oh nay, nay. .' said the old woman soothingly.
She stepped to Donskoy's side and spread her lips in a genuine smile. 'Mot from my feeble hands.' She blew on the tip of the rod as if to cool the slimy glob clinging to it. The center of the mass glowed vividly from within, like a dying ember teased back to life, except that the heart shone green.
Donskoy pulled Marguerite's nightshift up to her chest. Instinctively she moved her hands in a gesture of modesty, then forced herself to remove them. The blood rose to her cheeks, coloring them scarlet.
Donskoy gave a husky laugh. 'Still so shy? I should be affronted, but it becomes you, Marguerite. I will turn away and let Zosia apply the salve to your abdomen. This is women's work, after all. My part is done.' He took a seat before the hearth.
Marguerite eyed the rod in Zosia's hand nervously. 'Won't that burn?' she asked. If ever there were a rude awakening, surely this was it.
'Of course not,' chided Zosia. 'What do you think of me, child? I am letting the mixture cool. I shall apply it with my own finger.'
'What is it?'
'Hani' scoffed the old woman, teasing. 'Would you have me reveal all my secrets before breakfast?'
Donskoy chuckled darkly.
Marguerite felt the color draining from her face. She had imagined Zosia as her friend, her confidant. But she didn't really know the old woman. She didn't really know anyone here. Suddenly it was just as easy to think of Zosia as Donskoy's faithful executioner, and Yelena the silent witness, Or perhaps Zosia would serve as torturer, applying «justice» whenever he, the great lord, demanded it.
Zosia observed Marguerite's blanched expression. 'Don't let your wits scamper off like a mad hare,' she scolded. 'The salve contains only herbs and a few private ingredients, proffered by your lord,' She gathered some of the goop on her finger, then added, 'Each is quite ordinary alone, but mingled together they make the test run true.'
Zosia gently rubbed the sticky substance over Marguerite's stomach, just below the navel, tracing a pair of warm circles, one inside the other. The salve trailed behind the old woman's white finger like the glistening, slimy wake of a crawling slug. A sour smell pricked Marguerite's nostrils, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Zosia motioned to Yelena, who came forth and wrapped the rod in a linen sheet. The girl took this bundle and retreated to her place in the shadows.
'Do you wish to observe the next step, lord?' Zosia asked. 'It is as I described it earlier.'
'No,' Donskoy replied simply. 'But I will observe the outcome.'
'Very well.' Zosia withdrew a brown egg from the folds of her wide woolen skirts.
Marguerite lifted her brow, half in amusement, half in disbelief. 'In these lands, I sense that eggs do more than bind flour.' She spoke in a tow voice so Donskoy might not overhear. Zosia suddenly reminded her of a great black mother hen.
The old woman clucked her tongue. 'Hush, child. Did no one ever teach you of such spells? Did you never read of them?'
Marguerite could not suppress a smile. Her mother's only spell had been turning cream into butter. 'No. But I am aware that customs vary.'
'Tsk. This is no custom, as you say. No quaint little fairy-tale ritual. And no trivial matter to your lord.' She shot a glance over her shoulder at Donskoy, who coughed, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.
Marguerite realized her faux pas. 'Nor to me,' she said firmly. Then she recalled an old saying, something the old women in the village had sometimes muttered. 'Ovum raptum est,' she said. 'That's about eggs, isn't it?'
Zosia cast her a sharp look. ' 'The egg has shattered. To the ignorant, it warns of a coming disaster.' She dropped her voice low. 'Or foretells a miscarriage.'
'Oh.' The talk of disaster made Marguerite think of her dream and the gypsy's curse. It frightened her, but she did not dare speak of it now-not in front of her peevish husband.
'I know another saying,' growled Donskoy. 'He who wishes eggs must endure the clucking of hens.'
Zosia put a finger to her lips and cast another glance over her shoulder. Marguerite could not catch her meaning. Was the old woman asking her to play along? Her mind raced. If a wedding rite of fertility called for her to swallow the egg, what might she do to prove conception? Hatch it? And if Zosia meant to rig the test, proving a pregnancy where none existed, she would refuse. Time had a way of turning that particular ruse to ruin.
'Finish the test now,' said Donskoy. The edge in his voice could have cut stone.
Zosia cracked the egg into a clean porcelain pot beside the bed and motioned to Marguerite. 'Your own water will tell the tale. Mind you to hold your shift so the salve does not smear.'
Marguerite sighed, then reluctantly complied, half curtsying with her nightshift held aloft. Then she stepped aside, her face red with embarrassment. She'd heard of seers who read tea leaves, seers who divined the future from a still pool, but never seers who looked for their answers in a pool like this. Zosia mumbled something while sprinkling an herb into the pot.
Curiosity won over Marguerite. 'How does this work?'
The old woman stared intently into the pot. 'if the egg floats to the surface with the yolk swirled through the white, you carry a daughter. If it floats intact, with the yolk whole from the white, you carry a son. But if any part of it fails to rise, your belly lies vacant.' Her voice dropped as low as the Abyss. 'And if it bubbles and seethes,' she said slowly, 'if it churns and roils, you carry the spawn of a fiend. A monster child, twisted in body and spirit.'
Recalling her dream, Marguerite gasped.
Donskoy exploded, 'Faughl What nonsense are you babbling now, you old witch?' He strode to the bedside and stared into the pot with red-faced revulsion, then turned away. He did not meet Marguerite's gaze.
Marguerite forced herself to peer into the pot. The egg lay at the bottom, still and intact.
'You are not with child,' announced Zosia simply.
Marguerite almost smiled. The dream-curse had been just that, a dream.
'Wretched hag,' growled Donskoy. 'You have done the test wrong.' He raised his hand, then stayed it, waving
