Donskoy began to climb, but Marguerite hesitated.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"No, I-"
Marguerite was about say, I wondered what lies below, but she stopped herself. Two steps down lay the candle she had dropped the previous night. The taper must have fallen from her garter as she raced back to the sanctuary of her room, fleeing Valeska's apparition.
"You must not lag behind," chided Donskoy. "Certainly a woman of your youth can keep stride with me."
She followed his ascent, ignoring the cool blasts from the open arrow slits along the way.
The stair ted to a half-rounded chamber. Lord Donskoy held the door open, and Marguerite stepped through. In the center huddled a large instrument beneath a gray blanket: the clavier, presumably. A lopsided stool and a lute with broken strings stood sadly against the wall, Beside them was a harp, threaded with cobwebs.
"What a coincidence," said Donskoy. "I have both your instruments of choice."
Marguerite stepped to the clavier and lifted the sheet, which bore a layer of dust as thick as fur. The keys beneath it were soiled. She pressed one gingerly, and the instrument gave out a sour, muffled cry, as if in pain.
Cursed, thought Marguerite. Suddenly it dawned on her she had been viewing the notion of a curse too directly. It did not portend some great horrendous event. Rather, its effects were immediate and obvious, visible all around her in the castle's steady decay and its melancholia, just as Lord Donskoy had implied. But would she too succumb and slowly rot? Would her mind soon have its own "crumbling recesses," like that of her husband?
"The instrument is worse than I recall," Donskoy said, gesturing toward the clavier. "Perhaps some day we'll repair it, so you can entertain yourself."
Marguerite pressed another key, but this time no sound came at all. "It may be beyond repair," she said sadly.
"I might procure another, I suppose, though cargo of this size is difficult to transport. Or you might wish to come here for other reasons. This is a good place for reading when you tire of your own room. On warm days, of course, for the firepit is small, and some of the glass panes are missing from the window. Yelena can clean things here, if you'd like."
Why would I wish to visit this sad place? she wondered. As if summoned, she walked toward the tall sliver of a window, aglow with a pale light.
Donskoy prattled on. "Feel free to come here and entertain yourself when you will. At least by day. Contrary to your belief, you are not my prisoner, Marguerite."
She made no response. A breeze wafted in, and she savored its coolness upon her face.
Then she leaned out. The view was breathtaking. The dark green-black sea of pines spread in waves toward the gray horizon. She had not realized how high she had climbed. It was as if the music room were perched as near as possible to the limits of the sky, so that the gods might hear the musicians and smile upon them. It seemed oddly complete. Above, the tower soared straight into the heavens. And below, well. .
"How far do your lands extend?" she asked.
"As far as you can see,11 he replied.
The fresh air was bracing, refreshing, and she hated to pull away. The tour had left her drained. She no longer had any wish to revisit the dungeons. Hot today.
Donskoy suddenly stood beside her. "You are a picture, standing here with your hair alight. I am glad you do not observe the common style and keep it covered with some silly wimple."
Marguerite felt a blush in her cheeks, unbidden, almost ashamed that she was vulnerable to his flattery.
"You do ride, if I am not mistaken," he said.
She nodded. "Passably."
"Then would you like to explore the terrain? It can much more uplifting than these crumbling walls."
Marguerite turned. "Yes. I'd like that very much." She meant it sincerely. The thought of leaving the castle lifted her spirits greatly.
"Then, by all means, let us depart."
* * * * *
The stable yard was a broad, muddy expanse. In the most remote corner rose the dung heap, its base as solid and ancient as a volcano's. A long, two-story wattle-and-daub building huddled against the castle wall opposite the keep. The wall's crenelated crest loomed twice as high above to meet the cap of leaden sky. Stables and animal pens occupied the lower half of the building. One end housed a smithy's firepit, stone cold. The second floor, ostensibly, held storage rooms and workshops. Time and the elements had treated the structure unkindly; a third of the mossy wood-shingled roof had collapsed.
Marguerite had expected the court to be as empty of life as the castle itself, but she was pleasantly surprised. A flock of black geese wandered at will, honking noisily. A goat bleated, and she spotted it near the gate, tethered on a circle of well-trodden ground. A peacock strutted around the perimeter of the court with a slow, lurching motion, dragging its closed tail behind. In the stables, a row of black, swishing horse tails sprouted from broad gray rumps. The tails swept slowly and rhythmically over the gates of closed stalls, like unnatural pendulums, their effect strangely hypnotic.
An angry growl broke the trance, and Marguerite turned toward the sound. Ekhart was working the hounds near the rear of the court, setting each one in turn to the savaging of a bloody rag. He commanded the activated beast to dive left, then right, then called off the attack to exercise his authority. Marguerite watched with a mixture of disgust and fascination, then turned her head away.
"Shall we?" said Donskoy, gesturing toward the stables and taking Marguerite's hand.
She used the other to lift her skirt. For the occasion, Donskoy had given her a new gown of wool as blue as sapphire, with a matching cape and gloves. The court's flagstones lay half-buried in mud, and the geese had covered them further with an impressive array of slick droppings. She stepped forward cautiously, staring at the ground.
A sound ahead drew her attention. Ljubo appeared, leading a handsome gray gelding and a smaller white mare, dirty, and with a sagging back. Obviously, the mare was meant for her.
"A thousand pardons, Lord Donskoy," said Ljubo, bowing deeply and peering up from beneath his fleshy brow. "I was taking the mounts out front. You never come here to retrieve them-and-and, good day, Lady Donskoy." His eyes slid readily in Marguerite's direction, and he grinned. Something dark and green flecked his broken teeth.
Donskoy replied, "Marguerite is the curious sort. I thought she'd like to see the stables."
"Yes-yes, of course," answered Ljubo, head bobbing. "And I've given her Lightning as you suggested."
"So I see."
Marguerite stared up at the weary-looking horse.
"Pay no heed to the name, my bride," Donskoy added. "The mare is called Lightning because she acts as if she's been struck. Shell never bolt, if you pardon the pun. She's too numb to spook easily."
Ljubo clutched Marguerite's hand, soiling her blue suede glove with his grubby rust-colored fingers, then helped her up into the saddle, doubtlessly leaving a similar stain on her behind. Marguerite ignored the intimacy of the gesture, working to maintain her balance. She shifted uncomfortably and the horse stomped.
"You did say you could ride," said Donskoy flatly.
Marguerite nodded, struggling to adjust her skirts without sliding from her perch. "Yes. Only not recently. And usually a pony."
Donskoy sighed. "We could make adjustments, I suppose."
"I'm fine," she replied. "Just rusty."
He grunted, then swung into his own saddle.
"Take a moment to acclimate yourself," he said. "Have Ljubo lead you by the rein if necessary. I have a matter to discuss with Ekhart."
Donskoy gave the gray a sharp kick and rode toward the back of the yard.
"Are you all right?" asked Ljubo, taking the rein. "Hold onto her neck if you feel unsure."