Later, as Marguerite pushed past a pine branch in the thick of the forest, she clung to those words, They gave her comfort until another phrase came to mind: "a fate worse than death." Nervously she fondled the little pouch around her neck, pulling it to her nose. It smelled of garlic and mustard and something else she could not identify-something earthy and sour Whatever lay in the pouch, Marguerite prayed its strength was as potent as its stench.

She had donned leggings, boots, and a heavy tunic, tying a small satchel at her waist. Thinking an early start was prudent, Marguerite had slipped out after lunch. After all, who knew how long it would take her to find a white spider? Zosia had offered little in the way of clues. But if Marguerite could locate the spider by day, she reasoned, then she could gather its web as soon as the sun fell, sparing herself a more difficult search in the dark.

The very notion that a spider web could solve her problems seemed a ridiculous fantasy, but she had no other hope, so she devoted herself to the effort.

Hours passed, and a light rain fell intermittently, dampening Marguerite's clothes. She sought webs in the crevices of rocks, between the rotting limbs of fallen trees, and beneath the low, sagging branches of the forest. She found spiders aplenty-small, large, black, brown, hairy, bald. But none of the eight-eyed creatures that stared back at her or darted for cover had a white body and white legs. Eventually, the sight of so many spiders and other skittering bugs made her flesh crawl. Marguerite began to imagine that someone's eyes were constantly upon her. She never saw them, of course, but she could feel them, like soft claws scrabbling at the base of her neck. She wondered if Griezellbub had followed her into the forest. Later, she thought of Ramus, who had watched her as she wandered before. Certainly by now, he had departed Donskoy's land.

The daylight waned. Marguerite continued her search at the clearing near the waterfall, where she had rested during her previous foray into the woods. As night fell, the mist cleared, and the sky became a dark vault teasingly flecked by low clouds. At least the moon was in Marguerite's favor. Cloud-shadows raced across the ground like hounds on the hunt. Their fleeting images taunted Marguerite; more than once she started and cried out, mistaking the play of light for an animal rushing past, or perhaps a spirit.

Mow and again she saw them-the eyes of the forest, frozen in the glow of the moon. The scampering mouse, seized by the owl; the weasel slinking furtively through the brush, with something small and soft in its jaws. Once, as she huddled breathlessly at the base of a tree and clutched at the leather pouch around her neck, a huge black shape shambled past. Marguerite saw its yellow eyes shining in the dark. She thought of the beast from the banquet-the hideous sacrifice that had been part bear, part boar, part. . else. But the silhouette lumbered on, leaving her unscathed. Marguerite told herself it was an ordinary bear.

Time was running out. She plunged deeper into the wood. She dropped to her hands and knees, willing her eyes to find the webs of spiders. The wind moaned plaintiveiy, achieving a clear, sorrowful note. Then she realized it was not the wind at alt; it was an instrument-a violin. She thought at once of Ramus. She crept through the forest toward the sound, which drew her like a siren's song.

Finally she saw him, standing near the old vardo, holding a shiny black fiddle to his chin. He had built a small fire, and its warmth lit his face with yellow-gold light. His black horse stood nearby, nosing the ground.

Marguerite crawled beneath the pungent skirts of a hemlock and hid, amused that the tables had turned. Mow she was the watcher. She pressed herself low to the ground, oblivious to the dampness that seeped into her clothing. The music held her spellbound. The gypsy played beautifully, stroking and compressing the strings of his violin until they cried out in elation and agony.

Marguerite thought he must be playing for himself or simply serenading the night. But then she saw white wisps of fog rise from the soil and swirl about Ramus's body. They caressed him, coiling teasingly around his fingers and around the slender bow, streaming between the strings of the violin. As they passed through the instrument, they stretched and bent, assuming the shape of three Vistani women. They were ghosts, ephemeral as smoke, as smooth as white glass. They rose through the air, and the music swelled to echo the rhythm of their whirling dance. Diaphanous white skirts trailed behind them like the tails of comets.

Soon Ramus closed his eyes and slowed his tune.

The women clasped hands, moving three as one. Their features were indistinct, but something about them suggested age and sorrow. They sank toward the ground. The soil steamed beneath them. Ramus continued to play, his notes somber and slow. The women's ghostly white heads began to melt away from their shoulders, dripping down their bodies like candle wax. Then their bodies sagged and slumped, and the shoulders disappeared, and the breasts, and the hips and the legs-melting away until nothing remained but a white cloud upon the ground. Then even that disappeared.

Ramus moved his fiddle from his chin and stared into the forest. Marguerite held her breath, not daring to move. She lay directly in the path of his gaze.

The gypsy walked across the clearing to where his black horse stood waiting. He slipped the violin into an embroidered satchel that hung from the saddle, then retrieved his round-brimmed hat from the pommel. The horse snorted, pawing nervously at the dirt. Ramus stroked the animal's muzzle and whispered something to quiet it. Then he turned once again toward Marguerite's hiding place.

"Lost again, Marguerite?" he asked, flashing a white smile. He tipped his hat.

Marguerite did not answer, hoping that if she remained silent, she might also be invisible.

"Mot coming out?" asked Ramus. "Then you must mean for me to clamber in after you. A pleasant invitation indeed."

Marguerite wormed her way out of her hiding place, feeling graceless and chagrined. She took a step forward, then stopped, leaving several paces between them. Still she felt his attraction, and it amazed her. She swayed, unsteady. And she said nothing, for suddenly nothing at all would come to mind.

"So we meet again," Ramus said deeply. "I hope you enjoyed my serenade."

"I did," she replied, almost in a whisper. "It was magical."

Meither of them spoke of the spirits. It occurred to Marguerite that Ramus had summoned them with a powerful spell. If she mentioned his magic, she might somehow fall prey to its power. The dance lay between them tike a secret, something intimately shared.

"Do you know the legend of the Vistani violin?" Ramus asked, reaching forward to stir the fire.

Marguerite shook her head.

"The first violin, it is said, was created to lure a lover. A young Vistana longed for the affections of a girl who spurned him. So deep was his desire that he sought the aid of dark powers to win her. The powers consented to help him. In payment, they demanded the spirits of the boy's brothers and sisters. The powers bound them into the strings and bow of the first violin, then gave the instrument to the boy, so that he might serenade his sweetheart. When the boy played, the violin filled the air with his family's pain, as well as their remembered joys, and the girl was spellbound. Unfortunately, she loved the musician only when he played, and eventually the sound of his victims drove the young man mad. He killed himself. But the next Vistana who took up the instrument found he could reproduce the sound with all its beauty. And so the violin was born."

"What a sad story," whispered Marguerite.