A red gem adorned the side of his nose-a mark of vanity, but to Marguerite it resembled a blood blister. A similar bauble pierced his brow, while a trio of small gold hoops dangled from his left ear. His black hair, oiled and slicked close to his head, fell in greasy ringlets to his shoulders.

She sniffled at the cold air and caught his scent: a mixture of damp wool, acrid tobacco, and spicy sweat. His name was Arturi, but she knew little else about him. It didn't matter, she supposed-not as long as he fulfilled his purpose and ferried her to her new life. Fortunately, he would not be in it.

As a young girl, she had viewed the Vistani with awe, drawn by their aura of danger and their dark physical alture. They had passed through her village each year, bringing ponies from the distant land of Nova Vaasa or performing sensual gypsy dances to enhance the harvest. She had watched them in secret {her father would never have approved), reveling in the thrill. In fact her first kiss had been bestowed by a Vistana, a young rake whose lips had suddenly and lightly fulfilled an eleven-year-old's fantasies, leaving her quivering but unscathed. Her childish illusions had faded with time, of course, but Marguerite remained fascinated by the Vistani's wild, mysterious manner. Proximity must quell desire, she thought. Now, sitting next to Arturi's rank body, Marguerite felt no attraction whatsoever. She longed for her journey to be over.

As if reading her thoughts, Arturi drew the wagon to a halt. About ten paces ahead, the road forked into two equally dark branches. Without a word, the Vistana stepped down from the seat and strode to the side of the wagon, where he busied himself with some ropes.

"Why are we stopping?" Marguerite asked, craning around the seat to peer at him. Her head felt heavy and dull, as if it had been embalmed while she slept.

Arturi didn't answer. Marguerite could barely make out the next vardo in line-the graceful upward curve of its roof, the swaying sacks and darkened lanterns suspended from the eaves. The remaining wagons in the caravan, two or perhaps three, were obscured by the night For a moment, Marguerite wondered if they were still nearby, but then she heard the chickens clucking in their crates secured beneath the vardos. A bear groaned; the beast was tethered at the rear. Inside these rolling chambers, women and children slept. Marguerite, however, had not been invited to join them. She was a passenger-living cargo, nothing more.

Arturi grunted something unintelligible to the driver of the second vardo. The Vistana, an older male, nodded and came forward to help pull at the ropes.

Marguerite's eyes began to penetrate the darkness. The feathered shapes of the pines came into view alongside the road. Tendrils of slow-moving mist swirled around the base of their rough black trunks.

"Why have we stopped?" she asked again. "Are you adjusting the load?"

Arturi chuckled, and, for the first time since their journey began, he spoke. "You might say that. Soon we'll be one woman lighter."

"This can't be the place," Marguerite protested. "Lord Donskoy would not have his bride deposited in the middte of nowhere. And surely not in the dead of night."

Arturi arched his brows, mocking her with his smile. "Wouldn't he?"

She stiffened. Could the tribe have some treachery in mind? Were they breaking their end of the bargain? No, they wouldn't be paid in full for her passage until the journey was done. But what if they didn't care?

Marguerite pulled herself up to her full height, mustering her strength. She said evenly, "Your arrangement with my parents was that you would deliver me to Donskoy's keep. We can scarcely be out of Darkon."

Arturi scowled. "Darkon is only a memory now. This is the place, and we travel no farther. Donskoy's own men will take you the rest of the way."

He and his companion freed Marguerite's bridal chest from beneath the vardo, then set it at the edge of the road- The trunk was not much to look at, a plain brown box decorated with a few simple carvings. Beside it, the two men laid a second crate from beneath the vardo, a black oblong box as long as Marguerite was tail. It was crudely built, with planks that gaped along the side and heavy spikes driven in at the corners.

"That isn't mine," Marguerite said. "I brought only the square chest."

"It belongs to your lord," said Arturi. "For the time being."

"What is it?" Marguerite asked.

Arturi shrugged. "Cargo. And none of your concern, I imagine." He glanced at her intently. "But because you are curious, I can assure you it is nothing of importance. I believe the contents are ultimately destined for Barovia."

Marguerite was intrigued; she had heard of Barovia once but thought it lay an eternity away from Darkon, if it existed at all. She had no time to ponder the exotic name, however. Arturi reached up to guide her from the wagon seat, and if he had been any more forceful, she would have landed face down in the muck.

"How could we possibly have reached Donskoy's lands?" she asked. Her head throbbed as she spoke. "I thought the journey would take several days."

"You have been asleep longer than you know," replied Arturi. "Besides, the trip went quickly- thanks, in part, to your new lord's eagerness."

He leaned uncomfortably close to Marguerite, so that their bodies almost touched and his mouth hovered just above hers. She smelled liquor mingling with his tobacco and sweat.

"Can't you feel your lord's presence?" He dropped his voice to a deep whisper. "No? Can't you feel the heaviness in the air, the way it presses like a weight?I'

Marguerite stepped backward, pulling her cloak around her neck defensively. His boldness astonished her.

Arturi pressed forward. "Your lord is not the only one who is eager. So are the others," he whispered. "Can't you feel their old eyes upon you, watching? Watching and waiting?" He licked his lips. "You have entered a sticky web, sweet giorgia. Take care not to get eaten."

Marguerite took a half-step back, then jutted out her chin."!f you're trying to frighten me," she said, "you'll have to try harder. I'm not the little fool you imagine." Despite her bravado, she shivered.

Arturi laughed. "What I can imagine and what you actually know are worlds apart, miss, with a bottomless pit between them. But just the same, I'm sure you're nobody's fool, save perhaps your own. Now, I suggest you stand back even farther, unless you fancy being soiled as we pass." He pulled her brusquely toward her belongings at the side of the road. "Sit here and wait. Donskoy's men will come shortly."

Marguerite's head swam, and her stomach seemed about to turn inside out.!t was more than fear; she felt queasy and flushed. "Please stay with me," she pleaded, changing her approach. "I don't think I'm well. What if Lord Donskoy's men are delayed?"

Arturi turned his back and walked away.

Marguerite called after him, struggling to sound imperious. "I demand that you wait with me! Are the Vistani as immoral and untrustworthy as half of all Darkon presumes?" Ho sooner had the words escaped than she regretted them. "Besides," she added, "you won't get your full payment if you abandon me."

Arturi continued to ignore her. Marguerite squinted into the darkness, following the Vistana through the purple night shadows with her eyes. He passed his vardo and went to the fork in the road, where he withdrew his knife and carved something into the trunk of a tree. Then he stepped into the brush and bent over. When he returned, he was carrying a small sack.

He shook it at Marguerite. A soft jingle came from inside. "You see?" he said, jeering. "The deal is complete,11 He spat on the ground.

Marguerite opened her mouth to protest, to ask him once again not to abandon her, but she stopped short. It was futile.