Noting Marguerite's gaping expression, Zosia clucked, "My dear, it is only a toad, though most certainly a queenly specimen. Surely you have seen toads in Darkon."
"Of course," Marguerite replied, "but I guess I'm not so well acquainted as you."
"No? Then perhaps you will be soon." One of Griezell's dark eyes closed in a wink. "I have heard claims that a bed full of black toads ensures conception, especially on the wedding night."
Marguerite grimaced. She hoped Donskoy would put no store in such a disgusting superstition. "I have no intention of sleeping with toads," she said firmly, "whatever their powers may be."
Zosia chuckled. "I am only teasing you, child. Oh, yes, it is true that toads can be useful for medicinal purposes, as any good cook and wise woman knows. But Griezellbub is much too unusual to be reduced to pickled liver and powdered bone." She cackled. "As if such a thing were possible."
Still nestling the creature in one arm, Zosia turned to the far wall and probed the stonework. She uttered something Marguerite could not understand, and an opening appeared. A tangled curtain of dead, woody vines hung just beyond.
"My secret escape," said Zosia with a feral, satisfied grin. "Though in reality it is more of a convenience. It's only a secret to my enemies."
Marguerite parted the vines and stepped outside. The magical door shut behind her. She turned and ran her hands over the stones.
"Zosia?" she called.
There was no reply. Part of her felt relief; it was still morning, yet she had experienced enough eccentricity for one day. A mysterious trollop, a grinning toad, a tongueless servant, and a witchy cook-not one of them made the castle cozy, and Marguerite was glad to leave them behind. Clearly she would have to find her own way back into the keep. But for now, she was free.
FOUR
Outside the wall, a clean, moist breeze caressed Marguerite's face. She inhaled deeply, savoring the air's comparative freshness. She had not realized just how dank the castle had been. Even the atmosphere of Zosia's courtyard had been permeated by a musty, earthy smell. Marguerite felt revived.
She stood upon a narrow, mossy path that hugged the sloping base of the castle wall. Vines covered the masonry, yet they seemed to shy from the path, leaving it untouched. The ground fell away steeply on the other side, sinking into a wooded ravine-a deep, forbidding tangle of gray scrub and leafless trees. The towers protruding from the wall ahead and behind looked identical. Marguerite took a moment to orient herself. The walled court surrounding the stables lay on the opposite side of the keep. Ahead lay the road.
Using the vines for support, she followed the slim path toward the front of the castle. About halfway there, the ravine turned sharply away, plunging into the evergreen forest. A swath of gray, leafless trees marked its path, pointing toward the horizon like death's bony finger. The green-black forest blanketed the terrain all around it, sinking low, then rising again in waves toward a rim of sable mountains that pushed against the gray, misty sky.
The previous night, Marguerite had seen a campfire burning deep in the wood. She tried to recall its location. If it were visible from her window, it had to lie somewhere ahead and to the left. As she gazed into the dense primeval wood, she wondered how it had been possible to spot the fire. Surely the trees would have blocked the light.
She padded along the path until she reached the corner of the castle. To go any farther, she would have to enter the clearing and risk being seen. Even now, she imagined Ekhart's stern, reproachful gaze upon her, his scabrous lips bent in a condemning frown. Just ahead, another path appeared to dip into the evergreens. She scampered to the cover, then ducked into the trees. Panting, she turned and iooked back toward the clearing. No one had seen her. Marguerite's spine prickled. At least, it appeared no one had followed.
The pines pressed in around her. She stroked their soft, feathered branches and drank in their scent, reveling in their heady embrace. She headed deeper into the wood. The path soon ended, splintering into myriad fingers of soft ground that wrapped themselves around the trunks of trees, then disappearing completely beneath the carpet of needles. Marguerite broke a branch to mark her passage, in case she should lose her direction on the return.
Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a soft rushing-a small waterfall perhaps, or a stream surging over a course of rocks. She followed the sound. In time, her path merged with a deer trail skimming the edge of a shallow cliff. Below, she could see a ribbon of black, glistening water.
She walked on until she came upon a broad, open expanse of rock sparsely covered with gray-green lichens. It overlooked a small waterfall below. She sat near the jagged edge, gazing across the chasm at a wavering wall of branches. The drop to the water measured at least fifteen feetr but the stream was narrow; with a running start, she could probably gain the other side. Years ago, when she had shared the follies of reckless children, she might have attempted it. Now she contented herself with the thought.
She sat for a moment, enjoying the solitude as she finished the bread she had carried with her. Of course, she was not completely alone. She had the company of the creatures into whose realm she had intruded. She scanned the trees for signs of them. From the flat crown of a black spruce, an enormous raven took wing, circling once overhead, then veering out of sight. Upon the towering skeleton of a lightning-struck hemlock, Marguerite spotted a great owl, sitting motionless, watching her with bright yellow eyes. It had twisted its head almost backward on its gray-brown body.
How patient it must be, she mused. Come nightfall, when moonlight touched this clearing, the owl would still be watching-waiting to glimpse some small furry shape as it scurried across the open space. Then the majestic bird would swoop down silently, gliding in for the kill. What must this quiet predator be thinking of her now? That she was in the way, no doubt.
She called out a greeting: "Whooo. .* The owl blinked, looking bored, and turned away.
Marguerite smiled. She leaned back until she lay spread-eagle on the rock, her cloak spread beneath her like a pair of great green wings. A swath of gray sky hung low overhead. In summer, the sun would pierce the opening in the bower and strike the rock.warming it and everything upon it. She would lie here and offer herself to its heat. This would be her private spot-her sanctuary- Here, she could read or sketch, pursuing the pleasant occupations of noble ladies. Or perhaps she would simply gaze at the clouds drtfting overhead, losing herself in daydreams. Some summer day. Mot now.
Feeling a sense of achievement, she rose, brushing herself off. It was time to head back to the castle, She did not want Ekhart to discover she was missing and then come looking for her-especially not if he were to be towed by some beastly pack, as Zosia had suggested. Marguerite could almost hear the hounds now, whining and baying, eager with anticipation.
But it was not baying that she heard.
!t was someone, or something, screaming.
The high-pitched sound was distant and muffled at first, filling the trees all around her.
Then it came again, sharp and chiiling- It cut into her suddenly like a barb, tugging and tearing at her nerves. She gasped and held her hands to her ears. The sound echoed in her skull as if she had trapped it there.
Marguerite dropped her hands and forced herself to listen. Someone might be hurt, after all, and need assistance. The third cry struck her like a black wail- strange and spectra! unnatural and cold. She had never heard or felt such a thing before.
She began to run.
Whether she stumbled toward the sound or away from it, she could not tell. She simply felt compelled to run, to keep moving, and that compulsion led her ever deeper into the forest.