The Vistani could master the fog. She had to find Ramus.
Marguerite turned and waded Into the marsh. The hounds might not track her over the water, she reasoned. Later, she could veer into the woods and look for the gypsy. Ramus would help her; he had helped her twice before. Mounds of pale grass dotted the marsh, pushing up from the muck like heads cloaked in long, stringy hair. After struggling through the water for what seemed an eternity, Marguerite climbed onto a mound and leapt from one to the next. It was faster than wading. Now and again the soft ground pitched her back into the mire, but she continued on until she heard the hounds whining on the road behind. She stopped short, then scrambled behind a clump of bare brambles and turned to face her pursuers.
On the far side of the marsh, half-a-dozen lanterns hovered motionless. For a moment, the dogs milled about the edge of the marsh. But then the lanterns began to move onf and Marguerite saw the dark shapes of several riders galloping up the road, back toward the keep.
She veered left, making toward a black wall of pines on the bank of the marsh. Brackish water had seeped through the seams of her leather boots, and her feet ached with the cold. Her legs felt as if her veins were filled with mud. Exhaustion sobered her. You're a fool, she thought. A damned fool, traipsing into a dark wood alone at midnight, half frozen, hoping for the company of a lone gypsy, a Vistana who seemed more phantom than man, and someone whom she knew she should not trust completely.
And yet, as always when she needed him, there he was at the edge of the marsh, a figure in black leaning casually against the silver trunk of a dead, limbless tree. The silhouette was unmistakable, but Marguerite stopped, rubbing her eyes, thinking the vision might be another trick of the mists.
"Ramus?" she whispered.
He signaled her with flash of white teeth.
She trudged forward to meet him. He took her hand and pulled her toward drier ground. When they stood on the forest floor, he turned to her and raised a brow expectantly. Stiti, he said nothing.
"Aren't you going to speak?" she whispered hoarsely.
He looked at her, dark eyes glinting like biack spheres. Marguerite's tegs buckled, and he gripped her arm, then suddenly leaned toward her like a hawk swooping for the kill. He pressed his lips against hers. His tongue probed her mouth and seemed to lengthen, slithering toward the back of her throat.
"Stop it," she choked, pulling away. She pushed at him. "What do you think you're doing?"
Ramus laughed. "Pardon me," he replied, a sly smile on his lips. "Surely a married woman knows the answer. I thought it prudent to warm your blood. You look half-frozen."
She stared at him in astonishment, clutching her arms across her chest. Her cheeks did grow hot; she felt them redden with anger and embarrassment. Marguerite looked away from him to avoid his gaze, suddenly aware that he might be attempting some kind of magic. She began to wonder if the castle might have been a better choice after all.
I'm sorry, Marguerite," said Ramus soothingly. "I should not tease you. Obviously you've had a difficult night."
"I have,” she stammered. "How did you know?"
He chortled, raking her wet body with his eyes. "Besides the obvious signs? I've been watching. From a distance, of course, but I've been watching. I'm never far from you, Marguerite. Haven't you realized that by now?"
"Then you know. You know about my husband and his associates, and about her, that. . creature, his paramour."
"I told you the last time we met that your husband is vile. But I suppose, like most giorgios, you deny the true eye within in favor of the deceiving eye without."
She kept silent, ashamed.
Ramus continued, "And, like most giorgias, you are not made for the elements. Even a firebrand will shiver itself out, if exposed too long. Come with me. I'll take you someplace warm."
Marguerite hesitated.
He shook his head. "Trust me," he said. "Or don't. Who knows? Perhaps you can make it back to the castle before you drop dead from the chill or become the meal of some hungry beast. Follow me or not. As before, it's your choice."
Marguerite kept silent. Hadn't she sought out his help in the first place? Still, she wished she didn't require it at all-wished that she felt certain she could survive a coid night in a haunted forest alone, and could find her own way back to Darkon. But even if she could make a fire from damp wood, even if she could escape the piercing fingers of cold and keep back the forces of the night, she could not navigate the mists. Only the Vistanj could manage that-or someone with powerful magic, like Jacqueline. And Jacqueline was not an appealing guide. You could lose your head if you kept company with Jacqueline Montarri.
"Please," said Marguerite softly. "I do trust you. Can you help me leave this place?"
"Leave your husband?"
"Yes. And go back to Darkon, my home."
Ramus laughed darkly. "Tonight is not the time to depart. First, we must seek sheiter and get you dry and warm. Then tomorrow we shall see whether you still wish to flee."
He whistled softly. Marguerite heard a rustling in the trees, and Ramus's horse appeared. The Vistana swung up into the saddle and pulled Marguerite up behind him. They passed into the forest together.
There was no path. Marguerite pressed her body behind the gypsy's, trying to shield herself from the clawing of branches. But the branches were soft, stroking her with pungent, feathered arms. The rhythm of the horse was hypnotic; she pressed her face against the damp, musky wool of Ramus's jacket and closed her eyes.
When she reopened them, they had reached the base of a cliff. It looked familiar, and Marguerite realized she had indeed seen it before-the night she had sought out the white spider's web for Zosia's potion. Ramus dismounted, then reached up and helped Marguerite down from the horse, gripping her firmly at the waist. When he released her, Marguerite's knees buckled, weak from the cold. With effort, she straightened them and stood.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
She nodded.
He started up the rocky slope. Marguerite plodded on behind, stumbling, and he seized her hand to steady her, drawing her upward.
They entered the cave. A smoky haze filled the air; a fire already blazed in the center of the cavern. Ramus's dark satchel lay nearby, beside a log cut to make a stool.
She looked about curiously.
"My sanctuary," he said. "And it has no other occupants now. You'll be safe here till the dawn."
She was shivering with cold. Ramus retrieved a black wool blanket from his belongings and tossed it In her direction.
"Take off your clothes," he commanded. "Or you will grow weaker still. You can wrap yourself in this while your garments dry by the fire."
Marguerite looked about for some kind of privacy. Ramus shook his head and laughed softly, then stepped out of the cavern. She glanced over her shoulder. When she was certain he had actually left, she stripped off her muddy wet clothes and spread them out over a stalagmite, then settled beside the fire with the blanket pulled around her like a tent. She sat as close to the flames as she dared; still, she shivered. The blood bubbled and burned in her feet and calves; they ached painfully as they warmed.
Ramus feigned a rough cough, then stepped back into the cavern. A small kettle lay beside the fire. The bottom and sides were black, but Marguerite could still see the ornate designs etched in its sides. The Vis-tana went to his satchel and withdrew a metal cup and a small white kerchief, neatly folded. He opened the cloth carefully, then sifted half the contents into the cup before folding back the white cloth and returning it to his satchel. He added the water from the kettle to the cup, then waved his hand to dissipate the steam.
"Herbs," he said, passing her the cup. "To give you strength."
Marguerite wrapped her hands around the mug, grateful for anything warm. She sipped at the rim, and a bitter, searing tea warmed a trail from her throat to the pit of her belly. She sighed. It occurred to her that the brew might contain something she did not wish to swallow. She quickly brushed the thought aside; obviously the tea was medicinal. And apart from a few roguish advances and his mysterious ways, Ramus had given her little cause to be so wary.
The warmth of the tea spread to her limbs, melting away the cold ache that had seized them, Marguerite lay beside the fire. Her lids sank of their own accord, then fluttered and sank again. The embers glowed before her like a red-gold haze.
Music began to fill the cavern. Lazily, she rolled her head toward the sound. Ramus stood beside the fire, one biack boot planted upon the log he had cut to make a stool, playing his violin. She listened, enrapt and dreamy, saying nothing. Ramus watched her as he played, his dark eyes damp and warm, his lips stretched into the slightest glimmer of a smile. The fire cast a glow upon the polished fiddle, and upon his shining black hair, which seemed shaped from the same gleaming piece of coal. He was playing slowly, methodically, sliding the bow back and forth, then back again, spawning the most bittersweet stream of notes that Marguerite had ever imagined. His fingers on the neck of the instrument fascinated her; she watched them as if nothing else existed, watched them arch and dance, moving like the white spider that once had inhabited the same cave. And then suddenly, as she stared at the fingers on the violin, it seemed to her that those same fingers were stroking her neck, her spine, her thighs, as if she were the instrument being played. Ramus pressed deeply into a string and shook it teasingly, then moved to another and pressed again.
A soft moan of pleasure escaped Marguerite's lips. The music had pierced her heart, then mixed with her blood and flowed out into her body, flowed through her, slipping into the deep, dark recesses where things lie forgotten and denied. She gave in to it, telling herself there could be no harm in listening. The music coursed into her and sought out her terror, then gently carried it away. Gone were her thoughts of Donskoy orchestrating the murder of the lost travelers, gone were the images of Jacqueline and her lovely embroidered sack, filled with the golden-haired head. Gone too was the picture of Ljubo, scuttling into the woods with his beheaded prize flung over his shoulder, like the carcass of the swine he had brought back for the wedding banquet. And gone were Marguerite's thoughts of the keep, her memory of the cold couplings in the red salon, brusque and endless. She heard only the music of the fiddle, felt only its warmth, knew only its agony and bliss.
She became aware that Ramus had moved beside her, had drawn the blanket from her body. Her flesh shimmered with sweat; she felt aflame. His hands slid over her, and his skin pressed against hers. The violin had been set aside, yet the music continued. His fingers played at her thighs. Marguerite did not resist; she was molten. They melted into one another, merging like two parts of the same melody, and with ever a quickening tempo, they moved passionately through the phrases, notes rising and falling, then rising higher still until at last the music crested in a fierce, climactic crescendo.
In the quiet that followed, Marguerite felt herself settling back into her body, regaining a sense of its weight. It was if she had been lifted out of it entirely.
Ramus had wrapped himself around her, warm yet strangely light, like steam. Her mind drifted, and she knew she no longer wanted to return to Darkon. She wanted to stay with Ramus, if he would have her, and travel the mists wherever they might lead, as far away from this domain as possible. Part of her realized it was a fantasy, but it was so sweet, so appealing, that she allowed herself to pursue it.
After a time, Ramus rose and dressed himself, then stepped toward the mouth of the cave. Outside, it was still dark. He cocked his head. Then he stepped back into the cavern, picked up Marguerite's clothes, and tossed them on the ground beside her.