Marguerite heard a sound in the distance. Someone was calling. A woman, crying anxiously. Another voice answered. And then a male, calling to the rest. Marguerite could not make out the words-they were muffled. The tones, however, carried a note of distress. The phantom voices echoed across the valley, first near, then far, then near again. It was impossible to tell how distant the people truly were.

Donskoy reined his horse to a halt and listened. He tugged at the corner of his mustache contemplatively. He appeared unconcerned.

"Are they gypsies?" Marguerite asked.

Donskoy barked out a laugh. "What makes you think that?"

"They are travelers."

"Vistani rarely lose their way in the mists."

"If the people are lost, shouldn't we help them?"

"Help them?" He gave a dark laugh. "You don't even know them, who, or what, they are. Besides, I-we-cannot reach them. They must come to us."

"I don't understand," Marguerite replied.

Donskoy studied her damp face. "No, I suppose you do not. Perhaps I should acquaint you with one of the strange truths of our realm, which only a few seem to have mastered. Do you remember commenting on the legends that the mists can be magical? On the night you first came to me?"

"Yes. But I only half believe it."

"Believe it in full. Those mists hem in my lands, ebbing and flowing like the tide. They are like a strange, great sea, cloaking dangers more horrifying than you can imagine. The Vistani boast the ability navigate this sea, and they seem virtually immune to the dangers within. And, too, there are a few without gypsy blood who manage passage through other means, though never as well. Jacqueline Montarri is one such. But they are all exceptions.

"I believe there are currents in those mists, strange tides or tendencies that are more. . ethereal than tangible. One of those currents leads near to my land. It often carries the lost, the forsaken, those who attempt to journey through the fog without aid of the gypsies, or who simply find themselves immersed. The people we just heard are undoubtedly adrift on such a current." He sighed. "But such is life. Let us return to the castle." He steered his horse back down the road.

"If there are dangers, as you say, then we should help those travelers," Marguerite insisted. "Is there no way?"

Donskoy looked at her sternly. "Never presume to tell me what I should or should not do, my dear."

"But. ."

She bit her tongue; his jaw had become rigid.

He smiled, and added, "Though, in this case, you are quite right, of course. We should not leave them to drift. And we will help them find their way. After we return to the castle, I'll send Ekhart and Ljubo back to attend to them."

"Won't that take hours?"

"They are not as near as you think; it's a trick of the fog."

"We could call out to be sure. ," she said softly.

"And perhaps lead them into greater danger Most likely, they will only become more lost, searching for your phantom voice-or fleeing its sound, which the mists might alter to sound like a monstrous roar. No, your attempts would cause more harm than good. Ekhart and Ljubo are quite practiced at such things. Come, let us go. The sooner we reach the castle, the sooner my men will return."

He turned and started down the road at a canter. Reluctantly, she followed.

*****

When they rode into the castle nearly two hours later, Marguerite was exhausted, Donskoy, in contrast, seemed remarkably spry. They stopped their horses before the keep. The lord dismounted and gave a sharp whistle, then helped Marguerite to the ground. Her legs were tired and unsteady. Ljubo emerged from the stables to take the horses.

"You haven't forgotten the travelers in the fog, have you?" Marguerite asked.

"Of course not, my dear," Donskoy replied, taking her hand.

"Travelers?" piped Ljubo behind them. His eyes sparkled, and his tongue darted ever so lightly between his broken teeth.

"Yes, Ljubo," said Donskoy evenly. "Travelers. We would like you to effect a rescue, if possible."

Ljubo Looked puzzled.

Donskoy continued, "You and Ekhart must see to them as usual. Summon the associates, if you'd like."

"Yes-yes, of course," said Ljubo, nodding. He rubbed his fraying fingers together. "At once, Lord Donskoy. Are there many?"

"At least three."

"Three. Three. Yes, well, three is three."

"But maybe more. ."

"Ah-yes." Ljubo nodded as if he were incapable of stopping the motion. "Yes-yes, Lord Donskoy." Then he turned and waddled hastily back into the stables, tugging the horses behind him.

Marguerite and Donskoy climbed the long stair toward the looming keep.

"Does this happen often?" she asked, legs protesting the ascent.

"I do not understand your meaning."

"A rescue attempt. You used the phrase 'as usual' with Ljubo."

"Often enough, but not every day. It appears tied to the moon. Don't let it trouble you. Ljubo and Ekhart have the situation well in hand."

"Will they go straight away?"

"Straight away, my dear. You can be sure." He gripped her hand firmly. "It is no longer your concern."

And he was correct: Ljubo and Ekhart did depart immediately. As she and Donskoy crested the final stair, the two men burst from the stable doors, riding side by side at the front of the jostling cart. The wagon bed carried a small mass covered by a black tarp. Beside it crouched the three hounds, pressed low against the boards. Ekhart held the reins. He gave a curt nod at Donskoy as the wagon moved swiftly past. Ljubo grinned wildly over his shoulder, one arm clutching a lantern. He lifted the other hand to wave to Marguerite, then quickly returned it to the seat, gripping it for support as the cart careened across the clearing and went out of sight.

"You see?" said Donskoy. "They are making haste. If your travelers are still adrift near the rim, Ljubo and Ekhart will take care of them soon."

Marguerite did not like the sound of that. Somewhere, buried in the back of her mind, was a comment-something relevant, something Ljubo had said to her as they rode together to the castle when she arrived. She struggled to recall it. Something. , Then Ljubo's voice echoed inside her mind: "We retrieve things, like. ." followed by Ekhart's curt interruption. Like the lost, thought Marguerite. But surely there was nothing sinister in that. .

"Come inside, my dear. I am feeling invigorated by our excursion." Indeed, his face, normally pasty, seemed flush with excitement. "We shall retire to my salon."

Suddenly, she did not like sound of that either.

ELEVEN

In the crimson cocoon that was Donskoy's salon, the lord peeted away his outer wear and tugged the bell-pull to summon Yelena. The fire burned brightly beneath its golden cowl, the velvet pillows upon the floor were plumped and neatly arrayed, and the red hookah with its silver-headed snake sat poised before the hearth, ready to serve its master. A sweet, musky scent filled the air. The room had been well tended in their absence.

Yelena appeared at the door to receive Donskoy's command for food and libation, then scuttled away in compltance, scarcely acknowledging Marguerite's welcoming smile. Marguerite felt somewhat abandoned.

Donskoy removed her cloak and gently tugged off her matching blue gloves, then bade her sit on the red velvet divan. His own gloves, of course, remained in place. She noted they were faintly soiled from the day's activity; a streak of something clear and shining had crusted upon the black suede. As her husband leaned close, she smelled the strange perfume of sweat, smoke, and horses that now permeated his hair and clothing.

"Do you think we'll have guests tonight?" she asked, self-consciously smoothing her skirts. "Perhaps we should tell Yelena and Zosia."