"Looking for something"?"

Marguerite jumped, falling backward onto her seat. It was Ekhart, looming behind her, shovel in hand.

"No, I-," she stammered. "Well, yes, actually."

Marguerite brushed herself off and stood to face him. They stared at one another, her own eyes liquid and challenging, his gray and frozen.

Ekhart said sourly, "And that would be …?"

"It is none of your business," retorted Marguerite huffily. "I am the lady of this castle now, and you shall address me as such."

Ekhart stretched his thin lips into an even wider line, which for him counted as a smile. "All right then. Lady Marguerite," he mocked. "Is there some way that I might assist you?"

"No, Ekhart. Thank you," she said stiffly. "I was

looking for Ljubo."‹

"Indeed. And what would you require of my manservant?"

"Your rnan-servant?"

"He answers to me."

"I thought he might tell something about your excursion yesterday."

"Did you? Why don't you ask me instead?"

"Ail right, Ekhart. I wanted to know what became of the travelers."

"Travelers?"

"Yes. The people lost in the fog. I heard them calling out myself, so spare me any denial."

Ekhart rubbed his chin and chortled. "No. I would not even attempt it. What is it, precisely, that you would know?"

"Just as I said. What happened to the travelers?"

"We were unable to locate them in time."

"You mean they are dead?"

"Yes."

"How?" Marguerite's voice was quiet.

"The mists hold many dangers," Ekhart replied matter-of-f act! y.

"But what kind of dangers? Surely you must have some idea what occurred."

"Animals. Predators. It's difficult to say. Not much evidence remained, if you can grasp my meaning. Or shall I paint you a more detailed picture?"

"No, thank you," she replied. She waved a hand toward the crates. "And these things," she added. "You took them."

"Of course," said Ekhart. "The dead have no need of such possessions where they are bound. Why should we not benefit? Don't pretend you are shocked, milady. Half the gowns you wear were obtained in this fashion." He tapped the shovel against the dirt floor and stared at her, one white brow raised. "Will that be all then, Marguerite?"

"Yes, Ekhart. Thank you. You may go."

He laughed. Tm afraid not, Lady Marguerite. I take my orders from Lord Donskoy. I am here on his behalf, in fact. And I believe it is you who must go. Are you not expected soon in Lord Donskoy's salon?"

"Mot until this afternoon," she replied.

"You have underestimated the hour."

Marguerite looked up at the sunless sky. Was that possible? Had she slept so long before she arose?

"And of course," continued Ekhart, "you will want to change your attire before you see your lord, and 'freshen up1 a bit."

Marguerite flushed with annoyance. His comments were rude and improper, but he was right. When she returned to her room, she exchanged her boots for silk slippers and donned the purple silk gown, the one she had worn on the night she had first met Donskoy. Perhaps the gown would bring her luck.

She found her husband in his salon, sitting beside the hearth, nursing the tip of his water pipe. He greeted her with a red-eyed leer and smiled.

"Do you dance, Marguerite?" he asked abruptly.

Her mouth gaped. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean, do you dance? I mean do you strip yourself bare and bend like a willow, and weave your wicked little spells in the moonlight?"

Marguerite paused, her expression blank. He was delirious again.

"No," he said. "I didn't think so." Then he patted the pillow beside him on the floor. "No matter. You can dance for me another way."

*****

The following morning, Marguerite found a new note on her breakfast tray. Donskoy carefully dictated her whereabouts in the castle-her chamber, the music room, the library, and of course, his salon. Ekhart had told him of her visit to the stables, and Donskoy had not been pleased. He said that such forays were «beneath» her. Further, he instructed her to keep contact with "all servants" to a minimum, for to behave otherwise was unbefitting the lady of a castle. When Marguerite sought out Zosia or Ljubo, she could not find them.

A week passed. Marguerite entertained herself by reading a few mundane selections from the library, and, when that grew stale, she collected the makings of a tapestry with Yelena's help and set to work on it in the music room. Her hand was not steady or practiced. She often pricked her fingers and had to stop the work to keep from staining the fabric with blood. It was a wonder, she thought, that she had once helped in preparing her own wedding gown-the white gown she never wore. It saddened her to think of it. Darkon. . her mother's face softly illumined by the fire. . the long nights spent stitching and chatting together: these images rose before her. Sometimes, she knew, her mother had torn out Marguerite's own poor stitches and later redone them in secret, in the hours just before dawn. Marguerite had not minded. It all seemed so distant now, so unreal, like stories she had read in a dream.

Soon the days gained their own kind of rhythm. First breakfast in her room, alone. A visit to the music room. Reading and stitching. And, if the weather was passable, a short walk with Ekhart at Donskoy's behest, "to keep her healthy and fresh." Then, as the afternoon waned, the obligatory visit to Donskoy's salon for the ritual coupling. This was followed by dinner with her husband, who clearly preferred that they eat in silence. After a while, Marguerite preferred it too.

TWELVE

One day merged with the next, until more than a fortnight had passed since Marguerite's arrival. A cold gray haze hung over the land, unchanging. The routine in the castle remained the same as well, but with the slow progression of hours, a certain tension began to emerge between Marguerite and her husband. She could do nothing to ease it, despite numerous attempts. Twice she suggested to Donsky that they again ride over his lands. And twice he declined, insisting she walk the grounds with Ekhart instead. In another effort to please her husband, Marguerite spoke of the travels they might one day undertake with their children. Lord Donskoy became venomous and spat at her.

"Do you seek to torment me?" he hissed. "You know I cannot leave." But Marguerite did not know, and she did not really believe him.

The true cause of Donskoy's displeasure was clear. Once, while he lay with Marguerite in his red salon, Donskoy rested his hand upon her bare stomach.

"Do you not share my desire for an heir?" he asked, tracing a circle across her skin. He proceeded to draw another circle within it, mimicking the pattern Zosia made on the mornings of her frequent pregnancy tests. After the first divining, Donskoy had remained patient, as he had promised. But now his patience was wearing thin, and Marguerite felt its loss acutely.

"My lord," she said, noting that the pressure of his fingers on her stomach had increased. "You know I desire a son as much as you do." The scene was so queer, yet so typical, that Marguerite began to wonder if she were the one who partook too freely of the hookah smoke.

"Yet I doubt your sincerity," Donskoy replied, moving his hand, plucking idly at her skin. "I wonder if perhaps you do something to keep my seed from taking hold." He pressed his sueded finger into the cleft between her ribs, and Marguerite felt pinned to the floor like a bug collector's specimen.

She swallowed hard to steady her voice. "Surely you don't really believe that, Lord Donskoy. Why would I do such a thing?"

"I could not venture a guess," he replied. "For certainly you must know what happens to wives who don't conceive."