"Finish the test now," said Donskoy. The edge in his voice could have cut stone.

Zosia cracked the egg into a clean porcelain pot beside the bed and motioned to Marguerite. "Your own water will tell the tale. Mind you to hold your shift so the salve does not smear."

Marguerite sighed, then reluctantly complied, half curtsying with her nightshift held aloft. Then she stepped aside, her face red with embarrassment. She'd heard of seers who read tea leaves, seers who divined the future from a still pool, but never seers who looked for their answers in a pool like this. Zosia mumbled something while sprinkling an herb into the pot.

Curiosity won over Marguerite. "How does this work?"

The old woman stared intently into the pot. "if the egg floats to the surface with the yolk swirled through the white, you carry a daughter. If it floats intact, with the yolk whole from the white, you carry a son. But if any part of it fails to rise, your belly lies vacant." Her voice dropped as low as the Abyss. "And if it bubbles and seethes," she said slowly, "if it churns and roils, you carry the spawn of a fiend. A monster child, twisted in body and spirit."

Recalling her dream, Marguerite gasped.

Donskoy exploded, "Faughl What nonsense are you babbling now, you old witch?" He strode to the bedside and stared into the pot with red-faced revulsion, then turned away. He did not meet Marguerite's gaze.

Marguerite forced herself to peer into the pot. The egg lay at the bottom, still and intact.

"You are not with child," announced Zosia simply.

Marguerite almost smiled. The dream-curse had been just that, a dream.

"Wretched hag," growled Donskoy. "You have done the test wrong." He raised his hand, then stayed it, waving the black glove contemptuously.

Zosia's eyes darkened. "I have done nothing wrong, my lord," she said evenly. "The pot tells what it will tell; I am only the reader."

"Then there must be some other test. Do another," he commanded.

Zosia clucked. "A few are known to me, but I doubt you would prefer them."

"Such decisions are mine alone. What other tricks can you perform?"

Zosia stroked her plump chin, and her black eyes sparkled in their nest of wrinkles. "I can wrap a severed finger in a lock of her hair, and suspend it over her stomach. If the Powers are willing, the finger points out the truth."

"Do it," he said. "Take Yelena's finger; she can manage without one."

Yelena gasped and dropped the rod to the floor; it landed with a muffled thud. The girl clutched her hands to her chest and sank back against the wall, as if the shadows might keep her safe.

Marguerite was mortified. "Surely," she began, "surely, there's-"

Zosia raised her hand. "Alas, my lord, Yelena's finger would serve no purpose," the old woman said smoothly. "The finger must belong to the one who lay with the mother-to-be." She winked at Marguerite. "Mow, I might work the magic with just a fingertip, but the less flesh we take, the more closely the charm holds its secrets. I have seen the appendage of a long-fingered man spin like a maple seed whirling to the ground, while a mere scrap of skin has crumbled into ash before my eyes, too weak to withstand the ordeal of questioning."

"Rubbish," said Donskoy. "A rubbish test. You seek to vex me, old woman. What else can you do?"

Zosia exhaled sharply. "Perhaps you would do better to look toward Marguerite herself, Lord Donskoy. She could stand at a crossroads with a newly sharpened ax, then drench it with her water and bury it. When morning comes, she must dig up the ax and repeat the gesture. Mine times she must water and bury the blade. Then, if the ax shows rust, she is with child."

"Nine days of this?"

"At least," said Zosia impatiently. "And the test is not so sure as the one I have already completed. After nine days of wetting, even an ordinary blade can decay. In your lands, I would consider that a certainty-in half the time."

Donskoy shook his head and began to pace.

Zosia continued, "Moreover, a crossroads harbors danger, Lord Donskoy. Peasants and certain Vistani bury suicides there to hold the restless spirits at bay- even your own lands may not escape such use. And if the dead hear a pregnant woman scrabbling above them-if her scent or her digging disturbs them-then they may rise as ghouls and eat through her belly to reach the tender morsel inside."

Marguerite remained silent, mouth agape.

"Take heart, Lord Donskoy," said Zosia. "And rediscover your patience. Marguerite is young and healthy. She will be with child soon; I have seen it."

"So you have sworn," he grumbled, turning to glare at the old woman. He behaved as if they stood alone; as if Marguerite was of no more consequence than a rug. "Then when?" he demanded.

"it may be never if you continue in this fashion," Zosia replied with a note of warning. "A dry field seldom blooms. You must pay it some attention." She stepped to his side. "And take care what attention you give. Nervous women bear weaklings. The sickly yield worse. If this child is to serve in the manner you hope, you'd do well to heed an old woman's advice."

Donskoy sighed, then returned to the chair by the fire. He drummed his black suede fingers on the armrest, as if to keep pace with his galloping thoughts.

"There is another test I might recommend," Zosia continued soothingly. "The oldest test of all."

Donskoy twisted his face in a wry expression. "What, pray tell? What must we sever or piss upon and bury now?"

"It is the test of time. If the moon passes through its phases and Marguerite does not bleed, then in time she will grow full herself."

Donskoy snorted. "For that bit of wisdom, I hardly needed you, old woman."

"Patience, my lord," Zosia replied. "Marguerite's belly will swell with life soon enough. And! will prepare for you a new smoking potion, to help diminish your internal pain."

Marguerite looked toward the old woman. So it was she who kept Donskoy's pipe burning.

Donskoy growled. "Patience," he muttered- "I should be its master by now." He rose from the chair. "Forgive me, Marguerite, if my eagerness has made you ill at ease."

"I am not so fragile," Marguerite replied evenly.

"Good. For the next month, I shall be the picture of patience. You shall visit me in my salon each day. And after a month, we shall rejoice."

"I am sure you are right, Milos."

"Call me Lord Donskoy," he said, walking toward the door. "Or simply 'lord' will suffice." At the threshold, he paused and turned. "Zosia suggests that I pay you some attention. After you have dressed, join me in the sitting room outside my salon for breakfast. We will discuss how to spend the day most pleasantly." He clasped his gloved hands before him, nervously working the fingers; they resembled two black-furred spiders coupling.

"I'll be there soon, my lord," Marguerite replied.

"See that you are," said Donskoy, stepping across the threshold.

Zosia stood by the hearth, gathering up the components of her strange tests as Yelena hovered nearby. Marguerite gazed at the old woman, studying her dark cronish looks, her unmistakable gypsy looks. Stagnant or not, the old woman had to be Vistani. An outcast, perhaps?

Slowly the pieces of a puzzle began to tumble into place in Marguerite's head. Donskoy's first wife was a black-haired hellion named Valeska. In the water Marguerite had seen a biack-haired gypsy-an apparition, a sign. Could it be that Valeska was a gypsy? Zosia had known her-she had said so. "Soon," she had told Marguerite, "soon you will look upon me as Donskoy's first wife did."

A flurry of questions rushed forward in her mind, each of them angrily demanding attention. Zosia had brushed her queries aside before, but perhaps now she would be more willing. For now, Marguerite was Donskoy's wife.