slow and somber. A pair of cauldrons dangled above the fire on metal hooks. As Marguerite looked on like a curious mouse, the oid woman swung one of the pots toward the fire and floated her hand above it, sifting a dark powder into the steaming mix.
If Zosia was aware of an audience hovering in the doorway, the witch showed no sign. The longer Marguerite stood watching, the more reluctant she became to announce her presence. She began to wonder if the old woman ignored her expressly; perhaps Zosia knew of Marguerite's failure to conceive, and now disdained her as much as Donskoy.
After a few moments, Zosia ceased her humming and clucked impatiently. 'Well, come in, come in, girl. Don't just stand there gaping.'
'How did you know I was here?' Marguerite asked, stepping into the room. She sat on the bench beside the table, eyeing the collection of ingredients.
Zosia shrugged, pulling the pot away from the fire. She gazed at its surface intently, as if expecting some response. Then she tossed in a pinch of black powder. A puff of blue smoke rose from the pot, hovering, then fled up the chimney. 'You ask a question of very little consequence,' Zosia continued. 'How do I know you are there? I have ears and a nose, do I not? And I have eyes.'
Suddenly Marguerite felt someone else's eyes upon her. She turned and discovered two yellow orbs shining at her from a shadowy corner. Gradually, she discerned Griezellbub's black body squatting in the murk. The toad's meaty tongue shot out toward an unseen target. Marguerite blinked in surprise. When she looked again, Griezelt's throat was swollen and lumpy, with a snake's tail wriggling between his tips.
'Ask me something of value,' Zosia continued. 'For today I am seeing quite clearly again. Like old times, almost. Do you not seek my help?'
Marguerite pulled her eyes away from Griezell. 'Yes,' she said. 'How do you know?'
Zosia shrugged again. 'Why else would you visit? I know welt what occurred last night. Where else could you turn? Fortunately for you, I can assist.'
'How, when even I do not know what I am seeking?'
Zosia chortled. 'But you do, Marguerite, you do. You wish to avoid another month like this one.'
Marguerite stared at the floor. 'Yes. At least the ending.'
'Donskoy was most displeased- He accused you of spoiling your own field, did he not?'
'He did,' replied Marguerite, her eyes growing moist.
'And he accused me earlier of assisting you. Did you know that, my child?'
'No. I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused.'
'Tsk. I can handle your lord. Of course I dissuaded him of any notion that I was responsible. I promised him once again that you would become pregnant soon. And you must, Marguerite, before another month is out, or things will become very unpleasant for us all.'
'Why did you promise it, Zosia? You have only made things worse. Isn't it possible that I cannot have a child by Donskoy? Such things are not in your control.'
Zosia cackled. 'If you believe I am powerless, then why are you here?'
'I didn't know what else to do,' stammered Marguerite, 'who else to see. Even this is a risk. Donskoy prefers I remain alone, that I seek no one's company but his. But of late-'
'Silly girl,' said Zosia soothingly. 'Have faith. I will help you. The years spent here have diminished my powers, it is true, but I can still lay the course for what must be. I know of a potion that will help you conceive a child.'
'And it works?'
Zosia scowled at her. 'Ts/c. Of course it does. Why else would I suggest it?'
'And are there risks?'
Zosia clucked impatiently. 'Everything holds a risk. If you do nothing, the risks are greater. Now, do you wish my help or not? I have no time for games.'
Marguerite paused. 'Yes,' she said. 'Make me the potion.'
'Nothing worthwhile is that simple, my dear. First, you must do something for me. Go out into the forest and find the web of a spider, a white spider. The time is right for this harvest; the moon is waxing. When you have found the web, bring the silken strands to me, and I will make a philter for you to drink.'
'You speak in riddles,' said Marguerite. 'Are you saying I must gather the web by moonlight?'
Zosia eyed her carefully. 'Precisely. And it must be tonight. I have seen to it that your lord remains indisposed until tomorrow, but when the dawn comes, he will once again be keen to your whereabouts.'
Marguerite said nothing, pondering the dreadful prospect of venturing into the forest after nightfall.
Sensing her fear, Zosia took a tin box from the rough-hewn shelf above the hearth and withdrew a tiny leather pouch on a string. She placed the pouch around Marguerite's neck and whispered, 'Something to keep the beasts at bay. But fear not. Marguerite. The time for your death has not come.'
Later, as Marguerite pushed past a pine branch in the thick of the forest, she clung to those words, They gave her comfort until another phrase came to mind: 'a fate worse than death.' Nervously she fondled the little pouch around her neck, pulling it to her nose. It smelled of garlic and mustard and something else she could not identify-something earthy and sour Whatever lay in the pouch, Marguerite prayed its strength was as potent as its stench.
She had donned leggings, boots, and a heavy tunic, tying a small satchel at her waist. Thinking an early start was prudent, Marguerite had slipped out after lunch. After all, who knew how long it would take her to find a white spider? Zosia had offered little in the way of clues. But if Marguerite could locate the spider by day, she reasoned, then she could gather its web as soon as the sun fell, sparing herself a more difficult search in the dark.
The very notion that a spider web could solve her problems seemed a ridiculous fantasy, but she had no other hope, so she devoted herself to the effort.
Hours passed, and a light rain fell intermittently, dampening Marguerite's clothes. She sought webs in the crevices of rocks, between the rotting limbs of fallen trees, and beneath the low, sagging branches of the forest. She found spiders aplenty-small, large, black, brown, hairy, bald. But none of the eight-eyed creatures that stared back at her or darted for cover had a white body and white legs. Eventually, the sight of so many spiders and other skittering bugs made her flesh crawl. Marguerite began to imagine that someone's eyes were constantly upon her. She never saw them, of course, but she could feel them, like soft claws scrabbling at the base of her neck. She wondered if Griezellbub had followed her into the forest. Later, she thought of Ramus, who had watched her as she wandered before. Certainly by now, he had departed Donskoy's land.
The daylight waned. Marguerite continued her search at the clearing near the waterfall, where she had rested during her previous foray into the woods. As night fell, the mist cleared, and the sky became a dark vault teasingly flecked by low clouds. At least the moon was in Marguerite's favor. Cloud-shadows raced across the ground like hounds on the hunt. Their fleeting images taunted Marguerite; more than once she started and cried out, mistaking the play of light for an animal rushing past, or perhaps a spirit.
Mow and again she saw them-the eyes of the forest, frozen in the glow of the moon. The scampering mouse, seized by the owl; the weasel slinking furtively through the brush, with something small and soft in its jaws. Once, as she huddled breathlessly at the base of a tree and clutched at the leather pouch around her neck, a huge black shape shambled past. Marguerite saw its yellow eyes shining in the dark. She thought of the beast from the banquet-the hideous sacrifice that had been part bear, part boar, part. . else. But the silhouette lumbered on, leaving her unscathed. Marguerite told herself it was an ordinary bear.
Time was running out. She plunged deeper into the wood. She dropped to her hands and knees, willing her eyes to find the webs of spiders. The wind moaned plaintiveiy, achieving a clear, sorrowful note. Then she realized it was not the wind at alt; it was an instrument-a violin. She thought at once of Ramus. She crept through the forest toward the sound, which drew her like a siren's song.
Finally she saw him, standing near the old vardo, holding a shiny black fiddle to his chin. He had built a small fire, and its warmth lit his face with yellow-gold light. His black horse stood nearby, nosing the ground.
Marguerite crawled beneath the pungent skirts of a hemlock and hid, amused that the tables had turned. Mow she was the watcher. She pressed herself low to the ground, oblivious to the dampness that seeped into her clothing. The music held her spellbound. The gypsy played beautifully, stroking and compressing the strings of his violin until they cried out in elation and agony.
Marguerite thought he must be playing for himself or simply serenading the night. But then she saw white wisps of fog rise from the soil and swirl about Ramus's body. They caressed him, coiling teasingly around his fingers
