Her mouth was dry, her throat parched. Donskoy's black hands trampled over her slick skin like furtive animals, like hounds hot for the fox. No longer soft, they seemed hard and sharp, lightly scratching her skin.

"Milos. ." she moaned.

A dark growl of pleasure echoed through the room. Marguerite could not tell from whose lips it came.

* * * * *

Marguerite awoke to find Donskoy's body cupped around hers,

"A son is made," he murmured against her neck.

She wondered how he could be certain, though of course she did not voice her doubts. She was silent, feigning sleep. The past hours were a blur, recalled like changing weather-cool, then hot, then coo! again. Memories scurried forward to be acknowledged, but she brushed them aside. Her head throbbed, still poisoned by the wine and the smoke.

After a moment Donskoy rose and groaned, stretching before the fire, Then he proceeded to dress himself. "Arise, my fair one," he said dramatically. "For methinks you are not sleeping,"

Marguerite rolled over and reached for her dress, then saw the pife of fabric, shredded and faintly pink. She sat up, drawing a small fur rug around her shoulders. Donskoy was adjusting his gloves. He went to the cupboard and unlocked it, then opened the doors just a sliver, withdrawing a red gown from the dark slit between them. He tossed the gown over to Marguerite and relocked the cabinet, returning the key to his pocket.

"My gift to a deserving wife," he said simply. He bent to kiss her, pushing away the pelt. "My very deserving wife.11

She smiled feebly.

"Raise your hands, and I will dress you."

He slipped the silk gown over her head. When the dress encased her, and the brooch ornamented its neckline, Donskoy led Marguerite to the door and locked it behind them, then escorted her to her chamber. She leaned on his arm for support, wondering if he intended to share her bed. They did not speak until they reached their goal.

"Sleep well," he said, kissing her softly on the cheek. "I shall see you in the morning."

Marguerite's question had been answered. She found herself relieved.

She stepped across the threshold and turned to close the door, but it was already shut. A key rattled in the lock, securing her for the night.

EIGHT

Heavy-headed, Marguerite crossed to the hearth, her red gown rustling as she walked. The dress was a JittJe long and snug through the shoulders, but otherwise splendid-worth a peasant's wages for haif a year, an extravagance that should have thrilled any girl of parochial roots. And it did please her. But thrill? No more than trying on a garment that was merely borrowed. She went to the wash basin and splashed her face with cool water, then patted her skin dry.

In Marguerite's absence, Yefena had tended the chamber. The fire was freshly stoked, the wooden tub gone. The desiccated flowers had been planted in a vase, and a steaming pot of tea sat on the table. She lifted the lid and sniffed; the brew smelled of blackberries and honey. As prisons went, hers was not without its comforts.

Marguerite poured herself some of the tea and sank into a chair before the fire. So this is how it ends, she thought-her wedding day, the event she had so long anticipated. She shut her eyes and let a few fragmented images drift across the black field behind her lids: the strange ritual with the dark egg, the brilliant flashes from the stained-glass windows, the fountain of blood from the fallen beast. And, finally, the consummation in the red salon, an event recalled more by her body than her mind. Her chest flushed at the memory, and her thighs tightened. The occasion was hardly the "impersonal rite" that her mother had steeled her to expect; but then, Donskoy's castle held many surprises.

Marguerite wondered if his first wife-the "black-haired hellion" he had murmured about in the salon- had endured a similar wedding day. Obviously, the tragedy of the woman's death still haunted Donskoy- and after twenty or thirty years? Marguerite would not understand her husband until she knew more about his first wife's death, however horrible or incriminating that might be. Only then could they hope to mold a future together; otherwise, Donskoy would forever remain the strange mercurial master, while she played his well-kept prisoner, some kind of prize purchased solely for breeding. In a castle with so few friendly faces, it was a lonely prospect.

Wearily, Marguerite went to the bed to draw back the covers, then stayed her hand. In the hollow at the center of the soft mattress, there was a slight swelling where something lay hidden beneath the embroidered counterpane. The lump shifted. Marguerite stepped back. She drew in her breath, watching as the swollen mass approached the edge of the bed, moving slowly beneath the woolen cover. Then the mass stopped. Marguerite stood beside the bed, immobile. The thing remained frozen as well.

Marguerite had faced this kind of thing before. "All right, you," she breathed, grabbing the poker from beside the fire. "No vermin tonight. No errant cats, no overgrown rats, no-"

She whipped off the counterpane. There sat Griezell. Zosia's queenly toad, black and shining against the white linens. It gazed at her slyly with its enormous, protruding eyes, Zosia's words in the garden drifted back to her: Some say a bed filled with toads ensures conception, especially on the wedding night.

Marguerite cursed. "Tell your mistress her joke isn't funny. Besides, you're late. You should've been waiting in Donskoy's salon, though I'll bet you haven't got the nerve."

Griezell blinked, and Marguerite imagined the creature's wide slit of a mouth lifted subtly to form a smile. She let out a tired laugh.

"Well, as I told your mistress, I do not bed with toads." Grimacing, she poked at the creature's cool, dry hide. The gleaming bumps rippled under the poker's touch. "Off," she commanded. "Off and out. How did you get in here in the first place?"

Griezell did not budge.

"Fine. You're a toad, after all. Perhaps you're too stupid to understand me."

Griezell's throat swelled, forming a huge goiter. With its broad mouth slightly parted, the toad emitted a horrid, reverberant rasp-long, deep, and hoarse. It reminded Marguerite of a death rattle, or of an old man clearing phlegm from his lungs.

"That's enough," she snapped in disgust. "You probably do understand, and I wouldn't be surprised if Zosia understands you in turn. So you can tell her I am not amused."

Marguerite returned the poker to its place, then — ;cked up the toad with arms stiffly outstretched. The spaniel-sized creature hissed and paddled, and if it had wanted to, it could have wriggled from her arms or drawn blood with its claws. But the toad had bowed; to her authority, at least for now. She carried Griezell-bub toward the door. Then she remembered the click of the key-Donskoy had locked her in.

Griezell made another goiter and rasped, this time breaking the hoarse sound into short, staccato rattles. Like laughter. Marguerite gasped and dropped the toad at once. Griezell hissed, then shambled toward one of the tapestries flanking the fireplace. With twenty hounds and a frightened fox looking on, the toad disappeared into the wall. Marguerite wondered whether the little black beast had the fabled ability to teleport-moving from one place to another without actually traversing the space between. Either that, or it had become insubstantial, a specter. Unless. .

Marguerite heard the faint sound of stone scraping against stone. She cautiously stepped toward the tapestry, half-expecting some kind of trap to be sprung. The cloth wavered softly, teasing her, then settled.

She stared at the wall. Every sinew in her suddenly reawakened, tense with excitement. If her guess was correct, the wall had opened to permit Griezell's passage. There was a secret door, just like the one in Zosia's garden. Then she recalled how the old woman had spoken a word to shift that portal, a magical command. If such a thing were required here, Marguerite was tost. But it couldn't be; Griezeltbub did not speak, did he? And the toad had gone through.