Arturi climbed back onto the wagon seat. He smiled grimly at Marguerite. "Endari oitir. Miss de Boche." It was the Vistani farewell. "Endari uitir."

Arturi waved to the driver behind, then gathered the reins and slapped them across the ponies' backs. The wagon lurched forward and passed into the dark embrace of the forest, veering left at the fork. The remaining vardos followed solemnly. None of the drivers gave Marguerite so much as a glance. Even the tethered bear paid her no attention as it lumbered past.

Marguerite watched the last vardo vanish into the night, then heard a soft whinny behind her and turned.

Something shone in the darkness-the glint of a silver bridle chain. A sleek black horse took shape, stepping crisply toward her, straining its head sideways against the stiff restraint of the reins. One dark, watery eye rimmed in white met Marguerite's gaze. The beast snorted, spraying gouts of steam from its nostrils.

Upon the horse rode a man dressed in black from head to toe. A heavy cloak grazed the top of his high boots. His head was covered by a black felt hat with a narrow upturned brim and a rounded crown. Marguerite had never seen the Vistana before, yet he must have belonged to Arturi's tribe. He shared the same brown-olive skin; the same strong, straight nose; the same high cheekbones and full, wide mouth. But unlike Arturi's face, his was well balanced, and completely unpitted and unpierced; he wore no jewelry except a single hoop, barely visible upon his right ear. The gypsy's clothing was simpler and darker than Arturi's, and more somber than the Vistani garb worn even among the most austere tribes in Darkon.

Marguerite marveled at the smoothness of the Vis-tana's skin; it seemed completely unlined, like a boy's, though his expression and demeanor were that of someone at least thirty or more. His dark, wavy hair flowed to his shoulders without pomade or grease to control it. It was shot through with white around his face, creating a kind of halo against which his dark eyes gleamed.

He smiled at her, then tipped his hat. The eyes tilted downward at the corners, and they looked a little sad.

Marguerite forced herself to break the stare. She nodded but said nothing. She did not want to appear meek, nor did she wish to invite the improper company of a stranger. Caution was warranted.

In a deep voice, the Vistana said, "Arturi can be off-putting."

She wondered how he knew.

"Nonetheless, he spoke the truth/I continued the man. His voice was oddly soothing. "Wait here as he told you. Donskoy's men will arrive soon. And there is no safety in the cover of these woods."

Again Marguerite wondered at the extent of his knowledge. He spoke as if they knew one another, as if they had passed the entire journey chatting together in some cozy conveyance. Prudence dictated she remain on guard, but she felt the tension easing from her body.

The Vistana rode to the fork and reined his horse to a stop. The beast pawed impatiently at the ground. Though full morning still lay an hour beneath the horizon, false dawn was approaching; the sky had lightened to pale gray, against which the rider and his horse stood in dark silhouette. The gypsy turned toward Marguerite, tipped his hat again, then guided his horse toward the left fork. A roiling cloud of mist suddenly drifted across the road, engulfing his form. When it passed, the man had vanished.

Marguerite sat on the oblong box Arturi had placed beside her bridal chest, suddenly more alone than before. Waiting seemed her only option. She pulled her cloak near. The worst dangers lay behind in Darkon, she told herself, with the fiends of Lord Aza-lin's secret police, those inhuman monsters who had ravaged her sheltered and simple life. Ahead lay the promise of sanctuary, perhaps even affection.

She drew her knees up onto the long black box and rested her head upon her arms, her cloak flowing around her like a tent. Her gaze remained fixed upon the road ahead. A trio of little gray-and-white warblers flitted past; they were vista-chiri, the bright-songed followers of gypsy caravans. Except for the birds and the lightening sky, the scene remained unchanged.

Marguerite tried to imagine the men who would come to retrieve her. Perhaps they would steer a carriage in which Donskoy himself rode. She wondered what he would think of her, whether she would please him. So much depended on it. Certainly others had found her desirable. But if Donskoy knew of one suitor in particular, he might be repulsed.

Creaking wood and jangling chains disrupted her thoughts. She started and rose.

A narrow old wagon drawn by a tired gray horse was approaching from the right side of the fork. The cart groaned and clattered, protesting the kettle-holes and jagged rocks beneath its wheels. On the bench huddled two men. The driver was tall, narrow, and rigid, like a wooden pole in a slim dark coat. He looked even taller because of his peculiar fur hat, which resembled a black bee hive built upon his head. Despite the uneven ride, he swayed only slightly.

His companion, in contrast, jiggled like half-jelled lard. He sat barely as high as the tall man's shoulder, yet his haunches eclipsed nearly two-thirds of the bench. With his ridiculous grin, he looked like a squat happy toad swaddled in tattered brown woolens. His elbows bowed outward and bounced with the rest of him, creating the impression that he had just told a joke and was nudging his companion to emphasize the punch line.

The wagon drew to a halt. The tall man tipped his head toward Marguerite. Like his body, his pasty face was long and narrow, with damp gray eyes set beneath a pale silvery brow. A fringe of white hair dangled beneath the rim of his hat.

The driver said, "Marguerite de Boche, I presume?" He lifted one eyebrow to punctuate the question. The rest of his face remained strangely immobile.

Marguerite nodded, but could not find the words to speak.

"Allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Ekhart, and this is Ljubo." Ekhart waved at his oafish companion. "We are humble servants to Lord Donskoy. It is our pleasure to escort you to your new home."

Ekhart's words were practiced and polite, but he barely moved his jaw as he spoke; his mouth looked like a long incision drawn horizontally across his face. The gash was rimmed by a pair of thin, bumpy tjps- grayish pink and slightly raised, like scar tissue. At the corners, they were so dry and scabrous that to smile might cause them to bleed.

Ljubo grinned ridiculously, exposing his broken and stained teeth. "So very nice to meet you." He gave quick little nods as he spoke, a silent and staccato yes-yes-yes to underscore his words. Even after the nodding stopped, his sagging red cheeks continued to jiggle.

"The feeling is mutual,11 replied Marguerite. "For a time, I was afraid no one would come."

"Yes," said Ekhart. He paused, as if annoyed by the burden of conversation. "It can be lonely out here in the wild."

Ljubo oozed off the seat and plopped his feet onto the road. His legs all but disappeared as they bowed to absorb the shock of his weight.

He waddled toward the cargo. Ekhart watched carefully but made no move to assist.

Marguerite watched too. Ljubo's hands were stubby and round. He wore the tattered remnants of woolen gloves, and his fingertips, left bare, were dirty and rough.

Despite his almost crippled appearance, the squat man readily hoisted Marguerite's bridal chest into the back of the cart. But he struggled with the heavy oblong box, succeeding only in lifting one end until it stood upright like a sarcophagus. Ekhart grunted, then reluctantly climbed off the wagon to help. Beside Ljubo's doughy shape, the tall man looked brittle.

They secured the box, then Ljubo hefted himself into the wagon alongside the cargo, leaving the bench free for Marguerite. He grinned again and gestured toward the seat.