She checked under the carriage and then peered inside, looking for somewhere to stow away. But the only cargo platform lay on the back, in plain view, and there was no other place to hide. Marguerite sighed. A comfortable place to ride would have been asking too much.
She went to the stable, where Jacqueline's long black box stilt lay in the back of Ekhart's cart, hanging partway over the back edge. With great effort. Marguerite climbed alongside the crate. It was relatively crude, like the one that had accompanied her from Darkon, with slender gaps between its rough black planks. It seemed unfair to call it a coffin; if placed underground, it would quickly fill with soil and water and worms. But then again, many paupers received less.
Marguerite gritted her teeth and pushed out the latch pin, then lifted the rusty hasp and opened the lid. Inside lay a woman, plump and white, lying on a bed of straw. She was naked, but for a black wool blanket crudely wrapped round her body. She had snowy blonde hair and a wide red mouth, which at the moment was stuffed with a gag. Leather straps bound her hands and feet. Marguerite pushed at the woman's flesh. Though the captive didn't stir, clearly she lived; her skin was soft and warm, and her chest was subtly rising and falling.
Drugged, Marguerite thought. Of course. She herself had made the trip from Darkon in a similarly unconscious state-though she had not been stuffed in a box. Yet that was precisely how she intended to make her escape.
Ideally, Marguerite would have removed the woman from the crate and hidden her away, then taken her place. But the situation was far from ideal. She had neither the time nor the strength to move the heavy captive. And there was still the matter of the latch. If her plan worked, she would need to open it from the inside.
Marguerite closed the crate and studied it. There was a fair amount of play to the lid; the hinges holding it to the box were loose. And the fastening at the side was ordinary: a flat piece of metal with a slot, hinged to drop over a round loop, through which a tapered pin was wedged to secure the flat piece. A chain anchored the pin to the box so it could not be misplaced.
Marguerite removed her sheathed dagger from her traveling sack and climbed alongside the unconscious woman. Carefully she lowered the lid, giving it a little shake until the hasp fell Into place. A small gap remained-just enough so she could slide her dagger through the crack and fiddle with the latch; with luck, she could dislodge the pin from the inside, then push the hasp open.
Unfortunately, there was no easy way to secure the pin after she was inside the crate. Left dangling, it might invite investigation, but she had to risk it.
She lay very still in the box. At length, she heard someone coming. A man grumbled sourly. The image of Ekhart sprang to mind. Ljubo spoke in response, whiny and apologetic.
"But it's real heavy," he said. "Wouldn't ask for your help getting her onto the carriage it she weren't so fleshy. And you know Miss Montarri would be mad if I dropped the box and bruised her cargo."
Ekhart groaned. "Let's get on with it. I'll climb in the wagon and push the crate your way to get it off the end."
The wagon rocked as Ekhart climbed into the bed. He stepped to the back of the coffin, near her head, then growled, "Idiot. You've left the hasp undone. I suppose you opened it to get another look?"
Ljubo did not deny it.
The hasp rattled, then Ekhart commanded Ljubo to lift. The two men heaved and groaned. Inside the box, the sound of wood scraping against wood was magnified, deafening. Marguerite felt herself drop as the crate left the wagon bed. The box swayed like a cradle. Then it was lifted onto another support. She heard ropes being dragged over the top and pulled down into place. We must be on the carriage now, she thought, wondering whether it would be necessary to cut through the ropes at some point. She hoped they hadn't been pulled too snugly to prevent her from pushing the lid up enough for her dagger.
Another pain squeezed her belly, and Marguerite bit into her own shoulder to keep from crying out.
"Told you it was heavy," said Ljubo. "Real heavy."
Ekhart grunted. "Not Montarri's usual taste. Must be passing this one on to Count Strahd. A nice plump virgin to offer along with her taxes. Never hurts to appease the local lord."
"She's a clever one, Miss Montarri."
"She's a bitch," retorted Ekhart. "But what woman isn't? Take the carriage around front and wait,"
Marguerite heard Ekhart walking away, then allowed herself to exhale. After a moment, the carriage lurched and began to roll forward. There was a short pause while Ljubo wrestled with the gate, then another lurch forward, another pause, another creak of the doors. Finally the carriage moved along the drive, crunching in the gravel, and came to a rest before the main entrance. Marguerite furrowed her brow, trying to keep her sweat from rolling into her eyes.
it was not long before she heard the lilting tones of Jacqueline Montarri's voice. "Mitos," she cooed. "As always, it has been delicious, I'm so pleased we've put aside our differences, at least for the moment. I hope your son will arrive in good health."
"Zosia says it won't be long," Donskoy replied.
"Really? It seems rather soon."
"Mot to me, my dear. To me, it has been an eternity."
"Well, I must go, Shall I return to you in another moon?"
"See that you do."
Jacqueline purred, "Splendid. I'll have a surprise for you the next time i come. One of my new heads knows some interesting tricks, and I've been practicing."
Donskoy chortled and bade her farewell.
The coach rocked as Jacqueline stepped inside, muttering something softly. Then the carriage began to move again, proceeding down the drive and turning away from the keep.
in her impossibly tight quarters, Marguerite sighed in satisfaction. Soon, she would reach Barovia. It was an unknown destination, and the challenge of escaping the box still lay ahead, but for the moment she didn't care. The worst was behind her. In a few short hours, she would be free of Donskoy and his accursed domain.
NINETEEN
Inside the moving coffin, Marguerite struggled to find a more comfortable position, shoving at the soft flesh of her unconscious companion. Earlier she had imagined this very picture with horror-she, stretched prone in the darkness, encased in a long black box. But in that scene Marguerite had been riding to her doom. Now she was traveling to freedom; she was escaping Lord Donskoy's domain.
She knew, of course, that trials lay ahead, impossible tests of her luck and wit. The carriage that bore her coffin was heading to the unknown land of Barovia instead of her familiar Darkon. And when they reached their destination, she would have to escape the box. Marguerite pictured herself leaping from the coffin with her dagger fiercely slashing, taking an astonished Jacqueline by surprise. The woman's head would tumble off with one swift strike, then she would flap her arms in confusion like a freshly beheaded chicken.
Marguerite sighed. The picture was false; the bold assassin had not been preposterously pregnant. She felt a sickening twist in her stomach, reminding her of the truth. Her best hope of escape, she decided, was to wait until the box was left unattended; then she could free the hasp with her dagger and climb out unseen. Such an opportunity seemed highly improbable, but she would not have gotten even this far had she let herself worry about likelihoods.
A sudden pain disrupted her thoughts. Marguerite felt as if a crushing weight had suddenly descended upon her abdomen, She bit her tongue to keep from screaming, afraid that Jacqueline's ears might be sharp enough to hear.
The carriage crossed over the arched bridge; Marguerite could hear the change in timbre as the wheels left the soft dirt and began grinding against the gravel-flecked stone. She closed her eyes and envisioned the wheels, making turn after turn, and focused on their image until the pain had subsided.
A horrible thought sprang to mind, and she struggled to deny it. What if the baby were coming after all, coming now, while she rode in a coffin lashed to Jacqueline's carnage? Marguerite thought briefly about calling out to attract her conveyor's attention. But a less suitable midwife could not be found, even if one searched every fiery corner of the infinite Abyss; Jacqueline might help with the delivery, but afterward, she would certainly return both mother and child to Lord Donskoy-perhaps in exchange for the ledger she wanted so badly.
Marguerite had witnessed several births in Darkon, and she struggled to recall the particulars. The first pains could be false, she knew. Sometimes vexing spasms came and went weeks before the birth. Perhaps that was happening to her now.
The fetid air of the marsh began to fill the coffin. Again, the broad band of muscle began to tighten around Marguerite's belly, filling her abdomen with the anguish of labor. She feit as though some giant had taken her in hand and was trying to squeeze the entrails from her body. The agony was worse than before; to hide her screams, she pulled the gag from the blonde woman's mouth and stuffed it into her own.
The unseen band continued to tighten. Marguerite felt the dagger slip from her hand, disappearing somewhere in the dark.
Then at last, the band crushing her belly began to loosen. As the spasm subsided, she felt something warm and damp spreading beneath her. She reached down, hoping she had merely lost control, but fearing she had begun to bleed. Neither had occurred. Her water had broken. The pains were not false after ail; the baby was on its way.
"Don't panic," she breathed aloud. Marguerite struggled to remember the births her mother had once described, and how long those labors had lasted. She might yet have a couple of hours before her own baby came, perhaps even as long as a day. And if she were lucky, they might still reach Barovia in time.
The carriage rolled on.
At length, another wave came. Marguerite felt the child slipping lower inside her belly, and then spasms spread to her back and her legs, more like a seizure than a contraction. Something is wrong, she thought. Something is …
A scream rose up through her throat and halted behind her gag, momentarily, before gathering enough force to send the rag shooting from her mouth. An ear-splitting screech spilled from Marguerite's lips, as loud as a shrieking banshee. Her body began to writhe and twitch of its own accord. She thought of her lost dagger and hoped she would not cut herself, but she was powerless to stop the thrashing.
The carriage jolted to a halt.
Marguerite tried to clamp her jaw shut, to stifle her scream, but the pain was too great. She managed only to choke back the sound, hardly enough to keep from being heard.
She fumbled for her dagger, knowing the effort was fruitless. Even if she could recover the blade, she would be unable to wield it. A paroxysm had seized her entire body.
A clatter echoed through the coffin as someone fumbled at the latch, then the ltd of the crate flew open. Daylight assaulted Marguerite's eyes. She could see the shape of a woman's head silhouetted against the brightness, but nothing more.