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?"
"Your description is rather fanciful," Donskoy replied. "I myself find the mists quite nauseating and oppressive. And I can assure you, your journey had more to do with gold than magic. Which is to say, with my payment, as well as your father's contribution. Tell me about your family."
Marguerite winced. "My father is the village master." At least, he would be if he were still there, she thought. She hoped her parents had fled Malanuv. Otherwise they might be dead.
"Yes, that was my understanding," said Donskoy. "That your father was a petty bureaucrat-no insult intended. He had come down a bit in the world, I believe."
"You are well informed. Father was a baron; he ruled a small city in the north before I was born. He claimed he preferred the simpler life of Malanuv, further removed from the politics of Lord Azalin's court." Marguerite began to stumble over her words, fearing that she had painted herself as too common. "I do not mean to say we were poor, of course; we lived very well by local standards. Though, naturally we did not live as well as this,"
"Indeed. You must feel proud to be marrying so well. All this is yours to enjoy, with scarcely a dowry." He spoke mockingly, and Marguerite could not tell whether his words were sincere.
Donskoy's eyes lowered briefly, sliding to her bodice, then back to her face. "No holdings, but your other charms are obvious," he said. "How is it that you did not marry sooner? Certainly there must have been suitors."
"One," she said quietly.
"But you did not marry, or. ."
"Ohf no," she replied. "He died before any formal arrangements were made."
"How very unfortunate," said Donskoy evenly. He watched her closely from across the table. "How did it happen?"
"His neck was broken." Marguerite chose her words with care. "No one saw it happen. Apparently he was thrown from his horse." Though she had meant to be honest, this was only half true. Her beloved's spine had been snapped by the same member of Lord Aza-lin's kargat who had opened her eyes to the secret terrors of Darkon.
She waited uneasily for Donskoy's reply. The wine had diminished her self-control; without warning, she found herself on the verge of tears. She did not wish to offer or remember anything more.
Donskoy broke the silence. "It seems we both have known tragedy. Let us forget the unpleasantries of the past, then, and focus on the future-at least for tonight."
Marguerite nodded at him gratefully, saying nothing until the wave of emotion passed.
He smiled and continued, "Yes, we have happier topics before us. Such as our own marriage. I hope you will be content with a very simple, private ceremony. The subsequent fete will be somewhat grander."