Marguerite suddenly recalled her quest. She let out her breath and approached the webs, giving ample berth to the spider's corpse. She extended a hand overhead but found she couldn't reach. Ramus stepped up behind her, standing so close she could feel the brush of his clothing, and he reached up to procure a strand. Marguerite took it from him shyly, tucking it into her pouch. Ramus doused the fire, and they went out of the cave together.

"I suppose I should thank you," said Marguerite.

"It would be appropriate, but I did not assist you to earn your gratitude."

"Nonetheless," said Marguerite, "I am grateful."

Ramus smiled. "Your thanks are accepted."

He whistled for his horse. When they reached the bottom of the slope, the beast was waiting. He returned his satchel to the saddle, then, as the woods were too dense to ride, they walked together. At length, they returned to the old vardo.

Marguerite stared at the firepit. The coals were still glowing, though Ramus had extinguished the flame before they left. She remembered the spirits, and could not resist voicing the question that teased her thoughts.

"While you played. ."

"Yes?"

"I observed something strange."

"Something strange?I' Ramus echoed. His voice was teasing, almost daring Marguerite to continue.

"Yes. Three women. Specters."

Ramus smiled. "Your sight is keen for a glorgia."

"Who were they? The spirits, I mean. And how did you summon them?"

Ramus walked to his horse and withdrew his violin from the saddle. "You know how,"

Realizing his intent. Marguerite started. "I have to return to the castle," she protested. "Don't summon them now."

"If you don't wish to know the answer, you shouldn't ask the question." Ramus lifted his violin to his chin, drawing the bow across the strings. Marguerite turned, looking at the wall of forest that lay between her and the keep. "I have to go,I' she said, but her feet did not move.

"Don't be afraid." Ramus continued to play.

The music slid into Marguerite's body, pulling her gently toward the gypsy. She heard Ramus whisper, "You have nothing to fear. And much to learn about your lord, your land. Wouldn't you like to know its secrets?"

Marguerite opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. The spirits were rising before her, three women, returning. They caressed Ramus as before, sliding through the strings of the violin, then rising up to dance sensuously in the sky overhead. One of them beckoned to Marguerite.

Ramus ceased his playing abruptly, and the women vanished.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Marguerite regained her voice. "Who are they?" she whispered.

Ramus stood across the clearing. His eyes burned into her. "Members of my tribe."

"Dead members?"

Ramus laughed darkly. "Indeed. Thanks to your lord."

Marguerite hesitated. "My husband?"

He laughed darkly. "Donskoy slaughtered them. He is a rogue and a murderer, evil incarnate. And you are his latest prize."

"I don't believe you," she said hoarsely. "You are lying."

"Am I?" Ramus stepped close. He seized Marguerite by the arms. "Then you are a bigger fool than I thought. But not so great a fool as your lord."

She tried to pull away, but he held her fast

His face loomed near. "It is amusing to me. Amusing that a man who cares nothing for respectability, who knows it as a veneer that cloaks the dark perversions of half the nobles in his acquaintance-that this beast so ardently seeks a pure bride, and seeks thereby a pure get of his own. It's as though he thinks that by immersing himself in your purity he can plunge into the holy waters of heaven itself and make himself clean again-as if he could somehow bury himself in the sanctified soil of your body and be reborn anew. But he Is a fool, blinded by his own wickedness. You look heavenly, I'll admit, but you are neither a goddess nor an angel. Like Donskoy, you are just a fool, for you play the game with him."

"And what are you, then, besides horribly cruel?" "Perhaps a fiend, after all." Ramus kissed her on the mouth, and despite her horror, Marguerite felt the heat swelling within her. She struggled.

"But I am a fiend you cannot resist," Ramus growled, "and a better match for you than he." Marguerite wrenched herself free. "You are wrong," she hissed. UI can resist." She turned away from the vardo, running toward the safety of the keep. He did not follow. Yet even as she raced through the wood, she heard his laugh ringing through the trees.

THIRTEEN

It was nearly dawn when Marguerite emerged from the forest. She followed the path at base of the castle wall, groping for the secret passage that led to Zosia's garden court. She and the old woman had agreed upon this route-agreed that when Marguerite returned she would deliver the sticky white strands of the web directly to the kitchen. To her relief, the secret door lay open to receive her. She turned, giving one more glance to the forest. No one had followed. She parted the curtain of vines and stepped through.

As Marguerite entered, she heard a rustle in the corner-a retreating rodent, perhaps, or the toad Griezell-bub, acting as a sentry to announce her return. She paused to look about. The garden seemed changed since her first visit, though she could not yet tell why. The crimson cabbage still blazed, visible even in the dim light. And the glass domes of the cupping jars still lay nestled against the soil, neatly arrayed, but no longer vacant. A reddish brown fluid had bubbled up from the soil beneath each translucent prison.

Marguerite crouched beside one, studying the contents more closely. The fluid divulged its myriad parts.

Thousands of red ants surged over the corpse of a small frog, scouring away its flesh. The jars were death domes, miniature crematoriums whose contents were kissed and stroked by living flames. In the next jar lay a mouse or rat; only the tiny tufts of gray-brown fur and a wormJike fragment of white tail hinted at the nature of the thing.

Beneath the final dome, the ants had begun their retreat, draining back into the soil. In their wake lay the skeleton of a lizard, as smooth and white as if it had been cleaned with lye. Perhaps these strange ingredients are meant for Donskoy, Marguerite hoped. Or perhaps Zosia needed the components to mix with the white spicier web.

Marguerite pulled her cloak around her, then went to the corner of the garden and opened the small arched door that led to Zosia's kitchen. She entered the twisting passage beyond. At the opposite end, she gently pushed open the second door, and was met by the warm, blazing light of the cooking fire.

Zosia stii) squatted on the three-legged stool before the hearth, gazing into her pot. It looked as if she had scarcely moved since Marguerite last spoke with her.

"Zo," the old woman said huskily, "you have brought it then." She did not bother to turn toward her visitor. "You have obtained the web."

"Yes," Marguerite replied. "I have it here." She untied the strings of the satchel at her waist and held the parcel out toward Zosia. The old woman remained distracted. Marguerite put the sack upon the table, which was now clear of the bowls and herbs and the skinned carcasses.

"Zosia," began Marguerite. "I'd like to ask you about something." She wanted to query the old woman about Ramus, and his assertion that Donskoy had slain the Vistani tribe. And about so many other things, she realized.

"There will come another time for questions, my child/ Zosia said. "But now you'd best return to your room. The castle will soon be waking,"

"Another time?" Marguerite asked.

Zosia dismissed her with a wave of her hand. "There is always another time. Go now. But remove your boots first-you'll leave a trail of mud straight from my kitchen to your door."