'You have met Yelena, have you not?' Donskoy asked.
Marguerite nodded, marveling at the girl's stealth.
'She's rather quiet but useful,' added Donskoy, 'when she remembers her instructions.'
Marguerite felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. Zosa had described the servant in much the same way-as if Yelena were some kind of tool, broken yet still functional. Marguerite wanted to ask how Yelena lost her tongue, but she refrained. It was a forward question, much too forward to ask this soon, and perhaps embarrassing or painful in front of Yelena. It was even possible that Donskoy had had something to do with the injury. Marguerite dismissed the thought as soon as it entered her mind. She had no reason to believe such a thing.
The waiflike servant decanted a brandy for Donskoy, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. Then she poured tea for Marguerite and presented a little cake. Marguerite accepted it gratefully, but it proved dry and stale. She took one more bite and set it aside, focusing on the tea. Yelena retreated to the shadows like a beaten dog.
Donskoy watched Marguerite carefully, 'i did not have much prepared, because we will be dining soon.'
'This is more than satisfying,' Marguerite replied. It was a lie, of course. The cake had left a lingering taste, reminiscent of moldy earth. She tried to wash it away with more tea, but met with limited success. She hoped the meal would be more palatable,
'And is your chamber to your liking?' Donskoy asked.
'Yes, very much so. The bed is immense and soft, and there's no trace of vermin whatsoever. I'm unaccustomed to anything so grand.' ft was the truth.
He laughed softfy. 'I would not call my castle grand anymore. No, it has begun to crumble, as you must have noticed. It is my own doing.' He sighed. 'I was married once. Did the gypsies tell you that?'
She shook her head. They had not.
'My wife died tragically,' he continued, fixing his gaze at some point in the shadows. 'I do not care to discuss the details. I mention it only so that you understand what your arrival means to me. It is my chance for rebirth. For decades after my first wife's death, I became as lonely and as brooding as the land around us. I did not embrace life, and I entombed myself in despair.' He turned to her. 'It has been my curse. But you, my dear, will change all that, won't you?'
Marguerite felt a wave of compassion. 'Of course,' she replied. Without thinking, she extended her hand and placed it on his. Realizing how bold that might seem, she began to withdraw it, then felt his gloved hand firmly seizing her own.
'You,' he said, 'will help restore this place to glory.' His voice was low and even. It was virtually a command. 'Will you not?'
Marguerite nodded, wincing at the tightness of his grasp. 'I wilt certainly try.'
'No,' he replied, 'You will do more than try. Together, we must succeed.'
Marguerite felt her compassion aroused again, along with her instinct to nurture. Apparently, she and Donskoy had something in common-a desire to build a future that would block out the past.
For a moment, Donskoy seemed lost in thought. Then his tone and his grip relaxed. 'But first,' he said cheerfully, 'we shall share a proper meal.'
Marguerite noted how quickly his moods seemed to change, how complex the thoughts behind his well- chosen words appeared. Or perhaps he was simply as nervous as she.
Donskoy led her across the foyer into a hallway, then onward to a modest hall established as a dining room. A fire blazed in the hearth. In the center of the chamber lay a dark rectangular table. It held two place settings with silver goblets, one at each end before a high-backed chair. There was no other seating. Additional furnishings lined the sides of the chamber, but they were draped in sheets, an audience of ghosts.
Donskoy seated Marguerite, then walked to the opposite end of the table. As if by some silent cue, Yelena reappeared, bearing a tray. She decanted red wine into the goblets. Then she lifted the lid from a platter. Four tiny carcasses Jay at the center. She presented three to Donskoy, and the last to Marguerite. They were birds, prepared with their shriveled heads still attached, laid to rest in nests of barley. Yelena scuttled out of the room.
'A local delicacy?' Marguerite asked, picking at the fragile, bony mass before her. With each probe, the head jostled on its broken neck.
'Seasonal, I suppose you might say,' Donskoy replied. 'They're vista-chin. Migrant birds. I netted them myself for the sport of it. Mot much meat, but they make a satisfying appetizer.'
Marguerite took a few bites to be polite, but she refrained from any further dissection. It discomforted her to devour the songbirds who trailed the Vistani. Some peasants in Darkon claimed the birds were spies. Her grandmother had once told her they might even be gypsy spirits, for they shared the Vistani's uncanny ability to flit in and out of shadows, slipping so easily into the Unknown.
Donskoy did not appear to notice her hesitation. While he snapped off little wings and raked them through his teeth, she sipped her wine and feigned a smile. She thought it odd that he had not removed his black gloves before handling the moist flesh.
Yelena reappeared, struggling with an even greater platter. Marguerite took inventory with growing hunger. This fare was much more familiar to her, and the rich aromas resurrected her appetite. Soon her plate was heaped with succulent hare and enormous mushrooms, accompanied by creamy white turnips and blood-red beets. Marguerite was ravenous. She had to force herself to eat slowly, so as not to appear uncultured.
The wine flowed readily with the meal. Donskoy chatted idly about the food and the room, the recent period of misty weather. He raised a toast to her health, their union, and their future sons. Before she realized it, the wine had seeped into every sinew, loosening her finely woven defenses. Her head grew light.
Donskoy speared his last piece of hare and devoured it heartily. 'I hadn't much appetite before you came,' he said. 'I should thank you for returning it'
'I'm glad you're pleased,' Marguerite replied. 'I was afraid you might actually send me back,' The words escaped before she could contain them. She hoped they wouldn't plant a suggestion.
'Mot at first sight, certainly,' said Donskoy, licking the juice from his lips. He gazed at her with an appreciative little smile.
Marguerite felt like the next course, but she didn't entirely mind.
Donskoy motioned to Yelena to refill their goblets yet again. 'You are truly quite lovely,I' he said, wiping his lips on a cloth. 'And more charming than I had allowed myself to hope.'
'Thank you,' she replied. 'You are very kind.'
'Some might consider a girl of twenty a little old for marriage, but you remain appealingly fresh.'
Marguerite did not know how to answer such a peculiar compliment. Still, she was glad not to have appeared stale.
Donskoy continued, 'And do I please you as well?'
'Of course,' she answered quickly. 'I am very fortunate.'
He looked at her for a moment, then smiled. 'You are lying just a little,' he said. 'But that is all right,'
'No, I do feel fortunate,' she protested. 'I-'
He raised his hand to interrupt her. 'I have steered the conversation badly, toward topics that will either become treacle or uncomfortable. We understand one another's needs, I believe, and if not, that will certainty come in time.' He paused, dabbing his mustache with the cloth again. 'Why don't you tell me about yourself and your family?'
Marguerite hesitated. Ironically, these were not comfortable subjects either. She was unsure precisely how much Donskoy knew. She would be truthful, she resolved, but discreet.
'I come from a village in Darkon called Malanuv,' she said. 'Just south of Nartok on the Vuchar River.'
'About a week's ride from Avernus, Lord Azalin's castle, is it not?'
Marguerite was surprised. 'You know of Darkon's Avernus?'
'By reputation,' he replied. 'Geography is one of my interests. I traveled a great deal in my youth. And, of course, Lord Azalin's name is quite familiar to me.'
'I have never traveled farther than Nartok before this trip,' she said. 'So I am not as worldly as you, my lord. I still do not quite understand how the gypsies brought me here. Perhaps it was magic.'
Donskoy chuckled.
'No, I mean it sincerely,' Marguerite prattled on. 'Have you ever heard the assertion that the mists can be magical, perhaps even animate? And that the gypsies can mold fog into mounts and ride them whenever they please?'
