Marguerite caught her reflection in the mirror. The scarlet dress was soiled and torn. Moreover, her hair was slightly singed; she could smell its bitter scent. She must have been careless. She set down the offending candle and peeled off her soiled gown, then remembered the spare candle in her garter. It was gone. No matter; a stray candle was hardly incriminating. She pulled a shawl around her chemise, then put a kettle on the fire and began combing the cobwebs from her hair. She stared at the red silken heap on the floor. Maybe Yelena could save the dress. And if Donskoy asked her to wear it again tomorrow? Well, she couldn't.
Marguerite picked up the rumpled gown and stuffed it into the back of her wardrobe cabinet. Her hand met something square and solid. The book. She had forgotten it completely. In the cabinet lay the fire-scarred manuscript titled Van Rich ten's Guide to the Vistani, still wrapped in its black shroud, where she had hidden it just before Ekhart arrived to take her to the chapel.
She extracted the parcel and carried it to the hearth, laying it on the table beside her favorite chair. Then she took the kettle off the fire, filled her wash basin, and scrubbed the grime from her hands and face. A strange noise, like the flutter of bird wings, sounded behind her. She turned and saw Van Richten 's Guide lying open, its pages turning as though stirred by a draft.
But the air in her chamber was still.
Marguerite drew in a short gasp, then stepped over to the charred tome. The wash cloth slipped from her trembling hand. On the sooty page before her lay a section marked "traiaks." At the top was a square enclosing a dot: marked by lord. Below it was the sigil she had seen in the crypt, three lines intersecting the ground. The caption beside it read: cursed.
Her stomach knotted in fear.
it was no coincidence that Griezell had shown her the way to the crypts, then disappeared. Someone had meant her to encounter the body, to see the sigil, to find its meaning in this book. But who? And was she the one cursed? She had done nothing to deserve such a fate. Perhaps Destiny had singied her out with its bony, pointing finger. Perhaps. .
Cursed,
She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her neck. Sleep would not come easily.
NINE
Marguerite slept fitfully, turning in her bed until her body had dug itself a linen grave. She dreamed of a Vistana, a black-haired hellion, who opened her coal-dark eyes and rose from the icy stream deep beneath the castle. Slowly the woman came, a dark goddess ascending, drifting up the stairs and gliding through the halls until at last she stood outside Marguerite's door. Mere wood could not prevent the gypsy's passage; she entered. Her red lips parted, whispering words in soft, even measure: The seed he has sown. She raised her white, slender finger toward Marguerite, who lay paralyzed in her bed. The seed he has sotvn shall seal his damnation. And the apparition came nearer, with arms outstretched, slipping over Marguerite's body like a cold, black shadow, sealing her in a tomb.
* * * * *
"Marguerite."
The voice came to her from above, from nowhere, deep and commanding.
"Marguerite, you must rise."
She struggled to lift herself from the depths. Her eyes fluttered open, and she squinted at the light. It was morning. The curtains on the right side of her bed had been parted, and Lord Donskoy loomed in the gap.
"Good morning," he said brightly- He was smiling. "Rise, my fair one. I have summoned Zosia to look after your welfare."
"My welfare?" Marguerite asked groggily, rising to her elbows. The vestiges of her dream flitted at the edge of her awareness, taunting her, but the phantom before her demanded her attention. She puzzled over Donskoy's words. "But I am not ill."
Donskoy gave a feeble laugh. "No. Your stock is too strong for that to happen, after mere days in my company. But you may be with child."
Marguerite pulled herself up from the pit, resting against the pillows. The fragments of her dream disappeared, slipping behind oblivion's curtain. "With child?" she gasped. Then quickly she added, "I pray that is true, for I know how much it would please you-how much it would please rne as well." If Donskoy had discerned the slip, or even cared, he didn't show it.
"A son," he said. "A son would please me. Last night I was certain my seed took hold. But hope is a vixen, and emotions spawned from passion can deceive even the most potent gods, if one believes in such things. That's why I have asked Zosta to confirm your condition."
"Zosia?"
"Yes. She knows how such things are determined."
Even I know how such things are determined, thought Marguerite, and then mentally added, but not the morning after.
The velvet walls at the foot of the bed parted, as a stage curtain might be drawn back to reveal the opening scene of a drama. Zosia crouched before the fire, prodding at something beneath the grate. Enshrouded in her coal-black blouse and skirt, with a black kerchief covering her head, she reminded Marguerite more than ever of a Vistani witch.
Yelena's small rough hands pulled aside the remaining bed curtains, anchoring them to the posts. She shyly avoided her mistress's gaze but nodded feebly when Marguerite greeted her with a simple "Good morning." Zosia's dark head bobbed along with the girl's. Donskoy pointed a finger at Yelena and motioned toward the corner. The mute curtsied meekly, then shuffled to her place, head bowed. She stiffened, a sudden victim of taxidermy.
"I am ready to begin now, lord," said Zosia crisply. She withdrew a small iron rod from the hearth and lifted it toward the window, turning it slowly to examine it in the light. A slick green-biack mass covered the end of the instrument. She approached the bed, holding the rod before her as if it were an eager divining stick and Marguerite were the hidden water.
Marguerite hoisted herself to the edge of the bed and swung her legs around so they dangled above the floor. "But surely it's too soon for such tests," she said quickly, making an effort to sound bright. "Surely you can't tell in a day." The sudden movement made her head swim.
"It's never too soon," Donskoy replied firmly, regaining the voice of command. "Lie back and keep still." Then he added softly, "You have nothing to fear, Marguerite." He looked over his shoulder. "Does she, Zosia?"
Marguerite lay back and blinked hard. Perhaps she was dreaming. Perhaps this was a farce.
"Oh nay, nay. ." said the old woman soothingly.
She stepped to Donskoy's side and spread her lips in a genuine smile. "Mot from my feeble hands." She blew on the tip of the rod as if to cool the slimy glob clinging to it. The center of the mass glowed vividly from within, like a dying ember teased back to life, except that the heart shone green.
Donskoy pulled Marguerite's nightshift up to her chest. Instinctively she moved her hands in a gesture of modesty, then forced herself to remove them. The blood rose to her cheeks, coloring them scarlet.
Donskoy gave a husky laugh. "Still so shy? I should be affronted, but it becomes you, Marguerite. I will turn away and let Zosia apply the salve to your abdomen. This is women's work, after all. My part is done." He took a seat before the hearth.
Marguerite eyed the rod in Zosia's hand nervously. "Won't that burn?" she asked. If ever there were a rude awakening, surely this was it.
"Of course not," chided Zosia. "What do you think of me, child? I am letting the mixture cool. I shall apply it with my own finger."