"She saw you at the rim. She was babbling about it in her sleep."
Marguerite clenched her fists under the sheet. She hoped she hadn't babbled about anything else. She closed her eyes hard and listened.
"Then she must have seen you as well, my friend," Jacqueline quipped. "And your associates, And Ekhart and Ljubo. . I hardly acted alone or without your consent."
"True enough. But it was the shock of your actions in particular that drove her into the forest. Ekhart saw her. After you beheaded that girl, Marguerite raced into the woods like a panicked fawn. We could have lost her to the mists forever."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. She couldn't get far. And if she ran headlong into the fog she would have drifted back soon enough. A little worse for wear, perhaps-"
"E am not amused, Jacqueline. Mot in the least."
"Forgive me, Milos. I meant no offense."
"My own child is in her belly."
"So you believe Zosia? That she carries your son?"
"I know it."
"['m glad for you, my friend. Truly I am."
"Indeed."
"No, I mean it sincerely. This is what you've hoped for, after all. But it doesn't mean that you and I can't share a few dreams, too, does it?"
"You dream only of one thing-finding your own head."
Marguerite let out an involuntary moan. For a moment, her visitors were silent.
After a time, Jacqueline continued, "Well, wouldn't you do the same, if you could track down the one thing that made you vulnerable? But that Isn't all I desire, Donskoy. You know it is not. I seek your contentment as well. And I could assist you much more- if only you would allow it, if only you would trust me just a little."
Donskoy grunted.
Marguerite turned her head, ever so slowly, to free her ear from the pillow. But she dared not open her eyes.
"For decades I have proved my unswerving affection and loyalty to you," Jacqueline continued.
"Indeed," replied Donskoy. "You have provided a welcome diversion. I suppose I do owe you a debt of gratitude on that account."
"And you could thank me, Milos, by giving me the ledger, and the services of twenty of your best men."
"No. Gather your own henchmen if you wish; it is within your capacity."
"Ah, but they would not share the unique talents of yours. Ten men, then. And just a page or two from the ledger. Lord Azalin's preferences, for example. And a letter of introduction from yourself."
"No."
"Why not, Milos? With your introduction to his court, I could take up your business where you left off. Please, Donskoy. Tell me what Lord Azalin desires most, and how much he is willing to pay."
"And what makes you think Lord Azalin will receive you at all?"
"Your reputation can scarcely have faded. You were an extraordinary procurer. With a letter of introduction, I could win an audience. And, of course, once he sees me in person, and once he [earns what I know about Lord Strahd, and how much I despise Lord Strahd as well he does, then surely Azalin witl strike an alliance with me."
"I have no intention of writing you a letter, or of lending you my associates."
"But why not?" Jacqueline's pout was almost audible.
"Because my son will carry on, Jacqueline. My son, when he is of age, will take the name of Donskoy abroad, and rekindle the old business. My son will restore my wealth and rebuild my land. Not you, Jacqueline."
"Your son, you say. After all my years of unswerving devotion."
"Yes."
"And just how do you expect to accomplish this feat? Your own men think you're too far rotted to sire anything."
"Have you forgotten so soon? Marguerite is pregnant. She carries a son."
"So you said. And I have little doubt that she's as fertile as any barnyard bitch. But surely don't imagine that the bastard in her belly is yours?"
Marguerite's eyes fluttered open in horror. Quickly, she let them drop, daring to leave a fringe of lashes through which she could watch her husband and his paramour.
Donskoy's face went white. He took a draft from his pipe, then pressed out his chest and stood erect, suddenly the stout soldier. His eyes flashed with anger, and a vein in his cheek was twitching. "You cannot vex me, Jacqueline," he said evenly, his voice dripping with contempt. "You are a pathetic, jealous woman. You've stooped very low to try to hurt me. But this time, my dear, the ruse does not become you."
"At least I have the courage to face facts. Unlike you-sucking at Zosia's brews, nursing your pathetic fantasies. Are you a man or a mewling lamb? Think on it, Milos. For weeks you've lain with Marguerite, gaining nothing but a little pleasure. And now, she is miraculously with child. Only an idiot would dismiss the coincidence."
"Stay your tongue," hissed Donskoy. "Mot a word more. Not one word or you wilt find you have something in common with my mute."
Even through her half-closed eyes, Marguerite could see the dark woman's anger. Jacqueline's chest was heaving, and her words rushed out in a torrent.
"Could it be," she said, brows arching madly, "that someone else plowed the field while the farmer lay sleeping? Who knows how many times she has snuck into the wood, what degenerate may have crossed her path? Perhaps one of your own men took a fancy to her. Or better yet-ah, yes, better yet. ." Jacqueline's eyes flared. "… A gypsy. Wouldn't that be rich, Milos? You struggle to eradicate the strays, but they leap to your land like fleas upon a rat. Yes-a gypsy lover. That would be rich. Marguerite's bastard could be a half-breed at that."
Donskoy's hands were clenching and unclenching, and his face had turned purple with rage. He raised his fist and swung it across Jacqueline's face. She let out a pathetic, half-choked squeal and sank to her knees.
Marguerite bit the inside of her lip to keep from making a sound.
Jacqueline gripped her head with both hands. Don-skoy stood beside her, a faint smile on his lips. Neither turned toward the bed where Marguerite lay quaking. They were oblivious.
Jacqueline rose slowly to her feet, swaying slightly, her fingers working nervously at her neck. Then she pulled them away and stared at Donskoy defiantly.
"Don't ever strike me again," she said, her voice heavy and low. "Not ever. Do you understand?"
Donskoy grabbed the fingers of a suede glove and yanked it off, revealing a withered hand as scaly and black as a rat snake. He flexed his fingers, and five long talons jutted out from his fingertips. The claws resembled those that had appeared at the end of Ramus's finger, round and sharp, like a bone pushing up through the skin.
Marguerite gasped-she could not help it-but neither Donskoy nor Jacqueline noticed. They were occupied with other matters.
Donskoy swung his black hand, dealing another blow to his paramour's cheek. Blood and saliva sprayed from her mouth, but this time she barely slouched. Incredulous, she slowly touched her lips, dabbing at the blood, then held her hand before her eyes and stared aghast at the bright liquid rubies adorning her fingertips.