It was nearly dawn when Marguerite emerged from the forest. She followed the path at base of the castle wall, groping for the secret passage that led to Zosia's garden court. She and the old woman had agreed upon this route-agreed that when Marguerite returned she would deliver the sticky white strands of the web directly to the kitchen. To her relief, the secret door lay open to receive her. She turned, giving one more glance to the forest. No one had followed. She parted the curtain of vines and stepped through.
As Marguerite entered, she heard a rustle in the corner-a retreating rodent, perhaps, or the toad Griezell-bub, acting as a sentry to announce her return. She paused to look about. The garden seemed changed since her first visit, though she could not yet tell why. The crimson cabbage still blazed, visible even in the dim light. And the glass domes of the cupping jars still lay nestled against the soil, neatly arrayed, but no longer vacant. A reddish brown fluid had bubbled up from the soil beneath each translucent prison.
Marguerite crouched beside one, studying the contents more closely. The fluid divulged its myriad parts.
Thousands of red ants surged over the corpse of a small frog, scouring away its flesh. The jars were death domes, miniature crematoriums whose contents were kissed and stroked by living flames. In the next jar lay a mouse or rat; only the tiny tufts of gray-brown fur and a wormJike fragment of white tail hinted at the nature of the thing.
Beneath the final dome, the ants had begun their retreat, draining back into the soil. In their wake lay the skeleton of a lizard, as smooth and white as if it had been cleaned with lye. Perhaps these strange ingredients are meant for Donskoy, Marguerite hoped. Or perhaps Zosia needed the components to mix with the white spicier web.
Marguerite pulled her cloak around her, then went to the corner of the garden and opened the small arched door that led to Zosia's kitchen. She entered the twisting passage beyond. At the opposite end, she gently pushed open the second door, and was met by the warm, blazing light of the cooking fire.
Zosia stii) squatted on the three-legged stool before the hearth, gazing into her pot. It looked as if she had scarcely moved since Marguerite last spoke with her.
'Zo,' the old woman said huskily, 'you have brought it then.' She did not bother to turn toward her visitor. 'You have obtained the web.'
'Yes,' Marguerite replied. 'I have it here.' She untied the strings of the satchel at her waist and held the parcel out toward Zosia. The old woman remained distracted. Marguerite put the sack upon the table, which was now clear of the bowls and herbs and the skinned carcasses.
'Zosia,' began Marguerite. 'I'd like to ask you about something.' She wanted to query the old woman about Ramus, and his assertion that Donskoy had slain the Vistani tribe. And about so many other things, she realized.
'There will come another time for questions, my child/ Zosia said. 'But now you'd best return to your room. The castle will soon be waking,'
'Another time?' Marguerite asked.
Zosia dismissed her with a wave of her hand. 'There is always another time. Go now. But remove your boots first-you'll leave a trail of mud straight from my kitchen to your door.'
Marguerite tugged off her boots, then hesitated.
'Go, got' urged Zosia. 'Yelena has seen to it that your chamber is unlocked.'
*****
With the door to her room gently pressed shut behind her, Marguerite shed her muddy clothing and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt, and her hair was a tangled mess. She pushed out her stomach, making it round, and ran her hands over the skin. Then she pushed out her cheeks to match, imitating the wind-god personified. She deflated with a long hiss. After washing, she climbed naked into the bed, hoping to steal an hour of steep before Yelena appeared with the breakfast tray, which would hold Lord Donskoy's written instructions for the day.
It seemed as if Marguerite's slumber had only just begun when Yelena's hand poked at her shoulder. Marguerite groaned and lifted her still-heavy lids to squint wearily at the intruder. Then she pulled herself up to her elbows and blinked in surprise.
It was apparent that more than a moment had passed. The bed curtains had been parted and tied to the posts. The shutters on the window hung open, allowing a shaft of white light into the room. The fire blazed, freshly fed. And on the table before the hearth lay the familiar silver tray bearing Marguerite's breakfast, along with Donskoy's parchment note. She cringed at the thought of seeing him again, recalling the sting of their last encounter. But she didn't expect to be summoned back to his salon quite yet. Unless his tastes ran otherwise, he would wait several days before he renewed their liaisons.
The mute held out a steaming stone cup. Marguerite swung her legs to the floor and steadied herself, then took the vessel from Yelena's raw, bony hand. Despite the steam, the surface of the cup was cool.
'What is this?' asked Marguerite, forgetting for the moment that her tongueless maid could not respond. The answer came to mind as she gazed into the vessel and saw the white hairlike swirls moving across the surface of a greenish brown fluid. 'Did Zosia send this?'
Yelena nodded.
Marguerite lifted the cup to her nose, prepared to grimace. Then she sniffed hard. Oddly, she could smell nothing at all, except perhaps a trace of smoke. She lifted the vessel toward her mouth, but when the cold rim touched her lower lip, she did not drink. Instead, she pulled the cup away and stared once again at the strange mixture inside.
So this is the potion that will make me the mother of Donskoy's son, Marguerite thought. She didn't really wish to bear his child, she realized; the thought of it held no joy. But it certainly was the next logical step- what had to be. The black stream of fate was slowly turning. The future would come, an unstoppable force. And if Marguerite were not pregnant? If she failed her husband? Surely that would carry her to a fete worse than the swelling of her stomach, worse than a bloody birthing in which her own vitality flowed out with the child, worse than gloomy years of mothering Donskoy's son-a son upon whose shoulders the weight of the entire future would be fantastically placed. But who could say? Maybe Donskoy was right. Maybe their fortunes would magically turn with the birth of an heir. Certainty Lord Donskoy believed it was true. Marguerite herself scarcely dared to hope.
She downed the brew. The icy, tasteless fluid coursed into her stomach, then spread across her loins and limbs. It left her even drowsier than before. Yelena took the chalice, and Marguerite sank back into the bed, descending into the pit, succumbing to a strange, numbing sleep.
*****
A week later, the routine had resumed as if her husband's rage and Marguerite's foray into the woods had never occurred. Donskoy became eager and attentive in the salon, bolstered, perhaps, by Zosia's renewed promise that his efforts would soon be fruitful. Marguerite tried twice to seek out Zosia and query her about Ramus's claim that her husband had murdered members of his tribe, but both times the old woman rudely dismissed her from the kitchen, stating she was too busy with Lord Donskoy's brews and had no time. Zosia admonished her to look toward the future, and soon Marguerite did precisely that.
One morning, she opened the parchment on her tray to discover an unusual message: Donskoy was expecting company. Marguerite was to dress in manner befitting the lady of the keep, and be prepared to greet Miss Jacqueline Montarri in the afternoon.
After breakfast, Marguerite requested a bath. Two hours later, Ljubo and Yelena had finished wrestling with the tub and heavy pails of hot water. Marguerite doused her hair and scrubbed herself pink while Yelena stood in attendance, adding more hot water from a steaming kettle in a fruitless attempt to keep the bath from growing chill. When Marguerite had finished, Yelena held out a large linen sheet that had been warmed by the fire. By the time Marguerite had dried, arranged herself in a gown, tied the last layer of blue silk to her waist, and coaxed her shining tresses into submission, she heard the clatter of wheels in the distance.
She went to the window and saw a smart black conveyance approaching across the clearing. To Marguerite's astonishment, she saw that it had no driver, ft was pulled by two black horses, but the reins stretched back to an empty bench where there shouid have been a man-or some other creature to hold the leathers. Instead, the straps simply lay on the seat, as though Miss Montarri's driver had dropped them there when he abandoned her.
The carriage drew to a halt before the keep. The door swung open, and Jacqueline hovered on the step until Ljubo arrived to help her down. She wore a sweeping emerald cioak, and her black hair spilled loosely over her shoulders. She must have sensed Marguerite's gaze from above, for she looked up toward the window and flashed a
