She stood, turning all around. The trees pressed in, blocking the horizon. She crouched and studied the ground. It seemed that she had run downhill, rather than up, but the terrain had rolled, so she could not be sure. Marguerite took her best guess and started walking, scanning her path for landmarks.

In time she entered a part of the forest where a few naked beech and oak trees intermingled with the pines. Occasionally she saw a dark form flitting between the trees alongside her-a raven perhaps, but too large. She kept on.

The forest floor grew tangled. Her pace slowed as she struggled to keep the brambles and scrub from tearing at her hands and face. She had stopped to wrestle her cloak free of a thornbush when she spotted a dark gray shape about twenty paces away-an abandoned hunting shack, she wondered? Or a dovecote"?

She neared the structure.

To her amazement, it was an old, rotting vardo-a gypsy wagon-cloaked by a web of leafless vines. In its prime, it must have been elegant. Pale, weathered streaks of gilding were still visible upon the swirling patterns that had been carved in the paneled base. Ornately turned braces still adorned the eaves of the barrel-shaped roof, though half had fallen away. An octagonal window was fitted in the rear door; remarkably, its wine-colored glass remained intact. It was etched and hand cut; a single wild rose sprouted within.

The vardo reminded Marguerite of a skeleton she had discovered long ago in the woods of Darkon. A stag had caught its leg in a mass of brambles and had died. Ondisturbed by predators, the deer had remained on the bed of thorns until its flesh had dissolved and the brambles had woven a tangled grave over its bones. Like the stag, the sight of the vardo touched Marguerite with sadness; her chest and throat tightened in sympathy. A thing of grace and motion had been rudely stilled. The vardo should have been burned rather than abandoned. In this passive, undignified state, it appeared unnatural.

How long had this wagon been here? she wondered. Certainly more than a decade. She could see no sign of a road or a rut that would have carried it to this spot.

Something rustled softly in the trees. Marguerite paused, scanning the area around her. She had the strangest sensation that she was being watched. She smiled. She was imagining things. One always feels a surge of paranoia upon discovering a treasure, a mystery.

She moved in closer, pulling the vines from the rear of the vardo. She stooped down and looked beneath the wagon. The wheels had well-turned spokes, and these too had once been finely gilded. A shallow, painted black box with tiny holes was stilt strapped to the bottom. Though the paint had faded, Marguerite could still make out the design of a great, coiled serpent with golden scales.

A man's deep voice spoke behind her. "It's a snake charmer's vardo."

Marguerite scrambled to her feet and turned, and found herself facing a tall, slender figure in black-the gypsy who had passed her on the road, just before Ljubo and Ekhart had come.

He smiled, fixing his dark, luminous gaze upon her. Marguerite sighed with relief. Then she recalled the screams, and a horrifying image leapt into her mind. Perhaps the victim was human after all. She started to run-or tried.

The Vistana's arm caught her wrist and tugged her back with tremendous strength. He pulled her against him, clamping an arm firmly around her shoulders. One hand covered her mouth.

"Promise me you won't cry out," he said softly, "and I'll release you"

Marguerite nodded. She intended to break the promise just as soon as the hand left her mouth-but then she realized it might only serve to anger the gypsy. After all, who would hear her but him?

He loosened his grip and turned her to face him, one hand on each arm, pressing them to her sides. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not," she lied, whispering hoarsely. She stiffened her jaw in a semblance of dignity and defiance, but her legs trembled beneath her. She hoped it wasn't obvious.

He studied her. When he spoke, his tone was condescending. "Let me relieve you of your fear. I have no intention of spoiling Donskoy's bride before the wedding night. If such games interested me, I would have seized you yesterday on the road."

Marguerite was silent. What he said was true. "Then why have you seized me now?" she blurted.

He released her arms. "To prevent you from bolting like a fool again. As I said on the road, these woods are not safe."

"As you are living proof!" she replied. His answer had surprised her, for it meant he had not simply come upon the vardo and discovered her. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Since you invaded my solitude by crashing past," he replied smoothly. "In fact, it is I who should be affronted by this meeting."

"This is my land," she retorted. "I'll do as I please here."

He smirked. "Your land?"

"Donskoy's land," she corrected herself. "What are you doing on it?"

The Vistana shrugged, then replied lightly, "I wish only to help you."

"Your help I can do without."

"Are you certain? Perhaps you should think on the matter."

"I am certain," she said emphatically. "And you still haven't answered my question." She looked around, then softened her tone. "Did you lose your horse?"

"No," he replied.

She waited for an explanation, but he offered nothing more.

'Then where is it?" she asked.

"Do you intend to question me like some backwater constable? Yes, I can see that you do. To ease your mind, I will be patient. My horse is roaming freely. It will return when I have need of it."

"How convenient for you," she said tersely. "So, if you didn't lose your mount, why didn't you continue with the rest of your tribe?"

"They are not my tribe," he answered smoothly.

"But you traveled with them-"

"As did you, but you are not one of them."

"And you look like them. A little bit anyway."

He exhaled sharply, as if in disgust. "To the crude eye of giorgios, most Vistani look alike."

"Arturi and his caravan refused to come so near to the keep. Why did you?"

"We have already established that I am not of his caravan. They do as they are paid to do. I do as I am compelled."

"That's an odd choice of words. From your behavior, I imagine you do as you please."

"I admit that I do not shun pleasure. Nor, I imagine, would you, if you were not shackled to a gior-gio's notion of etiquette. Nonetheless, we all must face unpleasantries from time to time. As Donskoy's bride-to-be, you are doubtlessly acquainted with that concept."

She scoffed. "It's highly improper to insult my lord while trespassing on his land."

"I am not the best judge of propriety. What seems to you an insult is to me a statement of fact. Mow, if you do not wish my help, I shall leave you."

"We have already established that I do not need your assistance," she said sarcastically.

"No?" he answered. "I thought certain you were lost and wished for someone to guide you back to the castle. Apparently, I was mistaken." He turned and began walking away. The air was heavy with mist; tiny droplets of water coated the fine, wooly hairs of his dark jacket, forming a glistening skin.

Was this a trick? she thought, or some manipulation? If she asked for his assistance, he would gain the advantage. Reluctantly, she had to admit that he already had the upper hand. Without his help, she had little chance of getting back to the keep before nightfall. She was lost, and to make matters worst, the glowering sky threatened rain. While there was no guarantee this man actually knew the wayt he represented her best option.

"Wait," she called.

He stopped and turned, offering her a thin, self-satisfied smile. "Yes, Marguerite?"

She exhaled sharply, struggling to abandon her pride. Then it struck her that he had used her name, though she had never offered it. "You seem to know a great deal about me."