An involuntary groan rose in her throat. Marguerite pushed with all her might, but nothing happened; the wall refused to shift. She remembered Donskoy's warning: "The passages are crumbling and prone to failure, and you might find yourself entombed in a wall."
Her heart thundered in her ears, the only sound in the otherwise still passage. Slowly, methodically, she began to push every stone that barred her path. Still, nothing happened. Marguerite pounded her fist against the stone she recalled as the trigger. This time, the wall gave way. She lifted the tapestry and scrambled to freedom.
Safely in her chamber, she stood, breathing heavily. "Idiot," she whispered. She had been stupid and clumsy, lacking both stealth and common sense. If Yelena could surprise her so readily, then why not Ljubo or Ekhart, or Donskoy himself? Further, she had not even imagined the secret passage could malfunction, though her husband had warned of the possibility that very day. She would not venture through the tunnel again-not without good reason. Ekhart's activity seemed meaningless compared to the prospect of slow suffocation, or the thought of being discovered and relocated to one of the miasmic chambers that typified the keep.
Marguerite removed her tunic and returned it to the wardrobe. Staring inside the cabinet, she recalled what she had been doing before Ekhart and Ljubo's return distracted her. She donned her dressing gown and withdrew Van Richten's Guide to the Vistani from the wardrobe, then took it to her chair by the fire. There she sat and unwrapped the black shroud, spreading it over her lap. The innermost folds of the cloth were coated with ash; she worked slowly, taking care not to soil her garment. The book seemed to weigh no more than a feather upon her thighs. Gingerly she leafed through the pages, those that still allowed themselves to be parted. At length she rediscovered the pictures of tralaks. There again was the symbol that the book had opened to of its own accord, three lines striking a fourth: cursed A shudder ran down her back; she reminded herself of what Zosia had told her, that Valeska's ghost intended her no harm.
What was the symbol on the road? A triangle of some sort, pointing downward. The book showed a triangle and a line, which was titled "recent murder," but the tip pointed up. There was another with a cross through it, entitled "ancient murders." She could find nothing quite like the overturned triangle Donskoy had removed from the tree, but it did not seem a wild guess to think that it had something to do with death, Perhaps it meant «suicide»; that seemed fitting for an inverted version of the murder symbol.
Slowly and carefully, she opened the book to another section, curious what she might find. Most of the tome was illegible, as if the ink had literally ignited and burned away. Whole chapters had been fused together, the pages having melted and become one. It was odd, she thought. She had never seen parchment or ink behave in this way before. Then she laughed at herself: neither had she ever seen a book that would not burn, or that opened of its own accord.
A title on a page caught her eye: "Torture and terror." The chapter appeared to contain Van Richten's theories on curses and the evil eye-the Vistani's strange ability to cause enchantments with a mere look. Most often, those enchantments were malevolent. Marguerite remembered Ramus's penetrating gaze, how it filled her with warmth and threatened to melt away her caution. It had not seemed harmful, but had she not looked away. . Suddenly another face came to mind, another set of dark, penetrating eyes. Valeska's eyes. Zosia had assured her that Valeska meant her no harm. But what if Zosia was wrong?
Then she admonished herself aloud, borrowing a phrase from Zosia. "Don't let your imagination run off like a mad hare, Marguerite/ She continued to took through the book for answers; she had nowhere else to turn. She could only make out a few words here and there, describing horrid afflictions that a Vistani curse might cause: a condition called "the body melt," which converted a man into gooey liquid; a passing mention of gangrene; something about the conversion of one's skeleton to a baglike form. She shuddered.
Then an intriguing phrase caught her eye: "black hands." According to Van Richten, they could mark a man who had wronged the Vistani; the author made note of a thief who had robbed a caravan and found his own skin discolored by the act. Marguerite thought of her husband's black gloves, but there was no connection; they were only gloves, after all. The hands themselves were not black-not that she knew of. He suffered from some sort of deformity; that's what he had told her. She let her mind wander over the possibilities: festering boils, skin like a snake's, a missing digit or two, or the reverse-a skinny extra finger tucked alongside its sturdy brother, like a withered worm. Or a third eye, perhaps, rooted on the tip of his thumb. Whatever Donskoy's deformity was, it did not cripple him; his hands remained strong, his grip hard and firm-like a vise, when he wanted it so.
Marguerite looked down and saw that her own hands had become black from handling the book. She shivered. Carefully she rewrapped the tome in its black cloth and returned it to her cabinet. Then she washed the ash from her hands, relieved to see her own clean skin once again.
Her weariness came back to her, now twice as intense as before. It had been a full day, she mused, full of exploration and of being explored. She removed the dressing gown and, with her last bit of strength, crawled through the bed curtains to curl her body into the pit of the mattress,
She slept for hours. As a cloud of bats wheeled in the sky outside the castle, Marguerite dreamed once more of the dark-haired gypsy, who rose from the black water and parted the rock and stepped out into the green-black sea of trees. Marguerite followed behind her, watching as the Vistana slipped in and out of view, and then disappeared. In a moonlit clearing, Marguerite found her again. The gypsy was dancing, moving slowly, naked but for the myriad snakes that hung from her arms like black scarves.
And then the dream ended. Marguerite shifted in the pit of her bed and slept on, slumbering as the sun climbed from its nightly grave; she slept as it rose high overhead and merged with the cold gray haze that covered Donskoy's land.
*****
When Marguerite awoke, Yelena was stoking the hearth. A breakfast tray lay on the table nearby. The mute girl turned and headed for the door.
"Wait." Marguerite slipped out from between the walls of her velvet tent. "I want to speak to you."
Yeiena paused and turned her head, gazing at Marguerite wearily from beneath the little brown cap she always wore. The girl's face was a puffy palette of pale gray-and-purpie shadows, and her lips had fused in a frown.
"It seems I should thank you again," said Marguerite, "for not giving me away."
Yeiena's lips parted slightly, releasing a deep sigh.
"I am very grateful." Marguerite added boldly, "Don't you want to know how I got out?"
The mute rolled her eyes, then shot a glance toward the tapestry.
She knows then, thought Marguerite. "Well, as I said, I am very grateful. And you can rest assured that I won't cause this trouble for you again."
At this, Yelena gave a sharp squeak-a laugh, perhaps, but completely lacking in mirth. The servant curtsied and jerked her head toward the door.
"Of course," said Marguerite. "You may go. I only wanted to thank you."
The mute girl curtsied again and departed. Marguerite slipped out of bed, padding after her. She tried the handle on the door and to her relief, found it unlocked. After washing at the basin, she went to the hearth to inspect the breakfast tray. It held a slab of cold meat, faintly green along one edge; the usual piece of bread; and a ewer of cold wine. She sniffed the wine and wrinkled her nose. Despite the heavy dose of cloves, she could tell it was horribly sour; some of Donskoy's barrels must be going bad. Or else Yelena was making a statement. Then Marguerite noticed something else on the tray: a small piece of parchment, folded in half. She opened itt and discovered a note from Lord Donskoy.
My wife, it read. / trust you slept well. You must content yourself with reading this morning. In the afternoon, come to my salon. -D.
Marguerite fed the parchment to the fire and stretched. At least the rest of the morning was hers. And the door was open. Given this streak of fortune, she had no intention of languishing in her room with a book. Instead, she planned to visit the stables, where she could examine the cart she had seen returning last night. It would probably be unloaded by now, but certainly Ljubo would tell her about the travelers in the mists. She smiled thinly, recalling her last furtive conversation with the man. Yes, Ljubo would talk. Ljubo, after all, was her friend.
Dressed in high boots and a simple woolen shift betted low round her hips, Marguerite emerged in the court. It had not been easy to find her way alone, and she had come to several dead ends amid the castle's jumbled and rotting storerooms; finally she had closed her eyes and followed her memory like a dream. Mow she stepped out toward the stables, crossing the flagstones that were slick with mud and dung. She looked for Ljubo or Ekhart but saw only the other animals. The black gaggle of geese moved through the court like a raucous cloud. The goat bleated from its tether, and the peacock continued its walk around the perimeter like a sullen guard. Five dark horse tails and one that was dirty white hung over the stable walls, all in a row.
The wagon had been parked in an open stall. Marguerite picked her way across the court and peered inside. The wagon bed itself was bare to the rough boards. On the ground nearby, however, lay the black tarp, draped over a jumbled mound. She lifted the edge, discovering a barrel labeled «sugar» and a few unmarked crates- She probed a little further, unveiling a long black chest. It resembled the crate that had accompanied her from Darkon. Marguerite knelt before it, fingering the clasp.
"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."