"I beg your pardon?" Marguerite was incredulous.

"Is Darkon not your home?" Jacqueline asked coyly.

"Yes, but-"

"Oh, I meant no offense. You must tell me all about your roots then, Marguerite. Later."

Donskoy bade them sit. Jacqueline took her place at the end, where she enjoyed a vantage of both her companions. As Donskoy extolled the quaint rituals of the wedding and the lovely quality of his fresh bride, Yelena shuffled in with a tray, presenting a pair of finger bowls to the women. The servant's cheek was still marred by the long weal that looked like a leech sucking her vitality-what little remained to her.

Jacqueline toyed with a curl of her black hair, inspecting it carefully. "It was indeed an entertaining ceremony," she said, not bothering to look up. "I'm so pleased I couid attend."

"And I am pleased to see you are feeling better," Donskoy replied, a faint chill in his tone.

"Thank you, my friend. Your kindness warms me."

"Were you ill?" asked Marguerite. "Then surely you should not have traveled."

Jacqueline smiled condescendingly. "How sweet of you to worry. It is nothing serious. I am prone to headaches, which can be maddening, but rarely fatal."

Marguerite noticed a faintly bruised band of flesh that rimmed the woman's neck ribbon, and wondered if perhaps the fabric had been drawn too snugly.

"But I haven't a glimmer of pain now," Jacqueline continued, stroking a pale finger thoughtfully along her jaw. The nail was short but pointed, and stained red with henna. She brightened. "Indeed I feel like a new woman, thanks to Donskoy's generous gift. I couldn't wait to get home before I opened it."

From the dim corners of her memory, Marguerite recalled the black box-the crate that Arturi had unloaded, and that she had last seen lashed to the back of the woman's carriage. Marguerite wondered how this could possibly have effected a cure. She was about to inquire when Donskoy interrupted.

"Yes, the new gown becomes you, Jacqueline. And home is where I thought you were destined. What has prompted your return?"

"You did, I thought," she answered sweetly.

"And how might I have done that?" he asked.

"Soon after we parted, the road became impassable, blocked by timber."

Donskoy seemed surprised.

Marguerite found the entire exchange quite curious. "How could that have been Lord Donskoy's arrangement?" she asked. "Are you suggesting he scurried out beforehand and felled the trees himself?"

Donskoy smirked.

Jacqueline smiled knowingly. "The unconscious will," she murmured. Her emerald eyes flashed, reflecting the shimmer of her dark silk gown. "One should never underestimate its power."

"You speak too dramatically," said Donskoy.

"And you underestimate yourself," replied Jacqueline. "There is very little in this domain that does not reflect your wilt, my friend, or bend to your wishes."

Donskoy gave a low chuckle. "Except women, perhaps." He patted Marguerite's hand. "You see, Marguerite, my land tends toward self-destruction, especially during the spring, when one might expect just the opposite. But I am surprised to hear of it now."

"Well, if you doubt it," Jacqueline replied, "you must see for yourself."

"That won't be necessary," Donskoy said. "I will send Ljubo and Ekhart with a few associates to clear the road for you tomorrow."

"A few fallen trees is hardly self-destruction, Lord Donskoy," Marguerite offered. "It must be a common occurrence when the soil is saturated and the roots are weak. Really, such attributions make things seem grimmer than they truly are."

"Take note, Jacqueline," Donskoy replied. "Already she offers a fresh perspective. She'll bring renewal to this land yet, you shall see."

"Yes, I shall," said Jacqueline, smiling smugly. "And I shall enjoy the spectacle."

An awkward pause ensued. Then Ljubo and Yelena entered bearing the first course: two peacocks, cooked fully feathered. Their brilliant turquoise and emerald tails had been spared from the heat, then reattached with skewers to stand aloft. The necks, too, had been wired erect. Yelena strained under her load, but Ljubo waddled contentedly as usual, bobbing so that the bird's feathers waved before him like an exotic many-eyed fan. Marguerite suppressed a smile. He made a perverse sort of harem girl, she thought. For that matter, he made an equally unsavory eunuch. The peacock's loose head nodded in agreement on its spike. Ljubo had made an effort to formalize his attire, meeting with some success; he wore a clean black woolen tunic over his tattered trousers, and his ragged fingers had been freshly wrapped in crisp white bandages, already soiled by the juices of the bird.

It occurred to Marguerite that she had assumed the castle harbored a few other hands to serve Donskoy- that somewhere, in the keep's foreboding recesses, lurked chandlers, chamber maids, pantlers, footmen-not many, perhaps, but certainly a few. Now she began to wonder if the foursome she had already met maintained the castle in its entirety. Even given the genera! state of decay, it seemed impossible. She looked around for any sign of Ekhart or Zosia. Neither was present; perhaps they were employed behind the scenes.

Ljubo plunked his platter directly in front of Jacque-line, who sneered at him, then teasingly blew him a — ;ss. Ljubo chortled as he and Yelena retreated.

"A toast," said Donskoy. "To my bride,"

"To new faces," added Jacqueline, lowering her eyes to cast a knowing look at Donskoy. If he reacted, Marguerite did not notice.

As Yelena and Ljubo brought forth other dishes and bread, the feasting began. Donskoy carved a piece of the peacock and placed it on Marguerite's platter. "It is my pleasure to serve you, my dear"

"Take note of that, Marguerite," cooed Jacqueline. "Such words rarely come from his lips. You may never hear them after tonight."

Donskoy ignored the remark, a fact that annoyed Marguerite even more than the comment itself. She fought to keep the heat from rising to her face.

"You mentioned home," said Marguerite, intent on taking the high ground as hostess. "Where is that, Jacqueline?"

"Barovia. My estate lies there."

"Is it a difficult journey?"

"It can seem that way at times, especially for someone who lacks my resourcefulness."

Jacqueline withdrew a dagger from somewhere under the table; Marguerite assumed it had slid from a sheath on her thigh.

"Always carry your own blade," said Jacqueline, relieving the bird of half its flesh. "It's an old rogue's adage. Most hosts fail to supply something suitable, though Milos is, of course, an exception."

"A rogue's adage?" Marguerite asked. "You don't look the type."

"Really. , And how does the type look?"

"More utilitarian in dress, perhaps. Less fragile."

"I assure you," said Jacqueline, "I am not so fragile. But I will take that as a compliment. It has indeed been many years since I had to struggle amongst savage company to maintain myself. Many years, in fact, since mutual interests led me to Donskoy. Do you still remember that night, Milos?"

"I do," he replied.

"Those times were perhaps rougher," said Jacqueline, "yet in many ways richer. As I recall, Milos, you were flush with the rewards of a successful venture."

"Yes," he replied, smiling. "Highly successful. And, as I recall, you intended to share in those rewards- without an invitation."

Marguerite intervened, fearing their reverie might soon become a wait that encircled them completely. "What kind of venture"?" she asked.

Jacqueline merely smiled, and Donskoy sat chewing, as if to consider his reply before answering.

"Does it surprise you, Marguerite, to learn that I was not born to this so-called grandeur?" He waved his hand at the room.

"No. I suppose I knew it."