He made no move to open the door.
"Have you never required guards, then?" Marguerite asked, "if so, this land must be quite peaceful."
Donskoy laughed dryly. "You make it sound like a paradise. I have my associates, of course, but I do not require an army. No one dares to invade. This way, Marguerite."
He strode toward the great hall, and they went in together. During their feast, the straw and herbs upon the floor had seemed freshly applied. Only a day later, the mixture clung to the stones in moist, dark clumps, completely void of any sweetness. Marguerite brushed a heap aside with the point of her shoe. A shining beetle darted out, careening across the floor in search of new cover.
Donskoy led her to a door at the left side of the hall and inserted a key in the rusty lock, then gave a shove. The door opened just a crack, releasing a sour gust.
"Here lies one of the dangers I mentioned," Donskoy announced. His tone held only the barest interest. "It's the throne room, or once was, I suppose. It seems to me that the castle has undergone many changes through the years. The floor of this chamber is entjrely unsafe. Half of it has fallen, plunging to an old storeroom below." He stepped aside and gestured toward the gap. "Do you wish to peer inside, my dear?"
Marguerite shook her head. The stench was unpleasant.
"An intelligent woman," said Donskoy, shutting the door and turning the lock. "Perhaps I chose wisely after all."
Marguerite let the barb pass without response.
"Beyond the throne room lies the solar," Lord Donskoy continued, "a private apartment for the lord of the keep-for myself, I suppose. But it's nearly as ruined as the throne room, so naturally it goes unused. After all, I have my salon."
"How many years have you lived in the keep?I' Marguerite inquired.
"Too many," he answered vaguely, "ft has been both a boon and a bane."
"Were any of the previous residents kin to you?" she asked.
"You mean, was the keep passed to me by some fluke of relation? Hardly. I acquired all that I possess without benefit of blood-not my own anyway. Moreover, I no longer remember my people in any detail. I was sent away for study at a young age, but I struck out on my own as soon I was able. Now I cannot even recall my family's faces. Like the castle, some of the older recesses of my mind have crumbled."
Fearing a morose turn in his mood, Marguerite pointed to another door, opposite. It stood slightly ajar. "What lies that way?" she asked lightly.
"Ah, the stair to the gallery. The door remains unlocked at most times. Yelena seems to like the perch."
Marguerite peered overhead, gazing at the rait and the long, dark space that stretched behind it. The shadows shifted, as if a figure had moved forward, then retreated. Perhaps it was Yelena, hovering there now like some timid bird bereft of her wing feathers. Or perhaps. .
"We can go up, if you like," said Donskoy. "You'll \\x\6 a few empYy \ao.\es' chambers oft the balcony, reserved for cackling and stitchery, and no doubt for cuckolding in bawdier times."
Marguerite bit her tongue, sure that truth lay in another direction. She stared at the gallery, but saw no further movement above.
Donskoy continued, "On the opposite side from the ladies' rooms lies a portrait hall, though at present the frames hold only dust. One day, when we have children and can fill the castle with life, we will restore the gallery. But for now I see no reason to venture there."
"Then of course we will forgo the climb," said Marguerite.
He nodded.
She noticed a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and she knew that her compliance pleased him.
Donskoy said, "If you do go up there alone, perhaps in search of Yelena, be mindful of the rail."
"Is it unsafe?"
He shrugged, then answered simply, "For the incautious.'I He scanned the wall beside the fireplace in the great hall. "Somewhere there's a secret passage leading to the gallery." He tugged at his mustache, pondering. "Ho, I believe the passage extends from the throne room, so a lord or vassal might steal to the gallery unobserved and look down at the hall. Or spy upon the ladies, I suppose."
Marguerite struggled to sound light. "How intriguing."
"Mot very," he said. "Ekhart tells me this place has many such passages. All lie in disrepair, and none of them leads outside, much less to anywhere new, so they are both useless and redundant."
Marguerite stayed her tongue. Did he know more than he let on? Was he probing to see whether she knew something more of secret doors, pressing her toward confession?
Donskoy continued, "If ever you should discover such a passage-inadvertently, of course-then I suggest you stay clear. It would be so easy for something to crumble or malfunction. You might find yourself entombed in a wall, while I might find myself without a wife, once again."
"I am sufficiently deterred by your description," she said quietly, wondering if he was hinting at the tragedy that cost Valeska her life. "But I'm sure I won't discover such a passage. I'm not that clever."
"You are too clever to meet such a fate, or so I would hope," he said. Lord Donskoy pointed to the rear of the hall. "Through there, of course, lie old pantries, a buttery, a stair to the great ovens where our nonexistent serfs might bake their weekly bread. Zosia and Yelena used the ovens to prepare our feast. Otherwise Zosia prefers the smaller kitchen, which gives access to her garden. They are linked by a passage."
Marguerite did not reveal that she already knew of Zosia's kitchen-and of the garden beyond. And she certainly could not comment on the garden's secret door.
Donskoy took her arm and led her out from the hall. They crossed the vestibule and climbed the stairs leading to her own chamber.
"Do you ever wonder who your companions are in this part of the keep?"
Marguerite lifted her brow. "My companions?"
"In the figurative sense, of course. Yelena acts as if the rooms are haunted. I imagine she is only hesitant to add their upkeep to her duties."
"It is so much for one woman,"
Donskoy paused as if to counter, then frowned, saying nothing. He opened one room after the other, revealing empty, decaying chambers. Half held only dust and long strands of cobwebs that waved from the ceiling as he pushed forth the door. The others contained a few formless pieces of furniture draped in damp-looking sheets.
"You see?" he said. "Mot worth your curiosity. Your own chamber is by far the largest and the best. A sanctuary well worth your appreciation."
Marguerite began to grow tired. "Yes, It's a wonderful room. I am honored to have it." And I should be, she thought. He has obviously taken great pains to make it so comfortable.
"Thanks go in part to Zosia, I suppose," Donskoy added. "She selected the chamber for you, knowing it to be among those least affected by rot." He forged ahead, moving down the hall as if eager to be rid of an unpleasant chore. "Mow then," he mumbled. "What else might I show you? Through the first door down in the vestibule, you can reach the east wing and the old workshops. A chandler's room, a joinery, a hermit's cell or two intended for visiting clergy. [Naturally we have no need of that wing. I suggest you let it go unexplored."
And what of the dungeons? thought Marguerite. What of the curse"? But she did not voice these thoughts.
"Are there many levels underground?" she asked.
He raised a brow. "Indeed. But I must insist that you leave them unexplored as well. They are riddled with tricks and traps, and the air is foul. The combination could prove dangerous, if not fatal."
"I see," she answered quietly, wondering if it had proven fatal in the past.
"You told me you were an accomplished musician, did you not?" asked Donskoy.
Marguerite gave a nervous laugh. "I am not accomplished, I'm afraid. Though I can play the clavier and lute, my skills are not really exceptional."
"I do not ask because I desire a concert," Donskoy replied. "So you needn't fret. However, during our first meeting, I did promise you a glimpse of the music room. I shall take you there now. It is not far."