same strong, straight nose; the same high cheekbones and full, wide mouth. But unlike Arturi's face, his was well balanced, and completely unpitted and unpierced; he wore no jewelry except a single hoop, barely visible upon his right ear. The gypsy's clothing was simpler and darker than Arturi's, and more somber than the Vistani garb worn even among the most austere tribes in Darkon.
Marguerite marveled at the smoothness of the Vis-tana's skin; it seemed completely unlined, like a boy's, though his expression and demeanor were that of someone at least thirty or more. His dark, wavy hair flowed to his shoulders without pomade or grease to control it. It was shot through with white around his face, creating a kind of halo against which his dark eyes gleamed.
He smiled at her, then tipped his hat. The eyes tilted downward at the corners, and they looked a little sad.
Marguerite forced herself to break the stare. She nodded but said nothing. She did not want to appear meek, nor did she wish to invite the improper company of a stranger. Caution was warranted.
In a deep voice, the Vistana said, 'Arturi can be off-putting.'
She wondered how he knew.
'Nonetheless, he spoke the truth/I continued the man. His voice was oddly soothing. 'Wait here as he told you. Donskoy's men will arrive soon. And there is no safety in the cover of these woods.'
Again Marguerite wondered at the extent of his knowledge. He spoke as if they knew one another, as if they had passed the entire journey chatting together in some cozy conveyance. Prudence dictated she remain on guard, but she felt the tension easing from her body.
The Vistana rode to the fork and reined his horse to a stop. The beast pawed impatiently at the ground. Though full morning still lay an hour beneath the horizon, false dawn was approaching; the sky had lightened to pale gray, against which the rider and his horse stood in dark silhouette. The gypsy turned toward Marguerite, tipped his hat again, then guided his horse toward the left fork. A roiling cloud of mist suddenly drifted across the road, engulfing his form. When it passed, the man had vanished.
Marguerite sat on the oblong box Arturi had placed beside her bridal chest, suddenly more alone than before. Waiting seemed her only option. She pulled her cloak near. The worst dangers lay behind in Darkon, she told herself, with the fiends of Lord Aza-lin's secret police, those inhuman monsters who had ravaged her sheltered and simple life. Ahead lay the promise of sanctuary, perhaps even affection.
She drew her knees up onto the long black box and rested her head upon her arms, her cloak flowing around her like a tent. Her gaze remained fixed upon the road ahead. A trio of little gray-and-white warblers flitted past; they were vista-chiri, the bright-songed followers of gypsy caravans. Except for the birds and the lightening sky, the scene remained unchanged.
Marguerite tried to imagine the men who would come to retrieve her. Perhaps they would steer a carriage in which Donskoy himself rode. She wondered what he would think of her, whether she would please him. So much depended on it. Certainly others had found her desirable. But if Donskoy knew of one suitor in particular, he might be repulsed.
Creaking wood and jangling chains disrupted her thoughts. She started and rose.
A narrow old wagon drawn by a tired gray horse was approaching from the right side of the fork. The cart groaned and clattered, protesting the kettle-holes and jagged rocks beneath its wheels. On the bench huddled two men. The driver was tall, narrow, and rigid, like a wooden pole in a slim dark coat. He looked even taller because of his peculiar fur hat, which resembled a black bee hive built upon his head. Despite the uneven ride, he swayed only slightly.
His companion, in contrast, jiggled like half-jelled lard. He sat barely as high as the tall man's shoulder, yet his haunches eclipsed nearly two-thirds of the bench. With his ridiculous grin, he looked like a squat happy toad swaddled in tattered brown woolens. His elbows bowed outward and bounced with the rest of him, creating the impression that he had just told a joke and was nudging his companion to emphasize the punch line.
The wagon drew to a halt. The tall man tipped his head toward Marguerite. Like his body, his pasty face was long and narrow, with damp gray eyes set beneath a pale silvery brow. A fringe of white hair dangled beneath the rim of his hat.
The driver said, 'Marguerite de Boche, I presume?' He lifted one eyebrow to punctuate the question. The rest of his face remained strangely immobile.
Marguerite nodded, but could not find the words to speak.
'Allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Ekhart, and this is Ljubo.' Ekhart waved at his oafish companion. 'We are humble servants to Lord Donskoy. It is our pleasure to escort you to your new home.'
Ekhart's words were practiced and polite, but he barely moved his jaw as he spoke; his mouth looked like a long incision drawn horizontally across his face. The gash was rimmed by a pair of thin, bumpy tjps- grayish pink and slightly raised, like scar tissue. At the corners, they were so dry and scabrous that to smile might cause them to bleed.
Ljubo grinned ridiculously, exposing his broken and stained teeth. 'So very nice to meet you.' He gave quick little nods as he spoke, a silent and staccato yes-yes-yes to underscore his words. Even after the nodding stopped, his sagging red cheeks continued to jiggle.
'The feeling is mutual,11 replied Marguerite. 'For a time, I was afraid no one would come.'
'Yes,' said Ekhart. He paused, as if annoyed by the burden of conversation. 'It can be lonely out here in the wild.'
Ljubo oozed off the seat and plopped his feet onto the road. His legs all but disappeared as they bowed to absorb the shock of his weight.
He waddled toward the cargo. Ekhart watched carefully but made no move to assist.
Marguerite watched too. Ljubo's hands were stubby and round. He wore the tattered remnants of woolen gloves, and his fingertips, left bare, were dirty and rough.
Despite his almost crippled appearance, the squat man readily hoisted Marguerite's bridal chest into the back of the cart. But he struggled with the heavy oblong box, succeeding only in lifting one end until it stood upright like a sarcophagus. Ekhart grunted, then reluctantly climbed off the wagon to help. Beside Ljubo's doughy shape, the tall man looked brittle.
They secured the box, then Ljubo hefted himself into the wagon alongside the cargo, leaving the bench free for Marguerite. He grinned again and gestured toward the seat.
Ekhart extended his hand. 'Milady,' he said curtly. He helped Marguerite onto the perch, then settled beside her and reclaimed the reins. The horse turned the wagon through the neck of the fork, and they journeyed in the direction from which the men had come.
Morning was fuil upon them, though no sun was visible- The air was still damp, and the sky glowed faintly with a cold white light Black spruce and heavily fringed pines towered beside the road as far as the eye could see, leaning toward one another as if ready to fall. Some had already toppled against their neighbors, with tangled roots tilting out of the soil like bodies unearthed from the grave.
'Is it far?' Marguerite asked.
'Half an hour, maybe less,' Ekhart replied.
Marguerite nodded and smiled faintly. She was glad the journey was near an end. Though part of her feared the future, she did not regret her decision to leave Darkon. She could not. There had been no choice.
'You're lucky,' said Ljubo behind her. Ekhart frowned and glanced over his shoulder, but Ljubo ignored the look.
'Oh?' said Marguerite. She wondered if Ljubo had somehow been reading her thoughts.
'Often this road can't be traveled at all. The castle gets sealed in for months at a time, what with the ice or mud or fallen timber. Then, when we can travel out again, we've all but forgotten the paths. Some of them-'
'Ljubo,' Ekhart interrupted. 'Do not prattle on like a fool/
Marguerite turned to smile at the man behind her. 'Oh, but I'm interested.'
'Of course, milady,' Ekhart replied evenly, 'but it should be your lord's pleasure to acquaint you with your new home. He would be displeased-rather, quite disappointed-if we stole that opportunity by speaking out of turn.'
Ljubo fell silent and stared at his nails, which were caked with reddish brown soil. He began to pick at the frayed dry skin around the nail bed, showering his lap with tiny flakes. He appeared to be disintegrating. Marguerite returned her gaze to the road.
For a moment, she remained silent as well. But her curiosity was piqued. Determined to learn something
