Marguerite smoothed her tunic and struggled to stand on her own. Her clothing was still damp, and she was panicked and cold, but she hoped Ekhart couldn't see her trembling. "[have no reason to run," she said evenly. "I am going home, escorted by my husband's faithful servants. [am glad you found me." She thrust out her chin. She had bitten the inside of her lip, and it was bleeding a Jittle, and she hoped this was not too apparent.
Ljubo snorted hard with mirth, then drew his sleeve across his moist, fleshy nose. Ekhart shot him a glance that could pierce armor. The fat man's eyes rolled meekly away, and he stared off into space.
With the associates flanking her and Ljubo and the hounds at the rear, the five figures walked together through the forest. Ekhart moved just ahead. Marguerite could not help comparing his rigid, brittle form to Ramus's sinewy, catlike body. She tried to thrust the gypsy's image from her mind.
In time the group emerged from the wood and stepped out onto the road. The cart stood waiting, with the pair of weary gray ponies anchored in the rigging before it. The associate's horses were tethered nearby.
The one-armed man and his half-faced companion swung astride their mounts. "Will you be needing us anymore?" asked the former.
Ekhart shook his head. "No indeed. Ljubo and I can handle the likes of this little rabbit. She may bolt, but she won't get far."
"Until next month, then," said the man. "Unless Donskoy summons us sooner." He whistled a long, low note, calling his hounds, which came to stand beside their master's horse.
Ekhart tipped his tall hat to the associates but said nothing. The men rode away, with most of the dog pack trailing behind.
Ljubo bowed deeply and motioned to the wagon. As Marguerite looked back into the forest, Ekhart cupped her elbow. She shook his hand loose, then pulled herself onto the bench. Ekhart slid into place beside her, pressing his side firmly against hers. He pressed a little harder
"No indeed," he said. "This little rabbit won't be running again. Mot unless she likes to be hunted. Do you. Lady Marguerite? Do you like to be hunted like an animal And what dank hole would you push your proud little head into next?"
Marguerite turned her face sharply away. Ekhart made a gesture to Ljubo, who bounded into the wagon bed, followed by the remaining trio of hounds. Marguerite cast a wary glance over her shoulder. To her relief, the black crate was gone. The wagon lurched forward, jostling along the track, carrying them back to Lord Donskoy's keep.
Presently Marguerite's stomach began to lurch with the motion of the wagon. Her face paled, and she lifted a trembling hand to cover her mouth.
Ekhart smiled. "Not feeling well, milady? Just like the last trip we made together, just a few short weeks ago. But already you look much older. Not very fresh at all. Soon you'll be shriveled and ugly, and who'll want you then?"
Marguerite lowered her hand and gave him an icy stare. "It must be the company I'm keeping," she said dryly. Her stomach twisted painfully, and she was forced to look away.
Ekhart chortled. "Let's see how Lord Donskoy likes his lady when she begins to rot just like the rest of us."
Marguerite's eyes fluttered. She felt a queer, hollow ache rising in the upper reaches of her gut, opening like a wound, slowing expanding with the rocking motion of the cart.
Ekhart continued, "Oh, it takes quite a long time for some, like Donskoy himself, and for me. The strong among us are barely affected by this land, compared to the weaklings. But someone so frail as you? Doubtless you'll be sloughing your own fingers just a few days after you've sloughed the child. You'll run them through your hair one day, thinking you're losing it, and your hand will come up bald instead."
Ljubo gurgled with mirth in the back of the wagon, but a quick took from Ekhart stilled him instantly.
Ekhart droned on. "Who'll want you then, Lady Marguerite? Maybe even I won't have a use for you …"
Marguerite had never heard so many words spilling from the old man's lips. Suddenly, she could contain her nausea no longer. She held her head over the side of the wagon and retched. When she had finished, she pressed her face to her shoulder, embarrassed. But the humiliation was nothing compared to the terror that had taken root inside her, growing with each turn of the cart's wheels, with each turn that brought them closer to the keep.
Ekhart gave the ponies a sharp siap with the reins. They lurched suddenly in surprise, spawning a fresh wave of nausea in Marguerite. She choked it down. Ekhart sneered. "Such a pity you're ill," he said. "Donskoy won't be pleased. Doesn't bode well for the child. Better hang on to that baby, Marguerite. It's the only magic that'll keep his temper at bay."
The cart jostled and creaked. Marguerite struggled to keep her head high, her eyes fixed ahead. She felt unsteady, but she refused to give Ekhart the pleasure of reacting. She would not let him see her swoon, nor would she allow him to goad her into a reply. She set her jaw, hoping her face would become a pale gray mask like his own.
The black stream ran alongside the road, winking reflections of the pale dawn light. Then the wagon traveled over the arched stone bridge. Mot long now, she thought, hot long before the keep rises up to swallow me. She closed her eyes to shut out the image, gripping the side of the wagon to keep from falling.
Unbidden, Ramus came to mind. She remembered the horrific display he had made, cutting into his own skin to release the crimson serpents. It must have been an illusion, she thought. It had to be. He did it to frighten me away. She remembered his "gift"-the child he claimed to have left behind. That, too, was probably a Me, another fiendish trick. And then she remembered his touch, the sweeping phrases of the violin's song, and suddenly she wasn't sure anymore whether truth was any better than a lie.
The Vistana's words haunted her. "Go back to your husband, and act as if nothing has happened." How could she possibly manage it? Yet how could she do anything else. .
Marguerite felt a tear spilling from one eye, and she hastily wiped it away. Ekhart must not see her frailty. She felt sickly and weak, and terrified at what lay ahead. It took aI(her strength just to remain seated on her own, to keep from leaning against his stiff gray arm for support. But she would not let him see her yield.
The wagon came to a halt. "Home again, home again," chimed Ljubo. "Don't you worry, Lady Marguerite. Soon you'll be snug as a thug in your bed. Lord Donskoy won't be mad for long. He gets angry at me too sometimes, but he always cools down soon enough."
Marguerite opened her eyes and saw the keep looming before them. She was not prepared for the wave of fear that washed over her at the sight. She felt weak and flushed; cold runnels of sweat trickled down her face. With trembling hands, she began to smooth her tangled hair, trying to make herself presentable, to make herself fresh.
"Worried?11 Ekhart askedf climbing off the wagon.
"Cold," said Marguerite quietly. It was true. Her teeth chattered together, rattling in her head. "Just c-c-cotd."
"What a pity." He took Marguerite's arm and pulled her off the bench. "And weak no doubt. I suppose I'll have to help you up the stairs."
He dragged her to the steps. With each footfall, Marguerite grew more weary. It was as before, when she first arrived, only her condition was much worse. When they reached the top of the stairs, she turned her face and retched dryly. Her stomach was empty.
"I'm sorry," she said feebly. u[-"
Ekhart steered her through the door and pulled her up the curving stairs into the foyer. Struggling to regain her composure, Marguerite braced herself against the wall,
"I can make rny way alone from here," she said. "I must return to my chamber. Lord Donskoy can visit me there. I must lie-"