Donskoy snorted. "For that bit of wisdom, I hardly needed you, old woman."
"Patience, my lord," Zosia replied. "Marguerite's belly will swell with life soon enough. And! will prepare for you a new smoking potion, to help diminish your internal pain."
Marguerite looked toward the old woman. So it was she who kept Donskoy's pipe burning.
Donskoy growled. "Patience," he muttered- "I should be its master by now." He rose from the chair. "Forgive me, Marguerite, if my eagerness has made you ill at ease."
"I am not so fragile," Marguerite replied evenly.
"Good. For the next month, I shall be the picture of patience. You shall visit me in my salon each day. And after a month, we shall rejoice."
"I am sure you are right, Milos."
"Call me Lord Donskoy," he said, walking toward the door. "Or simply 'lord' will suffice." At the threshold, he paused and turned. "Zosia suggests that I pay you some attention. After you have dressed, join me in the sitting room outside my salon for breakfast. We will discuss how to spend the day most pleasantly." He clasped his gloved hands before him, nervously working the fingers; they resembled two black-furred spiders coupling.
"I'll be there soon, my lord," Marguerite replied.
"See that you are," said Donskoy, stepping across the threshold.
Zosia stood by the hearth, gathering up the components of her strange tests as Yelena hovered nearby. Marguerite gazed at the old woman, studying her dark cronish looks, her unmistakable gypsy looks. Stagnant or not, the old woman had to be Vistani. An outcast, perhaps?
Slowly the pieces of a puzzle began to tumble into place in Marguerite's head. Donskoy's first wife was a black-haired hellion named Valeska. In the water Marguerite had seen a biack-haired gypsy-an apparition, a sign. Could it be that Valeska was a gypsy? Zosia had known her-she had said so. "Soon," she had told Marguerite, "soon you will look upon me as Donskoy's first wife did."
A flurry of questions rushed forward in her mind, each of them angrily demanding attention. Zosia had brushed her queries aside before, but perhaps now she would be more willing. For now, Marguerite was Donskoy's wife.
"Zosia," she said evenly.
The old woman turned. "Yes, my child? You can wipe away the salve; it has served its purpose."
Marguerite struggled to find the words, fearing that Zosia would simply scurry off, avoiding her questions. "I'd like you to tell me about. . Valeska."
Zosia's eyes flashed, and Yeiena's dark mouth gaped. The mute dropped the rags she had gathered and knelt to pick them up. When she had finished, Zosia dismissed her with a flapping wave. Yelena scurried out the door. The old woman turned to Marguerite.
"Valeska," she said, as a jailer might question his prisoner. "How do you know that name?"
Marguerite hesitated, not wanting to give away her visit to the crypt. If Griezell was not Zosia's informant, it would be unwise to reveal her escape. "Lord Don-skoy told it to me."
"Hahf" cackled Zosia. "He would never speak her name-especially not to you."
"He was deiirious. He did not know what he said."
"Hmmph."
"And I have seen her as well."
Zosia's brow rose.
Marguerite added quickly, "In a dream."
Zosia smiled. "You are very sensitive for a giorgia. But then, you and Valeska share a connection in Don-skoy."
"Then she was Donskoy's wife. His first wife."
Zosia frowned. "He considered her as much. But it was not a marriage sanctioned by her tribe."
"Were you her mother?"
Zosia shook her head. "But I tended her. We suffered here together. She and I, true Vistani no more." Zosia turned, walking toward the door. "You must dress now. Lord Donskoy will be angry if you keep him waiting."
"Before you go, tell me how she died."
"I have told enough," replied Zosia stiffly. "And I warn you, speak of this no more-especially where Donskoy might hear."
With that, she opened the door.
"Wait!" Marguerite's command sounded more like a plea than an order. "I … I dreamed of a curse,"
To Marguerite's astonishment, Zosia's face showed no surprise or alarm. Without asking any details, she simply nodded.
"You needn't fear the curse, my child." The old woman stepped into the hall. "Valeska means you no harm. She is restless and proud, but she bears you no malice. For you, she knows only sympathy."
The door swung shut.
TEN
Breakfast was a simple affair in the drawing room outside Donskoy's salon-a piece of dry bread; a slice of cold, salty meat of unknown origin; and a sour wine so laden with dross that Marguerite had to strain it through her teeth. After each sip she dabbed her gums surreptitiously, so as not to smile at her husband with clotted teeth.
Donskoy stared off into space while they ate, as if resigned to her company. I have disappointed him, she thought. But if his coolness came from the results of Zosia's test, his expectations seemed patently unfair.
Donskoy dabbed his mustache with a cloth. "Well then," he said suddenly. "I promised you a tour of the castle, did I not?"
Marguerite nodded.
He sighed, and she added quickly, "But we can undertake it another time, if it displeases you."
"No, no," he replied, tossing the napkin on the table. "This is your home now. And one must feel at home, I suppose, to be at home. In truth, you have already seen the only rooms worth occupying. But if it will dispel your curiosity and make you content, then perhaps a quick tour is overdue. At any rate, it will allow me to point out certain dangers of which you should be aware."
At once, Marguerite thought of Valeska floating in the underground river, and of the dripping mark of the curse. She wondered whether Donskoy would take her to the dungeons. And if he did, would the tralak remain? Would he too see Valeska's body rising from the water? Such an event might push him over the edge. Unless he knew, of course; unless he had seen these things himself. And in that case, she could not imagine he would take her below.
Donskoy rose and stretched, assessing her. "This is bound to be a dirty business. Would you like to change your attire?"
She shook her head.
"Then wait here for a moment."
He slipped into his salon, closing the small arched door behind him. When he returned, a ring of large skeleton keys jangled in his left hand. "The tour begins."