Donskoy rose. "The feast has ended," he announced. "All hail my bride."

"Hail," droned the men, voices bare of enthusiasm.

"All hail the renewal."

They raised their palms to the ceiling and snapped their fingers.

"Come, my dear," said Donskoy. "Let us leave them. I have eaten well, but I am still ravenous." He turned to Jacqueline. "Entertain yourself as you wish. Ljubo and Ekhart will assist you in the morning."

"You are too kind," said Jacqueline. "Marguerite, it has been a pleasure to meet you."

Marguerite merely smiled.

The man who had slain the beast spoke up. "And is this all for the entertainment, then, my lord?" His voice sank low with subtle menace. "You promised us more."

Donskoy chuckled. "Yes, of course. And I have kept that promise." He nodded to Ekhart. "Show them to the dungeons." With a gracious wave, he added, "Gentle rogues, faithful friends, your prize awaits."

They filed out slowly, the men's faces twitching in childish anticipation.

Marguerite mustered the courage to ask the question that had formed in her head. "What prize awaits them, my dear husband?"

Donskoy looked at her beneath lowered lids. "That is not your concern, my dearest. You must concentrate on the prize that awaits you."

SEVEN

Donskoy led Marguerite to the foyer. Wicked laughter drifted up from the depths of the castle, distant and muffled. His men were enjoying their prize.

The couple crossed into the sitting room where they had first spoken. Now the hearth was cold, the black embers void of life. A small arched door lay in the corner. Donskoy withdrew a key and opened it, and with a bow and a flourish of his hand, he motioned for her to enter.

Marguerite closed her eyes and steeled herself, half-expecting to enter some chamber of horror-a gallery filled with a contorted and unnatural menagerie, stuffed yet animate; a dank closet with a soiled pallet and darkly stained manacles, where «unfresh» wives were left to rot. She swallowed hard to regain her composure; her imagination was running amuck.

As she crossed the threshold, she exhaled sharply, her relief mingled with awe. She had stepped into a strange and lovely dream, a fantasy in red. One by one, the heavy thoughts that played in the back of her mind and weighed on her spirit simply melted away- the crude men, their pox and their disease and their wicked games, her fear that Donskoy's tastes might run in similar veins. Soft opulence enveloped her.

No other room in the castle had coverings upon the stone or wood floors, save for herbs and straw, and the occasional pelt. Here in this small chamber, layers of ornate red tapestries and plush fur rugs cloaked the polished planks, leaving only the outer rim of the floor exposed. Long swaths of crimson velvet hung from the paneled walls, pooling on the dark, gleaming wood. The ceiling was low and divided into gilded squares, each housing a carved rosette, tinted scarlet. A single chandelier dangled in the center of the room. It resembled a large, ornate cage of gold filigree, imprisoning a circle of wax candles carved in the shape of doves. Long strands of red glass beads dripped from the bars of the cage like sparkling droplets of blood. They tinkled softly, stirred by the soft breeze that rushed through the open doorway.

The room was lush, lavish, and decadent, unlike any place Marguerite had ever seen.

"My private salon," murmured Donskoy. "My oasis from decay and despair. I hope it pleases you." He peeled off his jacket and tossed it thoughtlessly onto the floor.

Marguerite nodded.

"I am glad," he continued. "I do not extend the honor of a visit to just anyone."

He watched as she continued to survey the room and its furnishings-the plush red divan, stretched languidly before a pair of low round tables; the throne-like chair and stout square table sitting beside it, each resting proudly on lion's legs; the profusion of red velvet pillows scattered across the floor. A warm fireplace glowed on the left side of the room, with a chimney and a golden hood to keep back the smoke. \n exotic water pipe rested on the floor nearby, its glass bowls red and as round as a spider's abdomen, the long hose coiled beside it like a patient black snake with a slim silver head. A row of white marble pedestals stood along the opposite wall-the kind that displayed busts in a gallery, though they were headless at present. On the rear wall loomed a fruitwood cabinet with gleaming inlaid panels and carved rosettes that echoed the pattern in the ceiling. Marguerite realized she had seen similar designs once before, though in a smaller piece-a chest her father had imported from Lamordia, a northern land noted for its craftsmanship.

Donskoy settled himself on the floor beside the water pipe, lighting it with a slender stick from the fire. "Sit." He motioned toward the divan. "And let yourself relax."

She obeyed, at least the first command. His second wish would be harder met.

Donskoy pressed the tip of the black hose to his lips, inhaling deeply. Marguerite stared. When he exhaled, she noticed that the silver tip was shaped like the head of a cobra; the artisan, too, had envisioned a serpent and conjured its likeness.

"Have you never seen a hookah?" Donskoy asked.

Marguerite shook her head. "It comes from Sri Raji."

Marguerite had never heard of this place. "It sounds exotic."

"More like a steaming pit. I no longer travel abroad, of course, but it is one place I do not miss. There is a smalt present on the table before you," said Donskoy. "You may open it."

On the table rested a silver tray with a decanter of plum brandy-wine and two blood-red goblets. Beside the tray lay a small, square black bundle. Marguerite picked up the package and released the gold cord that bound it. The silk wrapping fell away to expose another shimmering cord and another ebony layer. Beneath it lay yet another. Donskoy smiled with amusement as she peeled away the wrapping, venturing ever deeper. At last, she held a small, square wooden box, lacquered and gleaming. It appeared to have no lid.

"How do I get inside?" she asked.

"Try," he responded smoothly, taking another deep draft from the pipe.

She wrestled with the impenetrable block, stroking and prodding, shaking it lightly and pondering its muffled rattle. She searched its surfaces repeatedly for any sign of a hinge or latch,

"ft is a puzzle," he added.

"So I gathered," she said, her stomach fluttering like an excited child's. She struggled for several minutes. Then it dawned on her that this might be some kind of test, which she might be failing. Her brow furrowed at the thought.

"Perhaps I am glad you cannot open it," Donskoy said gently. "It marks you as without guile."

He took the box from her hands and fondied it until it slid it apart in two pieces, one cantilevered over the other. Then he returned it to her hand.

Nestled in the bottom half was a brooch-a circle of gold, two arms bound by an entwining ribbon, upon which a message was inscribed.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"Forever," he said darkly, as if making it so*

"It's beautiful. Shall I put it on?"

"Please do."

She pressed the pin through the bodice of her gown, and as it emerged from the other side, it pierced her fingertip. She gave a little squeak, then lifted the finger to her lips, but Donskoy was faster-moving to her hand and taking it in his own gloved grasp.

"Allow me," he said, gently sucking the blood from her wound. "You taste so sweet."

Despite herself, she blushed, and her jaw tensed.

"But you are too cold," he added. "Your hands are like ice. I can fee! it even through my gloves." He reached for the decanter of wine, filling the glass. He settled back into the cushions beside the water pipe and gazed upon her, continuing his smoke.