Ramus shrugged. "That is nothing to me."

Outside, in the distance, Marguerite could hear the hounds baying. They were growing closer. Her panic rose.

She scrambled back to her feet. "Did you use me only to win your vengeance? Is your heart as black as Donskoy's?"

Ramus threw his satchel over his shoulder, then turned to look at her. "It is not."

'Then take me with you," she whispered. "You must."

Ramus shook his head sadly. "You do not know what you ask. You do not know what I am."

"I know enough," she said. "I know I cannot bear to stay here, i know that only you can help me escape. I know your touch."

Ramus choked on a bitter laugh. "You know nothing. You have no idea what [am."

Outside, the dogs began to howl.

Ramus continued, "Shall I show you then, what you must fear?"

"I am not afraid of you," she said. "Whatever secrets you hold, I do not fear them,"

The Vistana shook his head. "You should, This is what I am." He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. "Watch carefully, and then ask yourself whether you want to go with me still."

Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it from his body, and then each garment in turn, until he stood naked before her, adorned only by the play of light and shadow that fell across his smooth, sculpted skin. Each muscle was cleanly defined; compared to Ramus's body, Donskoy's seemed a statue of soft white dough. The Vistana's powerful arms bulged with muscle and vein.

And then it seemed that the veins rose higher and propagated, pressing themselves up against the restraint of his translucent skin, until a pale blue net covered his entire form. The whole of his body rippled beneath the strange mesh, quivering as though his flesh were a separate entity, struggling to break free of the restraining blue web.

Some of the veins darkened, becoming blue-black as they rose higher than the rest. They marked the joining of each appendage to his trunk, of each finger to the palm. Like seams. Like someone had sewn him together.

Ramus raised his index finger high, and the nail lengthened into a long black talon. It was a strange, ugly thing that sprouted from the end of his finger, not like an overgrown fingernail, but like a bone grown too long. He began to cut himself, slicing three deep gashes down his chest, then another across his stomach. Three diagonal lines, raining down to a fourth. The Vistani sign of the curse.

Snakes of red mist poured forth from the wounds. They hissed with blue forked tongues, writhing until their tails slipped from his body; they wriggled away into the night, dissolving into smoke as they left the cavern.

Marguerite sat shaking upon the ground.

"You are flesh and blood." Ramus's voice seemed to rise from the cavern floor. "And what am I? Do you know, Marguerite?" His wounds began to close and disappear.

Marguerite's lips quivered, and she felt tears spilling from her eyes, burning on her cheeks like fire. Her head shook slowly.

"I am blood and mist," Ramus continued, "the thing that steals your breath while you sleep, the thing that pours nightmares into your ears, the thing that makes you grow old and feeble before your time. Do you still want me, Marguerite?"

Horror-struck, she said nothing.

He laughed, then turned toward the mouth of the cave. "I thought not."

Marguerite heard a small voice speaking close to her. It was herself, uttering something softly, a half-choked reply. "Yes," she rasped.

Ramus paused. "Yes, what?"

"Yes. . i still want you." She tasted the salt of her tears in her mouth. "I still want to go with you."

Ramus laughed again, more darkly than before. "My own race lives in fear of me-those who know what I truly am." The hounds howled again, this time from the base of the slope. "But you, the little giorgla. You would have me."

"Yes."

Then he said soberly, "More's the pity then. But, Marguerite, you should understand by now that desire and destiny rarely share the same path."

And then he was gone.

Marguerite sat huddled on the cavern floor, quietly rocking herself, one small hand nervously picking at the other. Outside, she heard the dogs scrabbling up the slope. She started to rise. The dogs. They had tracked her. But how? She had left no trail. Of course, how did not matter.

She had to escape. The woods might conceal her; she would hide out. She did not need Ramus. Surely, other gypsies traveled across Donskoy's land from time to time. She would wait near the fork, lurking, until at last she spotted them. Or perhaps she could leave Donskoy's domain without a Vistana's aid. If desperate enough, she could stow away beneath Jacqueline Montarri's carriage, and-

"Weil, well, well." The voice came from the mouth of the cavern.

Marguerite turned. Ekhart stood just outside, accompanied by two of Donskoy's associates, a half-faced brute and a man with only half a right arm. She shouldn't have been surprised to see them-she had heard the dogs-but somehow she was. Mow that Ramus had left her, everything seemed a fog.

Ekhart continued, "The rabbit has legs. But not for long." The associates slipped into the cavern, seizing Marguerite by the arms. She thrashed, but it was useless. Even the one-armed man had an iron grip. He poked at her with his stump, sliding it toward her throat as if it were a knife.

"What now, Ekhart?" Marguerite hissed. "Will you strike me with a flail and pick my body clean?"

Ekhart snorted, but his somber expression scarcely changed. "A pretty prospect. But alas, your lord intends to keep you safe from harm. For a while yet." The associates dragged her to the cavern entrance. Ekhart leaned in close, and she could smell his sour, bilious breath. "For a few months. But when that child is born, Lady Marguerite, it might be a different picture then. Then you'll learn what it is to obey. And when Donskoy has done with you, you'll answer to my hand."

Ekhart ran his dry, rough fingers over Marguerite's cheek. She spat in his gray eye, but he hardly blinked. He pulled his thin lips a fraction wider, then lifted his hand to his eye and wiped the spittle from his face. He touched his fingers to his lips and blew Marguerite a kiss.

"Enjoy your insults while you can," he said deeply, "They won't last forever." He turned and started down the slope.

The associates chuckled, shoving Marguerite after him.

SEVENTEEN

At the base of the cliff below the cave, Ljubo stood waiting with the hounds milling about his legs. When the snuffling beasts noticed Marguerite and her escorts, they commenced a chorus of eager baying. Ekhart silenced the pack with a wave of his hand.

Morning was upon them, turning the sky to the color of steel.

"Good day, Lady Marguerite," called Ljubo pleasantly. "We're so pleased to have found you."

Marguerite did not respond. She noticed that her hand had begun to turn blue, so tightly was the half-faced associate squeezing her wrist.

Ljubo began his characteristic nodding, then pulled his fleshy lips apart to reveal his flecked grin. The gesture was as sudden and lewd as a drunkard spreading his cape to expose himself. As Marguerite neared, she saw that a piece of pink, shredded meat jutted out from between the yellow clutches of the fat man's teeth. She recalled the image of him waddling into the forest with the headless corpse slung over his shoulder, and her gorge rose up. She choked it back, swallowing hard.

Seeing her revulsion, Ljubo turned his head shyly, then looked at her askance from beneath the awning of his fleshy brow. "So pleased to see you again," he murmured. "Yes indeed."

"Oh, shut up, Ljubo," snapped Ekhart. "There's no need to keep fawning over this bedraggled little bitch, even if she is whelping. Or will be.*