The daylight waned. Marguerite continued her search at the clearing near the waterfall, where she had rested during her previous foray into the woods. As night fell, the mist cleared, and the sky became a dark vault teasingly flecked by low clouds. At least the moon was in Marguerite's favor. Cloud-shadows raced across the ground like hounds on the hunt. Their fleeting images taunted Marguerite; more than once she started and cried out, mistaking the play of light for an animal rushing past, or perhaps a spirit.
Mow and again she saw them-the eyes of the forest, frozen in the glow of the moon. The scampering mouse, seized by the owl; the weasel slinking furtively through the brush, with something small and soft in its jaws. Once, as she huddled breathlessly at the base of a tree and clutched at the leather pouch around her neck, a huge black shape shambled past. Marguerite saw its yellow eyes shining in the dark. She thought of the beast from the banquet-the hideous sacrifice that had been part bear, part boar, part. . else. But the silhouette lumbered on, leaving her unscathed. Marguerite told herself it was an ordinary bear.
Time was running out. She plunged deeper into the wood. She dropped to her hands and knees, willing her eyes to find the webs of spiders. The wind moaned plaintiveiy, achieving a clear, sorrowful note. Then she realized it was not the wind at alt; it was an instrument-a violin. She thought at once of Ramus. She crept through the forest toward the sound, which drew her like a siren's song.
Finally she saw him, standing near the old vardo, holding a shiny black fiddle to his chin. He had built a small fire, and its warmth lit his face with yellow-gold light. His black horse stood nearby, nosing the ground.
Marguerite crawled beneath the pungent skirts of a hemlock and hid, amused that the tables had turned. Mow she was the watcher. She pressed herself low to the ground, oblivious to the dampness that seeped into her clothing. The music held her spellbound. The gypsy played beautifully, stroking and compressing the strings of his violin until they cried out in elation and agony.
Marguerite thought he must be playing for himself or simply serenading the night. But then she saw white wisps of fog rise from the soil and swirl about Ramus's body. They caressed him, coiling teasingly around his fingers and around the slender bow, streaming between the strings of the violin. As they passed through the instrument, they stretched and bent, assuming the shape of three Vistani women. They were ghosts, ephemeral as smoke, as smooth as white glass. They rose through the air, and the music swelled to echo the rhythm of their whirling dance. Diaphanous white skirts trailed behind them like the tails of comets.
Soon Ramus closed his eyes and slowed his tune.
The women clasped hands, moving three as one. Their features were indistinct, but something about them suggested age and sorrow. They sank toward the ground. The soil steamed beneath them. Ramus continued to play, his notes somber and slow. The women's ghostly white heads began to melt away from their shoulders, dripping down their bodies like candle wax. Then their bodies sagged and slumped, and the shoulders disappeared, and the breasts, and the hips and the legs-melting away until nothing remained but a white cloud upon the ground. Then even that disappeared.
Ramus moved his fiddle from his chin and stared into the forest. Marguerite held her breath, not daring to move. She lay directly in the path of his gaze.
The gypsy walked across the clearing to where his black horse stood waiting. He slipped the violin into an embroidered satchel that hung from the saddle, then retrieved his round-brimmed hat from the pommel. The horse snorted, pawing nervously at the dirt. Ramus stroked the animal's muzzle and whispered something to quiet it. Then he turned once again toward Marguerite's hiding place.
"Lost again, Marguerite?" he asked, flashing a white smile. He tipped his hat.
Marguerite did not answer, hoping that if she remained silent, she might also be invisible.
"Mot coming out?" asked Ramus. "Then you must mean for me to clamber in after you. A pleasant invitation indeed."
Marguerite wormed her way out of her hiding place, feeling graceless and chagrined. She took a step forward, then stopped, leaving several paces between them. Still she felt his attraction, and it amazed her. She swayed, unsteady. And she said nothing, for suddenly nothing at all would come to mind.
"So we meet again," Ramus said deeply. "I hope you enjoyed my serenade."
"I did," she replied, almost in a whisper. "It was magical."
Meither of them spoke of the spirits. It occurred to Marguerite that Ramus had summoned them with a powerful spell. If she mentioned his magic, she might somehow fall prey to its power. The dance lay between them tike a secret, something intimately shared.
"Do you know the legend of the Vistani violin?" Ramus asked, reaching forward to stir the fire.
Marguerite shook her head.
"The first violin, it is said, was created to lure a lover. A young Vistana longed for the affections of a girl who spurned him. So deep was his desire that he sought the aid of dark powers to win her. The powers consented to help him. In payment, they demanded the spirits of the boy's brothers and sisters. The powers bound them into the strings and bow of the first violin, then gave the instrument to the boy, so that he might serenade his sweetheart. When the boy played, the violin filled the air with his family's pain, as well as their remembered joys, and the girl was spellbound. Unfortunately, she loved the musician only when he played, and eventually the sound of his victims drove the young man mad. He killed himself. But the next Vistana who took up the instrument found he could reproduce the sound with all its beauty. And so the violin was born."
"What a sad story," whispered Marguerite.
"Indeed. But only a legend." Ramus looked up from the fire. "So, what brings you out after nightfall, Marguerite? Was it me you sought? Did I lure you with my violin?"
"No," said Marguerite, struggling to think of some excuse for her wandering. She did not want to share her secrets with Ramus. "I was merely restless."
"Ah. My kind well understands that feeling. But it must take a great deal of restlessness to drive a gior-gia from her cozy bed and into the forest after dark. Are you finding your home so unpleasant then, Marguerite, that you must escape into the night?"
"Not at all," she lied. "We are very happy at the keep."
Ramus laughed softly. "I am glad," he said. "Though I must say it is surprising."
"And why is that?" she asked, indignant.
Ramus shrugged. "Lord Donskoy's reputation suggests otherwise. But if he treats you well, I am glad to hear it. I must admit that you do not appear entirely abused." He smiled a sly smile. "Of course I myself could treat you better, and please you in ways you cannot imagine."
She had anticipated the advance, but it unnerved her nonetheless. "I'm certain I don't know what you mean."
Ramus's dark eyes flared, and his voice sank low, "And I'm certain that you do."
Marguerite expected him to step toward her, to touch her, but he made no move. "You mistake me," she said, "for another type of woman."
"I think I understand you quite well," he replied. "But I am no fiend. Your answer is no, then?"
"Yes."
He chortled. "Yes?"
"No."
"Such a pity for us both. But if you won't allow me to coax the music from your instrument, perhaps I can help you find what you are seeking."
Marguerite blushed. "I am seeking nothing. I told you I was just restless."