her old self returning. But mostly she remained heavy and weak, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep with little distinction between morning and night.
A month passed, bringing a wet winter full upon the land. From her bed, Marguerite could hear tiny arrows of ice pelting the window panes. One morning Zosia announced snow and helped her to the window to look out. But instead of a pristine blanket, Marguerite saw only a gray, slushy sea.
That night, after the castle was quiet, there was a rustling outside. Too weak to drag herself up, she pulled back her bed curtain and, through the window, saw great clouds of wheeling bats silhouetted against a sliver of moonlit sky. Later, she dreamed of Valeska, and of the shattered infant's tomb she had seen in the crypts.
Zosia and Yelena visited continually. They flitted in and out of her chamber, ministering to her like bees. She asked them about the wheeling bats. The mute's eyes remained blank, and Zosia only clucked her tongue. Mightmares were to be expected, she said.
The old woman stung Marguerite's arm with sharp little cuts, and poured potions down her throat. Yelena arrived like clockwork to help her from the bed to the chamber pot. And as night approached, the mute girl rolled her aside to change the grayish sheets. Marguerite surrendered to her keepers, just as she surrendered to her sickness. It was easier that way.
Donskoy came to her as well. Sometimes he would just sit beside the bed and stroke her damp cheek with his glove. Occasionally he would stretch out alongside her and clutch at her belly from behind, whispering his delight at the prospect of a son.
It did not seem to bother him that she was so ill.
Yet in time it worried Marguerite. During a lucid moment, she asked Zosia about the child, if it might be harmed by her fever. The old woman assured her that the next month would be difficult, but the sickness would pass. It was to be expected, Zosia said. Natural. Marguerite was not reassured. She had seen pregnant women in Darkon, and while some became weary or ejected their breakfasts, none suffered a condition as grave as her own. But she was too weak to argue.
One morning, Marguerite awoke to find a dark shape looming on the sill of her window, watching her with a pair of great white eyes. It was so black that it appeared to have no depth, a two-dimensional stain. She cried out and called for Yelena, who was tending the fire, to summon Ljubo to chase the apparition away. The mute girl only looked out the window and shrugged, then returned to her duties.
As the third month progressed, Marguerite at last grew stronger. And it was then, as her mind cleared and she faced her circumstances, that she began to be truly afraid. Her legs were swollen and spotted with blue marks, and they ached at all times. That alone was not unusual. But there was another sign that something was amiss. Although only three months had passed, her stomach had swollen to immense proportions. It hung low on her belly, making it difficult to walk. Something was terribly wrong, she thought; something was unnatural. When she voiced her concerns to Zosia, the old wornan clucked her tongue and said Marguerite was imagining things. Everything was as to be expected. The baby was strong, asserting itself.
One day, as she sat by the window while Zosia fed her, Marguerite looked out and saw the courtyard swarming with snakes. The serpents were everywhere, crawling up the walls, even slithering along the sill of her own chamber's casement. Marguerite gasped, and asked Zosia if she saw the creatures. The old woman nodded and replied that of course she did, her calm tone implying that an infestation of thousands of serpents was a common occurrence.
After that. Marguerite kept her window closed and avoided looking outside, but it did her no good. She saw the serpents, and a hundred visions far more frightening, even with her eyes closed. She began to wonder if her fever had driven her mad, but Zosia assured her that she was quite sane. These events were to be expected. Natural.
Marguerite began to dream of her escape. She remembered Ekhart's threats, the scraping of his dry, rough hand against her cheek. When the baby came, she would be expendable. Somehow, if she were strong enough, she might yet steal away to Darkon. She pretended that she was feeling better, but that she stilI needed Yelena's help to walk, so that no one would know her true abilities.
Her heavy cabinet had been shifted to stand before the secret passage. One day, while alone, Marguerite padded across the floor and attempted to move it. It stood fast, and the strain of her effort brought such a sharp, piercing pain to her stomach that she doubled over and slumped to her knees. The anguish passed, and she opened the cabinet to search for her hidden copy of Van Rlchten's Guide to the Vistanl. The charred tome might help her find the means to travel the mists-or tell her how to call up the gypsies who could ferry her home, if such a thing were possible.
But the book was gone.
Thinking that it might have slid to a different hiding place when the cabinet was moved, Marguerite pawed through the gowns hanging inside. They felt lighter and shifted strangely in her hands. She pulled a sleeve into the light. It was her purple gown, its yards of silk slashed to ribbons. She pushed it aside and examined the next gown. The blue one had been similarly abused. Fully half the garments within had fallen prey to someone's blade-or, more likely, to Donskoy's talons. She only hoped that his rage had long since passed.
Marguerite went back to the bed and sat on the edge. All her secrets had been discovered. The passage. The tome.
But not all.
Lord Donskoy did not know about Ramus. Jacqueline had taunted Donskoy with the suggestion of a bastard, but she did not know about the gypsy either. How could she? She had made a lucky guess, running through a roster of possibilities. If Donskoy believed her-if he even suspected Marguerite's child was not his own-he did not show it.
In truth, Marguerite herself couid not say who had fathered the baby that grew within her, pushing her belly to such strange extremes. The gypsy had claimed it was his. But Ramus couid have lied.
There was one person who seemed to know the answers. Marguerite chided herself for not seeing it sooner. 'It is as expected.' During the past months, Zosia had intoned the phrase so often that it had become like a monkish chant.
Marguerite waited impatiently for the next visit. Mow that her patient was growing stronger, Zosia appeared less often, sending Yelena in her stead. Still, the old woman came every day, and was due to arrive soon. Marguerite settled into her bed and waited.
At last, the door creaked open. Zosia's black shape swept across the threshold, then shambled to the table beside the fire. She carried a black velvet pouch, and a tray with a pitcher and a chalice. Marguerite watched through slitted eyes as the old woman poured a liquid into the chalice, then pinched some herbs from the purse into the vessel, mumbling something unintelligible. Zosia turned to eye her patient.
'Zo. You're awake,' said the crone, though Marguerite's eyes were held purposefully shut.
Marguerite lay still, astonished.
'Why the game, my child?' Zosia clucked. 'I know you do not sleep.'
Marguerite opened her eyes. 'How did you know?'
Zosia shrugged. 'I know much. Yet I know little. Now drink your tea.'
Marguerite complied, then said, 'Yes, I think you do know a great many things. And I'd like to ask you about some of them.'
Zosia chortled. 'That is not such a good idea, depending on what you wish to ask. I know many things that would make you squeamish.'
'No doubt,' said Marguerite evenly. 'But I'd tike to know one thing in particular-how much you can tell me about Ramus.'
'Ramus?'
'Yes. A Vistana who visits this land. He spoke of you; you must know him in turn.' She paused, remembering. 'You must know him, You forbade me to speak his name the night I returned.'
Zosia cackled. 'He is more than a visitor.'
'What do you mean?'
'He is as bound to this land as Lord Donskoy. He was born here. These are his roots.'
'But he is a Vistana,' Marguerite protested. 'He is-' She stopped herself, recalling how Ramus had extended a talon from the end of his finger, just as she had seen Donskoy do when he struck Jacqueline.
Is something wrong, my child?' Zosia asked.
