lurching motion, dragging its closed tail behind. In the stables, a row of black, swishing horse tails sprouted from broad gray rumps. The tails swept slowly and rhythmically over the gates of closed stalls, like unnatural pendulums, their effect strangely hypnotic.
An angry growl broke the trance, and Marguerite turned toward the sound. Ekhart was working the hounds near the rear of the court, setting each one in turn to the savaging of a bloody rag. He commanded the activated beast to dive left, then right, then called off the attack to exercise his authority. Marguerite watched with a mixture of disgust and fascination, then turned her head away.
'Shall we?' said Donskoy, gesturing toward the stables and taking Marguerite's hand.
She used the other to lift her skirt. For the occasion, Donskoy had given her a new gown of wool as blue as sapphire, with a matching cape and gloves. The court's flagstones lay half-buried in mud, and the geese had covered them further with an impressive array of slick droppings. She stepped forward cautiously, staring at the ground.
A sound ahead drew her attention. Ljubo appeared, leading a handsome gray gelding and a smaller white mare, dirty, and with a sagging back. Obviously, the mare was meant for her.
'A thousand pardons, Lord Donskoy,' said Ljubo, bowing deeply and peering up from beneath his fleshy brow. 'I was taking the mounts out front. You never come here to retrieve them-and-and, good day, Lady Donskoy.' His eyes slid readily in Marguerite's direction, and he grinned. Something dark and green flecked his broken teeth.
Donskoy replied, 'Marguerite is the curious sort. I thought she'd like to see the stables.'
'Yes-yes, of course,' answered Ljubo, head bobbing. 'And I've given her Lightning as you suggested.'
'So I see.'
Marguerite stared up at the weary-looking horse.
'Pay no heed to the name, my bride,' Donskoy added. 'The mare is called Lightning because she acts as if she's been struck. Shell never bolt, if you pardon the pun. She's too numb to spook easily.'
Ljubo clutched Marguerite's hand, soiling her blue suede glove with his grubby rust-colored fingers, then helped her up into the saddle, doubtlessly leaving a similar stain on her behind. Marguerite ignored the intimacy of the gesture, working to maintain her balance. She shifted uncomfortably and the horse stomped.
'You did say you could ride,' said Donskoy flatly.
Marguerite nodded, struggling to adjust her skirts without sliding from her perch. 'Yes. Only not recently. And usually a pony.'
Donskoy sighed. 'We could make adjustments, I suppose.'
'I'm fine,' she replied. 'Just rusty.'
He grunted, then swung into his own saddle.
'Take a moment to acclimate yourself,' he said. 'Have Ljubo lead you by the rein if necessary. I have a matter to discuss with Ekhart.'
Donskoy gave the gray a sharp kick and rode toward the back of the yard.
'Are you all right?' asked Ljubo, taking the rein. 'Hold onto her neck if you feel unsure.'
Marguerite would have preferred her leggings and a tunic to the slippery blue gown, but gradually she felt more comfortable. Ljubo led her in a broad turn.
'You look very lovely today,' he prattled, wiping a sleeve across his nose. 'Very lovely indeed.'
'Thank you, Ljubo.'
'It's so nice for Donskoy to have a wife.'
'Yes,' she muttered, adjusting herself in the saddle as it swayed. 'Very nice.' Then it occurred to Marguerite that an opportunity lay before her-one she shouldn't pass up. She glanced over her shoulder. Donskoy was still speaking to Ekhart from the saddle, waving a dark hand to punctuate his story.
'Ljubo,' she said quietly. 'May I take the reins now?'
'Okay,' he said simply, handing her the leathers.
'But I want you walk here close beside me, in case I should fall.'
Ljubo happily complied. 'Like this, milady?'
'That's right. Like that.'
They turned, walking away from Lord Donskoy.
'Ljubo,' said Marguerite, with calculated smoothness. 'Would you like to be my friend?'
Her admirer bared his broken teeth. 'Oh, yes, Lady Marguerite. I'd like that very much.'
'Good. I haven't many friends to talk to, you know. Yelena is mute.'
Ljubo nodded. 'No tongue.'
'I was wondering if you could tell me about the castle,' ventured Marguerite,
Ljubo eyed her over his shoulder, then muttered, 'Ekhart doesn't like me to talk.'
'But Ekhart isn't with us now,' Marguerite replied evenly. 'So it's alt right.'
Ljubo stared at the ground, then shot her a sly glance. 'So it's all right,' he repeated, lifting one corner of his fleshy mouth.
'Did you know Vateska, Donskoy's first wife?' she asked.
Ljubo stopped suddenly, and the horse halted beside him, not needing any prompting. He looked away, rubbing his hands nervously.
'Vales-' He stopped short of saying the whole name. 'Lord Donskoy's first wife, she's dead.'
'Yes, I know. I want you to tell me how.'
'Can't say,' said Ljubo quietly.
Marguerite found this odd. 'Why not?'
Ljubo would not meet her gaze, 'Ekhart wouldn't like it,' he whispered, 'It's forbidden-even to say her name is forbidden.'
'Forbidden?' Marguerite asked. 'Why?'
Ljubo's only response was to shake his head. He cast a nervous look toward the corner where Ekhart was working and said nothing.
'What's wrong? Why are you so afraid?' Marguerite started to reach for his shoulder, then drew back, a terrible prospect taking shape inside her mind. 'What happened? Did Lord Donskoy kill her?'
Ljubo's round head snapped around to look at her. 'Oh, no. Lord Donskoy loued her. But-'
'But what?' Marguerite persisted.
'She didn't like it here. She didn't want to stay, and she got sick.'
'Sick? How?'
'Strange sick. Crazy sick. She got weak, and then she got strange.'
'And then she died,' Marguerite concluded.
Ljubo was quiet. He looked nervously toward Donskoy and Ekhart, who continued their conversation across the yard.
Marguerite said gently, 'You can tell me, Ljubo.' She touched his cheek with her hand. 'After all, we are friends.'
Ljubo's eyes darted. He ticked his lips.
'Tell me,' whispered Marguerite. 'How did Valeska die?'
'She did it herself,' said Ljubo suddenly. His eyes were wide and frightened. 'She jumped into the pit. Zosia said it was the only way she could escape.'
'Zosia told her to jump?' Marguerite gasped.
Ljubo frowned. 'No-she said it after. When we went down to …' He bit his iip, allowing the sentence to trail off.
Marguerite was quiet. An immense relief settled over her. She had not allowed herself to confront it, but the fear had lingered all along-the fear that Lord Donskoy had murdered his first wife. But it wasn't true. What was it Ramus had said? That gypsies fear confinement. Perhaps that was why Valeska had committed suicide. Donskoy had kept her under lock and key, just as he imprisoned Marguerite. For Valeska, perhaps, it had been too much to bear.
'I shouldn't have told you, Lady Marguerite.'
'Yes you should have, Ljubo. You did the right thing.'
'No,' he hissed. 'I shouldn't have spoken of her. It's forbidden.'
The sound of clattering hooves brought them both to attention. Lord Donskoy was coming across the
