His stare was unsettling. Marguerite could almost see the busy whirl of thoughts behind his eyes, but she could not read them. They sat quietly. She sipped the wine, then gazed at the small hands wrapped around the glass, her skin smooth and blue-white. What is he waiting for? she thought. Though she felt no desire for him, she did, at least, desire the consummation. The silence was palpable, swelling around her. A log erupted on the fire. The sparks drifted like red falling stars onto the hearth, dying on impact.

"The brooch is beautiful," she offered at last, aware that she had repeated herself. "Thank you."

Donskoy made a little ring with his lips and blew out a slow, long puff of smoke. "As are you," he said from beneath hooded lids. He drew his tongue across the stiver tip of the hose. "Drink the wine and let me look at you. It is not necessary to speak."

Marguerite shifted uncomfortably. "Recline, if you would," he murmured.

She put down the wine glass and pulled her legs up onto the divan, nestling her back against a pillow. Donskoy threw another log onto the fire; the edges of his fine linen shirt reflected the flame, defining his silhouette with a faint red glow.

He kept his back to her, still facing the hearth. "I do not wish you to be anxious," he said. "I cannot tolerate an unwilling wife. I have had my fill of it. Do you understand?" His voice was low and level, yet it carried a desperate, nervous note. Perhaps that was it: he was nervous. She could not read him.

"Yes," she said quietly. She retrieved her glass and sipped at the wine.

"I will not make the same mistake twice," he muttered, slumping onto the pillows. Still, he did not look at her.

In time, he repeated, "I will not make the same mistake twice. To drag a black-haired hellion into my bed only to see her cold and withered, spewing bile at my touch. I dreamed she would yield in time. Beware of your dreams. Marguerite, for they shall lead you into the deepest pits of despair."

He shifted and stared at the ceiling, attached to his pipe as if it were a lifeline. He seemed unaware of her presence entirely.

"It had to be done," he said firmly, eyes red and swollen. "And I was, . " He laughed sourly, then coughed, choking. *, . triumphant." His eyes rolled; the whites rose like twin moons. "Perhaps …"

He was long silent after that, apparently drifting, asleep, though his eyes remained partly open. Marguerite wondered how much she couid trust his delirium. An hour passed, and she too began to flirt with unconsciousness. She shook herself awake and studied Donskoy's still body, then realized she could not make out the rise and fall of his chest. Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be dead. A short marriage, after all. And then what?

She walked to his side, gently nudging him. "My lord?" she said softly.

He gasped and flung an arm across his brow as if to shield it from a blow. His eyes widened, white with terror. "Who goes there?" he rasped. His face had twisted into a hideous mask, contorted beyond recognition.

"Your wife," she whispered with alarm. "So!" he hissed. "The wretched succubus returns. See what you have wrought!" He snared her wrist in a crushing grip and bared his teeth wildly, as if ready to attack. She winced and struggled to wrench free.

"Lord Donskoy," she pleaded. She knew he did not see her. "It is I, Marguerite."

The white blaze slowly faded from his eyes, and his entire countenance melted into a boyish grin. "Ah, Marguerite," he said lightly, as if they had just encountered one another on some bucolic garden path. "Have I been neglecting you?"

She shook her head, dazed by pity and fear, massaging her tender wrist.

He winked. "Ah, but I think I have." He reached up and took her hand again gently, drawing it to his face and inhaling. Then he tugged playfully at her dress. "Come, Marguerite. Come and lie down beside me."

Reluctantly, she stretched out at his side. He removed her slippers, then smoothed the fabric of her dress over her body and surveyed her slowly with his eyes-following the long rise of her legs, the gentle curve of her stomach, her chest rising and falling in short, rapid breaths. He turned and lifted the tip of his hookah toward her mouth. When she turned away, he took a draught from the pipe himself and leaned over her, sealing her lips with his. Then he slowly exhaled, filling her lungs with warm smoke. Marguerite choked and coughed, her throat burning with the acrid fumes.

He lifted his head. "Are you nervous?" he asked softly, pressing his hand to her chest. "Your heart beats like a rabbit's."

"No," she replied. "I am not."

His hand slid left, fingers working like a blind man reading runes. "Does this please you?"

"Yes." It was not entirely a lie. Her head had begun to swim out to sea, while her body was taking another trip entirely.

He smiled. "It pleases me as well." His fingers toyed with the brooch on the dress. "And did my present entertain you?"

She hesitated, unsure of his meaning. "The brooch is very beautiful."

"What I mean to ask … is whether you enjoyed the unwrapping."

She nodded.

"Then you won't mind if I share in your pleasure. Shall I unwrap my gift now?"

"Oh," Marguerite said, feeling stupid, "but I have nothing for you."

Donskoy chortled. "Oh," he mocked, "but you are sorely mistaken."

He freed the brooch from her gown and gently flicked his thumb over the pin's sharp point. She looked down, wide-eyed, to see him plant the point in the valley of her breasts, poised at the edge of the gown's neckline. He gently lifted her chin with his free hand. "Close your eyes, Marguerite," he said, touching his soft black fingertips to her lids. "And trust." He slid his suede fingers to her mouth. "Close your lips and listen."

She heard a faint scratching sound as the edge of her gown bit into the nape of her neck and pressed into her collarbone. Then the fabric popped, releasing its grip, and a sharp point defined a tingling path from her sternum to her navel. When Donskoy lifted his hand from her lips, the dress lay open across her torso as if flayed apart. Her chest looked strangely wrinkled and white in the gap. Then she realized that it was not her own flesh she saw. The final layer of silk-barely perceptible in the dim light-still lay intact against her skin.

Donskoy tossed the brooch carelessly aside and began to peel away the gown. He worked slowly and methodically, layer by layer. She closed her eyes again, lulled by the hypnotic hiss of his breath. The fina! layer clung to the hollows of her shape as if it had taken root; his gloved fingers picked gingerly at the edges of the silk, then roiled the fabric away with firm, even strokes. He continued to knead her muscles well after the dress had gone, beginning with her fingers and arms, then turning to her feet and working slowly up her legs until she imagined her own skin would start to peel away willingly. She moaned and stretched like a cat.

He slid his cheek over her body. "So sweet," he murmured. "And so fresh."

She heard a giggle, then realized it was her own. Donskoy removed his clothes-all but the black gloves. Then he proceeded to move over her anew with agonizing slowness, leaving no inch unexplored. He took her hand and gnawed softly on her fingertips, then traced a path up her arm with his tongue. At the tender white crux of her elbow, he lingered, lapping like a kitten at bowl of cream. She shuddered.

"My just desserts," he murmured. He chuckled at his own pun.

Marguerite turned her head toward the hearth and watched the flames licking at the wood, as Donskoy was at her. She grew hot as the coals.

A soft tinkling drifted to her ear like some magical summons. Slowly and of its own accord, her head turned toward the sound. The red beads quivered in the chandelier. One great crystal hung from the bottom; it turned to and fro, flashing rhythmically, pulling Marguerite into its grasp. She looked down and saw her body far below, saw herself and Donskoy, entwined and merging, like angry snakes, writhing before the fire. Without warning, she spiraled downward, plunging into the core of her flesh as if it were a pool and she were a stone. Once there, she found she was not alone. She twisted sensuously under the invader's assault, returning each onslaught in kind.