"Something long overdue," Donskoy replied, tugging his glove back on. "I only wish I had struck you harder. Lucky for you, the urge is past. Pleasure is fleeting, as usual."
"You-you brute!"
Jacqueline's hands flew to the red velvet ribbon at her throat, then slid swiftly around to the back of her neck, where she fumbled beneath the black curtain of her hair. When she lowered her arms, the crimson ribbon was entwined through the pale fingers of her right hand. And the ribbon was writhing like a living beast,
Jacqueline's head wobbled on her neck, then tilted forward and fell off her shoulders. She cupped her hands and easily caught the head, clutching it upside-down at her waist. The shining hair trailed to the floor like sheets of black rain. She lifted the orb and turned it around to face her empty shoulders. The stump of her neck bent forward, as if Jacqueline were somehow examining her own amputated head, as if she had another set of eyes inside her neck with which to inspect the grisly orb.
The head's red lips gaped in horror, while its wide green eyes darted frantically about the room, panicked and lost.
After a brief inspection, Jacqueline flipped the head around so that it faced away, then shook the black, gleaming tresses into piace. With one swift move, she circled the thing over her body until it hovered over her neck, then brought it forward to rest on the stump. Her left hand remained pressed at her temple as if to steady it. She raised her right hand, still holding the red ribbon, and opened her fingers.
The ribbon writhed free, one long end undulating back and forth in the air, probing eagerly. Jacqueline guided the ribbon to her throat. The scarlet worm slithered into place, circling the seam of her head and neck, then snuggled itself down in the subtle groove. Once again, the ribbon appeared to be no more than an ordinary velvet band, worn a fraction too tight.
Marguerite, too stunned to react even had she dared, continued watching through the curtain of her dark lashes, her body rigid with terror.
Jacqueline's face shuddered like a pot at the boil.
"You idiot!" She withdrew a kerchief and dabbed at her ragged lower lip. "You have marked me! How could you do such a thing?"
Donskoy glared at her icily. "You should know by now that I brook no insults from anyone." His voice was deep and even. "Not even you, Jacqueline."
"But you have marked my face!" Her anger gave way to a distress that was distinctly feminine.
Donskoy chuckled. "Oh, come now, dear. It's not as if you lack a spare. You possess more heads than a fop owns hats. I know of least six kept here, and hundreds more at your home, and you collect new ones every month."
"But you disfigured me!" Jacqueline repeated. "How could you have done such a thing"? Never have you treated me so cruelly, Milos." She sniffed indig-nantty. "You know every one of my faces is precious to me, and every one must be absolutely perfect. And now you have ruined my favorite."
"They are all your favorites," retorted Donskoy dryly.
"But I don't own many sisterly facades-only two from this set. What would your wife think if I were to show up wearing something from another family?"
"I doubt the charade will fool her much longer," Donskoy said. "Marguerite saw you harvesting a head in the forest. She may be simple, but she is hardly an idiot."
"But you insisted-"
"I thought our habits might disturb her, but that hardly matters now," Donskoy said. "Marguerite is finally pregnant, and Zosia will attend her. And she does carry my son, Jacqueline, i will forgive your petty outburst this time-after all, you are a woman and doubtlessly more weak-headed than most-but I forbid you to imply I have been cuckolded. Say it again, and it will be the last peep heard from any one of your perfect mouths."
Jacqueline paced, smoothing her skirts and fingering her neck, pondering. She dabbed at her Up, then turned to Donskoy with a smile.
"Of course, Milos. Let us not mention this little spat again. And I shall forgive you your indiscretion. You were not yourself when you struck me." She stepped to his side and stroked his arm. "We can continue to be good companions, can we not"?"
Donskoy did not respond, so she flicked his earlobe with her tongue, then proceeded to suck it.
"We can still entertain one another, can we not?"
Donskoy smiled, but still he said nothing.
Jacqueline continued, "I know you do not wish to forgo our diversions merely because you have a wife and child. That kind of attitude may befit simpletons and peasants, but not us, my dear."
Donskoy grunted and pulled away from her, then went to the table to fill a chalice.
Jacqueline draped herself in a chair beside him, pulling her white thigh free of her gown. "You know, Milos, upon giving it further thought, \ applaud your plans for the child, ft is only natural, after all. But-"
"But what, my friend? And mind your pretty tongue."
"But … it will be many years before your son becomes a man. And in the meantime, I, as you know, am the equal of at least three ordinary men. So why don't you allow me to get things started for your son? Let it be my gift to you both. He will never have the knack of traveling the mists as I do."
Donskoy's expression was as cold as ice. "No."
Jacqueline parted her puffy lips to protest, but she saw that further conversation was fruitless. "Then I am departing," she said. Donskoy did not reply.
She rose from the chair huffily and strode to the door, her skirts rustling as she went. When she reached it, Donskoy said, "Jacqueline."
"Yes?" she answered hopefully.
"Stay away a month or two, until Marguerite has had time to recover. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," Jacqueline snapped. "Perfectly." And the door swung shut behind her.
EIGHTEEN
Marguerite's sickness continued and grew worse. At times she felt a blush rising in her cheeks, a flicker of her old self returning. But mostly she remained heavy and weak, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep with little distinction between morning and night.
A month passed, bringing a wet winter full upon the land. From her bed, Marguerite could hear tiny arrows of ice pelting the window panes. One morning Zosia announced snow and helped her to the window to look out. But instead of a pristine blanket, Marguerite saw only a gray, slushy sea.
That night, after the castle was quiet, there was a rustling outside. Too weak to drag herself up, she pulled back her bed curtain and, through the window, saw great clouds of wheeling bats silhouetted against a sliver of moonlit sky. Later, she dreamed of Valeska, and of the shattered infant's tomb she had seen in the crypts.
Zosia and Yelena visited continually. They flitted in and out of her chamber, ministering to her like bees. She asked them about the wheeling bats. The mute's eyes remained blank, and Zosia only clucked her tongue. Mightmares were to be expected, she said.
The old woman stung Marguerite's arm with sharp little cuts, and poured potions down her throat. Yelena arrived like clockwork to help her from the bed to the chamber pot. And as night approached, the mute girl rolled her aside to change the grayish sheets. Marguerite surrendered to her keepers, just as she surrendered to her sickness. It was easier that way.
Donskoy came to her as well. Sometimes he would just sit beside the bed and stroke her damp cheek with his glove. Occasionally he would stretch out alongside her and clutch at her belly from behind, whispering his delight at the prospect of a son.
It did not seem to bother him that she was so ill.
Yet in time it worried Marguerite. During a lucid moment, she asked Zosia about the child, if it might be harmed by her fever. The old woman assured her that the next month would be difficult, but the sickness would pass. It was to be expected, Zosia said. Natural. Marguerite was not reassured. She had seen pregnant women in Darkon, and while some became weary or ejected their breakfasts, none suffered a condition as grave as her own. But she was too weak to argue.
One morning, Marguerite awoke to find a dark shape looming on the sill of her window, watching her with a pair of great white eyes. It was so black that it appeared to have no depth, a two-dimensional stain. She cried out and called for Yelena, who was tending the fire, to summon Ljubo to chase the apparition away. The mute girl only looked out the window and shrugged, then returned to her duties.
As the third month progressed, Marguerite at last grew stronger. And it was then, as her mind cleared and she faced her circumstances, that she began to be truly afraid. Her legs were swollen and spotted with blue marks, and they ached at all times. That alone was not unusual. But there was another sign that something was amiss. Although only three months had passed, her stomach had swollen to immense proportions. It hung low on her belly, making it difficult to walk. Something was terribly wrong, she thought; something was unnatural. When she voiced her concerns to Zosia, the old wornan clucked her tongue and said Marguerite was imagining things. Everything was as to be expected. The baby was strong, asserting itself.
One day, as she sat by the window while Zosia fed her, Marguerite looked out and saw the courtyard swarming with snakes. The serpents were everywhere, crawling up the walls, even slithering along the sill of her own chamber's casement. Marguerite gasped, and asked Zosia if she saw the creatures. The old woman nodded and replied that of course she did, her calm tone implying that an infestation of thousands of serpents was a common occurrence.
After that. Marguerite kept her window closed and avoided looking outside, but it did her no good. She saw the serpents, and a hundred visions far more frightening, even with her eyes closed. She began to wonder if her fever had driven her mad, but Zosia assured her that she was quite sane. These events were to be expected. Natural.
Marguerite began to dream of her escape. She remembered Ekhart's threats, the scraping of his dry, rough hand against her cheek. When the baby came, she would be expendable. Somehow, if she were strong enough, she might yet steal away to Darkon. She pretended that she was feeling better, but that she stilI needed Yelena's help to walk, so that no one would know her true abilities.