"Guests?" Donskoy strode to the fire and looked down at the water pipe.

"Yes," Marguerite replied. "If Ekhart and Ljubo are successful, perhaps they will bring the travelers here."

Donskoy chuckled. He left the hookah unattended and retrieved his long, slender white pipe from a wooden stand on a side table. "Perhaps," he said.

"Have you entertained such travelers before?"

"After a fashion. But one does not often encounter strangers who make good-" Donskoy had reached into the fire with a taper to light the pipe, and he paused now, bringing the bowl to red, glowing life with a few gentle puffs, then finished, H-who make good guests."

"I see," replied Marguerite, though she did not. She stared at the carved stem of Donskoy's ivory pipe, which displayed a strand of interwoven humanoid bodies, writhing and entwined, mouths agape, like a crowded scene from purgatory.

Yelena appeared bearing a tray with two chalices and a jug of wine, along with a finger-bowl of scented water and a cloth, which she carefully laid on the small round table before Marguerite. After a second brief foray, the mute returned with a silver tray laden with meats, cheeses, and pastries. A pair of roasted starlings lay dead at the side, their feathers twice speckled, first by nature, then by the oven's ash. After the mouse-haired mute had decanted the wine, Lord Donskoy dismissed her.

Marguerite dipped her fingers in the bay-scented water to wash. Her husband left his pipe to burn itself out on the stand and busied himself in his cupboard behind her. She peeked over her shoulder and glimpsed his turned back, the cabinet door open just a sliver as before. She looked away, fearful of what would happen if Donskoy caught her spying.

When he returned, he wore a fresh pair of gloves. As he lifted his chalice to his lips, Marguerite stared at the plush, velvety suede covering his hands. Donskoy caught her glance.

"You are curious about the gloves." He uncoiled two fingers from the stem of his chalice and waved them subtly, like antennae.

"No." Then she added, "Well, perhaps a little."

Donskoy's face told her she should have held her tongue; the dismay was obvious in his expression, and his response was menacingly low. "It is none of your business."

"No, of course not," said Marguerite, adding quickly, "my lord." She hoped the pause had not been perceptible. Suddenly, she felt as if she had wandered into a trap, had become tangled like a fly in the middle of a spider's web, and now the spider was approaching.

"Do my gloves disturb you, Marguerite?" asked Donskoy, wriggling his black, furry fingers.

"No, my lord," she replied evenly, regaining her composure. "Your fashions may intrigue me, but, as you say, they are none of my concern."

He studied her.

Marguerite pulled her lips into a smile, intentionally demure, then dropped her gaze. She sipped from her chalice, a wary bird.

To her surprise, Donskoy did not drop the subject. "The matter is somewhat embarrassing, and so I rarely speak of it. But you are my wife, so I shall confess to you that I suffer a certain. . deformity."

She gave no reply.

"Do you not wish to see it?" Donskoy asked, as if daring her.

Marguerite hesitated, suddenly realizing that she did not wish to look upon his deformity-not really. Once she had seen it, she might be unable to forget it, might think of it hidden beneath the sheath of his gloves each time he probed or caressed her skin. And yet. .

And yet she was curious. "Only if you wish to show me," she said. "But it is not necessary. I must admit that! am actually quite fond of your gloves."

"Yes," he replied, stroking a finger across her cheek. "They are very soft and fine, are they not?"

She nodded.

"Another time then," he said.

Marguerite nodded again, and wondered whether her head would soon bob unceasingly of its own accord, tike Ljubo's. Soon she too might be the affable fool.

Donskoy continued, "Let us not speak of this matter anymore tonight."

"Of course. I won't mention it again, my lord." She stared at her lap as if it suddenly held great interest and thought to herself, Another entry to the list of things not mentioned and things not done. Marguerite wished she had not led him inadvertently toward this topic in the first place. Perhaps something trite and inconsequential would break the tension that remained. He might be appeased by some silly feminine remark; it seemed to fulfill his expectations of her.

*l am amazed," she said, "that Yeiena and Zosia can accomplish so much. This food, I mean. And attending to the castle. Granted, we require only a few rooms, but still their efforts are astounding."

"Yes," Donskoy replied. "Somehow they manage. Zosia can be a magician in the kitchen when she wants to. And at times it seems almost as if the castle sustains itself, such as it is." He speared a piece of meat and gobbled it up.

Marguerite ate too, glad to discover that the flavors were pleasing, with heavy notes of mustard, garlic, and onion. She left only the birds untouched. It was a common enough dish, but she disliked picking at the carcasses. The pastries tasted of sweet honey and almonds, and they did not seem stale in the least. For a while, she focused on the food; it kept her from thinking of the liaison to come. Donskoy ate without speaking, licking his lips, eyeing her as if she were edible. When he had finished, he suddenly reached under her skirt and began to remove her stockings. Marguerite held a pastry poised in her fingers, her mouth open with surprise. He moved his hand unexpectedly, and the pastry dropped to the ground.

* * * * *

An hour later, Marguerite found herself back in her room, the door securely locked. Weary from the day's activity, she readied herself for bed, though the sun itself had only just retired, and the sky had not yet gone black. She stripped to her chemise and pulled on a pair of slippers and a dressing gown.

Her first intimate encounter with Donskoy had been strange and surreal, a languid dream, disturbing yet perversely thrilling- It had lasted for hours, or so it seemed, and the details had blurred in her mind. In contrast, the second coupling had been acute, brisk, and rather unpleasant. She had tried hard not to reveal her reaction. Not that he was attuned to such things.

Marguerite noticed that the shutters on her window hung open, and she went to close them against the cold. Something in the darkness beyond caught her eye. Deep in the forest, the phantom fire pulsed again, a heartbeat in the body of wood. Ramus. Marguerite did not understand why he stayed, or if he had gone, why he had returned. What does he want here? she wondered. He purposefully avoided Donskoy; the castle itself did not seem to draw him. Maybe he was seeking his own tribe, awaiting some kind of rendezvous. He had told her that Arturi's caravan was not his own. And it did seem that Vistani traveled the roads, at least as far as the fork. The fork-where Vistani left their marks on a tree for other gypsies to discover.

Marguerite recalled the new tralak she had seen during her outing with Donskoy. In her wardrobe cabinet, she knew, lay the half-charred manuscript penned by Van Richten. With these pages, she could probably decipher the tralak's meaning. Marguerite eyed the closed door of her cabinet suspiciously, as if a fiend lurked behind it. Yet what harm could come from consulting the book? It was only a book after all.

Marguerite's hand was poised on the cabinet door when the sound of an approaching wagon drew her away. She went quickly to the window and saw Ljubo and Ekhart returning. Pressing her nose against the glass, she strained, searching for silhouettes in the wagon. She sighed with disappointment. There was only the tall thin Ekhart, the squat form of Ljubo beside him. The back of the wagon appeared fuller, however. A lumpy mound rose in the bed, covered by a tarp. The three black hounds stood upon it proudly, like climbers laying claim to a summit. Their black shapes swayed wildly with the motion of the wagon. It was a wonder the beasts didn't tumble out. One of them threw its head back and heralded their return with a frightful howl. For a moment, Marguerite imagined a red fire burning deep within in its throat, as if she had seen the door to a kiln thrown open. Then the wagon, and the image, passed out of view.