Reluctantly, she nodded. She was, indeed, exhausted. The sickly sweet smell of the herbs had a dizzying effect. She followed him to the next level, growing wearier with each step, It was as if the whole castle were a soporific drug.
They traveled down a wide, dimly lit hall. In her growing fatigue, Marguerite stumbled, and Ekhart turned to catch her arm.
'You see?' he said. 'You are too tired to meet anyone just yet.'
They turned, passing several doors, and climbed another three steps. With each one, Marguerite seemed to grow weaker, until she could barely stand. Finally, Ekhart paused before an arched door, inserting a key.
As the door creaked open to reveal the dark chamber beyond, the last of Marguerite's strength drained away. She swooned. Ekhart's bony fingers clutched her arms, and a whirlpool of blackness closed in. His rasping voice swirled past her on an inky wave: 'Weak. Like the last little bitch.'
Then Marguerite heard, and felt, nothing more.
TWO
When Marguerite awoke, she was nestled in the pit of a large, soft bed enclosed by a cocoon of wine-red draperies. Soaring dark posts and a massive wooden frame held the curtains and the canopy aloft. Beyond the softly wavering walls, she heard the crackling of a fire. A breeze toyed with a breach in the cloth at the foot of the bed, creating a tall, thin line of flickering gold light. A heavy blanket made of gray rabbit pelts lay before the glowing fissure. Upon the pelts lay a lily white robe trimmed in beige lace. Marguerite smiled- the robe was a gift, no doubt, from her husband-to-be. The castle might be crumbling around them, but he still had an eye for finery and a penchant, perhaps, for gestures of affection.
Someone was shuffling across the wood floor in the room beyond. Marguerite crawled forward to probe the narrow gap between the curtains, gentling parting the cloth. A maid, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, was placing a kettle before the hearth, where a fire blazed, She looked frail and thin, her body all hard lines and angles; Marguerite could see the girl's skeleton poking against her simple linen tunic and long brown overskirt. Her brownish blond hair was bound in a thin plait that hung down her back like a rat's tail, emerging from beneath a little brown linen cap.
Marguerite reached for the white robe and pulled it around her, covering her nakedness. She imagined Ekhart's cold, stiff fingers undoing her traveling clothes, brushing against her bare skin, but she shook the notion from her head. Certainly this girl or another maid-servant had undressed her. A haunting phrase drifted just beyond the edge of her memory, something Ekhart had said as they entered the room. It hovered, teasingly, then was gone. Marguerite thought perhaps she had dreamed it. She turned her attention to the girl.
'Well met,' she said. The words sounded stiff and formal.
The girl turned to her and nodded but said nothing. Her features were delicate, her skin pale. The flesh beneath her light brown eyes was dark with fatigue, two purplish crescents on a sallow field.
Marguerite smiled as warmly as possible. 'I'm Marguerite de Boche,' she said. 'But you must know that already. Thank you for lighting the fire, if that's also your doing.'
Stiil the girl said nothing, though she nodded again and smiled faintly with downcast eyes. A log exploded, showering the hearth with sparks. The girl nervously brushed them aside.
'What's your name?' Marguerite asked.
The girl touched her own lips and shook her head.
'I don't understand,' said Marguerite.
The girl repeated the gesture.
'You can't speak, is that it?'
A simple nod came in response.
'Oh, I'm sorry,' Marguerite replied. She didn't know what to say beyond that.
The mute girl busied herself around the room, purposely avoiding Marguerite's gaze. She lit a series of fat candies, creating a dozen pools of warm yellow light, islands In a sea of shadows.
Marguerite surveyed her new quarters. Besides the massive bed, the chamber held several ancient-looking pieces of furniture. Two heavy wooden chairs flanked the fire like thrones, worn siik cushions resting upon their seats. A small service table huddled beside each chair, and a matted fur rug lay between them; but for this, the floor was bare, save for the straw and herbs that had been strewn freely about. Marguerite scanned the shadows for vermin but saw none. To the right of the fire, near the windowed stone wall, stood a wash stand and a luxuriantly talt mirror that reflected the warm glow of the candles and the hearth. Against the wall loomed an enormous cabinet. Marguerite's small bridal chest sat beside it.
The mute girl reached for a kettle near the fire, then filled a porcelain basin upon the wash stand. Steam drifted into the air like smoke. The girl stepped toward the bed and pointed to the slop jar just beneath the edge.
Marguerite puzzled for a moment, then said, 'No, thank you, it hasn't been used.' She was not accustomed to a personal maid.
A muffled knock sounded at the door. Before Marguerite could reply, the door creaked open and an old woman entered. She was small and stooped, dressed completely in black. Her rough, layered skirts swept the floor, and a simple scarf covered her head.
Marguerite assessed the woman, and in turn the woman gazed at her. The visitor's plump face was deeply crinkled, the skin chalky and dry. She had an intense stare, with round dark eyes that sparkled like a possum's. The wrinkled lips parted in a smile.
Marguerite had expected to see gums, but the teeth were unusually white and strong.
The old woman clasped her withered hands before her. 'Zo, you are awake.' Her voice was low, but it crackled with age, and she spoke with an accent unfamiliar to Marguerite. 'That is good. Ekhart informed us that you fainted earlier. Are you feeling better, my child?'
Marguerite nodded.
'Very good. But you must not worry if you feel a little tired for a time. A new home requires adjustment. And you may still be somewhat weak from the potion your escorts gave you.'
'The potion?' asked Marguerite,
'I am only assuming, of course,' the woman replied. 'But it is customary to introduce a sleeping potion on journeys such as yours. A passenger who is asleep is less troublesome for the Vistani, yes?'
Marguerite felt a wave of indignation. This certainly explained her prior nausea and her embarrassing swoon into Ekhart's arms.
The old woman added, 'I have even known of one caravan who ferried giorgios heaped in a cart like the undertaker's corpses, but of course the passengers yet lived. I trust your own journey was more pleasant?'
Marguerite nodded, stunned. In truth she had no recollection of how she had spent her journey. She had evidently slept the whole time.
'I am Zosiaf' continued the old woman, 'cook and companion to Lord Donskoy. And when the time comes, I shall serve as your midwife; you could ask for no one more skilled or better suited.' She pointed at the mute girl. 'And this is Yelena. She has no tongue, as you might have guessed.'
Yelena stood in the shadows beside the door, head bowed, almost invisible.
'Yes, the tongue is gone,' Zosia rattled on, 'but her other parts remain functional. She can still be quite useful when my own hands grow tired. Will you need Yelena's assistance to dress, Marguerite?'
Marguerite shook her head.
Zosia shooed the girl away with two sharp, quick waves of her hand. Yelena curtsied, then opened the door and retreated into the dark hall beyond. The heavy door creaked shut of its own accord.
'Do you feel hunger?' asked Zosia.
'Yes,' replied Marguerite. Suddenly she realized that she was famished.
'That is convenient. Lord Donskoy awaits you downstairs and expects to dine with you soon. You can find your own way after you have dressed. Go left from this door and follow the hall to the first stair, then dimb down to the foyer. The door just opposite is your goal. Carry a candle and guard it well; the passages aredrafty.'
Marguerite felt as if she had been issued instructions for invading an enemy's camp,
'I have looked in your chest,' Zosia added. 'Your clothes are not suitable. Lord Donskoy expects his wife to
