that cost Valeska her life. 'But I'm sure I won't discover such a passage. I'm not that clever.'
'You are too clever to meet such a fate, or so I would hope,' he said. Lord Donskoy pointed to the rear of the hall. 'Through there, of course, lie old pantries, a buttery, a stair to the great ovens where our nonexistent serfs might bake their weekly bread. Zosia and Yelena used the ovens to prepare our feast. Otherwise Zosia prefers the smaller kitchen, which gives access to her garden. They are linked by a passage.'
Marguerite did not reveal that she already knew of Zosia's kitchen-and of the garden beyond. And she certainly could not comment on the garden's secret door.
Donskoy took her arm and led her out from the hall. They crossed the vestibule and climbed the stairs leading to her own chamber.
'Do you ever wonder who your companions are in this part of the keep?'
Marguerite lifted her brow. 'My companions?'
'In the figurative sense, of course. Yelena acts as if the rooms are haunted. I imagine she is only hesitant to add their upkeep to her duties.'
'It is so much for one woman,'
Donskoy paused as if to counter, then frowned, saying nothing. He opened one room after the other, revealing empty, decaying chambers. Half held only dust and long strands of cobwebs that waved from the ceiling as he pushed forth the door. The others contained a few formless pieces of furniture draped in damp-looking sheets.
'You see?' he said. 'Mot worth your curiosity. Your own chamber is by far the largest and the best. A sanctuary well worth your appreciation.'
Marguerite began to grow tired. 'Yes, It's a wonderful room. I am honored to have it.' And I should be, she thought. He has obviously taken great pains to make it so comfortable.
'Thanks go in part to Zosia, I suppose,' Donskoy added. 'She selected the chamber for you, knowing it to be among those least affected by rot.' He forged ahead, moving down the hall as if eager to be rid of an unpleasant chore. 'Mow then,' he mumbled. 'What else might I show you? Through the first door down in the vestibule, you can reach the east wing and the old workshops. A chandler's room, a joinery, a hermit's cell or two intended for visiting clergy. [Naturally we have no need of that wing. I suggest you let it go unexplored.'
And what of the dungeons? thought Marguerite. What of the curse'? But she did not voice these thoughts.
'Are there many levels underground?' she asked.
He raised a brow. 'Indeed. But I must insist that you leave them unexplored as well. They are riddled with tricks and traps, and the air is foul. The combination could prove dangerous, if not fatal.'
'I see,' she answered quietly, wondering if it had proven fatal in the past.
'You told me you were an accomplished musician, did you not?' asked Donskoy.
Marguerite gave a nervous laugh. 'I am not accomplished, I'm afraid. Though I can play the clavier and lute, my skills are not really exceptional.'
'I do not ask because I desire a concert,' Donskoy replied. 'So you needn't fret. However, during our first meeting, I did promise you a glimpse of the music room. I shall take you there now. It is not far.'
They headed down the hall, passing the door to her own room. The passage jogged, and they followed it to a tower stair-the tower stair, which she had descended in secret.
Donskoy began to climb, but Marguerite hesitated.
'Is something wrong?' he asked.
'No, I-'
Marguerite was about say, I wondered what lies below, but she stopped herself. Two steps down lay the candle she had dropped the previous night. The taper must have fallen from her garter as she raced back to the sanctuary of her room, fleeing Valeska's apparition.
'You must not lag behind,' chided Donskoy. 'Certainly a woman of your youth can keep stride with me.'
She followed his ascent, ignoring the cool blasts from the open arrow slits along the way.
The stair ted to a half-rounded chamber. Lord Donskoy held the door open, and Marguerite stepped through. In the center huddled a large instrument beneath a gray blanket: the clavier, presumably. A lopsided stool and a lute with broken strings stood sadly against the wall, Beside them was a harp, threaded with cobwebs.
'What a coincidence,' said Donskoy. 'I have both your instruments of choice.'
Marguerite stepped to the clavier and lifted the sheet, which bore a layer of dust as thick as fur. The keys beneath it were soiled. She pressed one gingerly, and the instrument gave out a sour, muffled cry, as if in pain.
Cursed, thought Marguerite. Suddenly it dawned on her she had been viewing the notion of a curse too directly. It did not portend some great horrendous event. Rather, its effects were immediate and obvious, visible all around her in the castle's steady decay and its melancholia, just as Lord Donskoy had implied. But would she too succumb and slowly rot? Would her mind soon have its own 'crumbling recesses,' like that of her husband?
'The instrument is worse than I recall,' Donskoy said, gesturing toward the clavier. 'Perhaps some day we'll repair it, so you can entertain yourself.'
Marguerite pressed another key, but this time no sound came at all. 'It may be beyond repair,' she said sadly.
'I might procure another, I suppose, though cargo of this size is difficult to transport. Or you might wish to come here for other reasons. This is a good place for reading when you tire of your own room. On warm days, of course, for the firepit is small, and some of the glass panes are missing from the window. Yelena can clean things here, if you'd like.'
Why would I wish to visit this sad place? she wondered. As if summoned, she walked toward the tall sliver of a window, aglow with a pale light.
Donskoy prattled on. 'Feel free to come here and entertain yourself when you will. At least by day. Contrary to your belief, you are not my prisoner, Marguerite.'
She made no response. A breeze wafted in, and she savored its coolness upon her face.
Then she leaned out. The view was breathtaking. The dark green-black sea of pines spread in waves toward the gray horizon. She had not realized how high she had climbed. It was as if the music room were perched as near as possible to the limits of the sky, so that the gods might hear the musicians and smile upon them. It seemed oddly complete. Above, the tower soared straight into the heavens. And below, well. .
'How far do your lands extend?' she asked.
'As far as you can see,11 he replied.
The fresh air was bracing, refreshing, and she hated to pull away. The tour had left her drained. She no longer had any wish to revisit the dungeons. Hot today.
Donskoy suddenly stood beside her. 'You are a picture, standing here with your hair alight. I am glad you do not observe the common style and keep it covered with some silly wimple.'
Marguerite felt a blush in her cheeks, unbidden, almost ashamed that she was vulnerable to his flattery.
'You do ride, if I am not mistaken,' he said.
She nodded. 'Passably.'
'Then would you like to explore the terrain? It can much more uplifting than these crumbling walls.'
Marguerite turned. 'Yes. I'd like that very much.' She meant it sincerely. The thought of leaving the castle lifted her spirits greatly.
'Then, by all means, let us depart.'
* * * * *
The stable yard was a broad, muddy expanse. In the most remote corner rose the dung heap, its base as solid and ancient as a volcano's. A long, two-story wattle-and-daub building huddled against the castle wall opposite the keep. The wall's crenelated crest loomed twice as high above to meet the cap of leaden sky. Stables and animal pens occupied the lower half of the building. One end housed a smithy's firepit, stone cold. The second floor, ostensibly, held storage rooms and workshops. Time and the elements had treated the structure unkindly; a third of the mossy wood-shingled roof had collapsed.
Marguerite had expected the court to be as empty of life as the castle itself, but she was pleasantly surprised. A flock of black geese wandered at will, honking noisily. A goat bleated, and she spotted it near the gate, tethered on a circle of well-trodden ground. A peacock strutted around the perimeter of the court with a slow,
