The doors parted farther, groaning on their hinges like a wounded warrior stirring on a field of dead. A musty breeze caressed Marguerite's face. Suddenly her head felt even lighter, her footing unsure. She swayed backward.

A stiff hand gripped her elbow. It was Ekhart She had failed to notice his ascent.

"You were to wait," he said sharply. His fingers bit into her skin, and she turned to look at him in pain.

He eased his grip. Apologetically, he added, "Excuse my impertinence, miss. But it is not for my sake alone that I ask your cooperation-I am carrying out Lord Donskoy's instructions. Please heed what I say. I am to escort you."

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I was growing so cold and tired. I was afraid if I stood still too long I might not be able to move again."

He brushed past her and pulled the door open another foot. "You may come in now," he said evenly, then passed through.

Marguerite did as she was told, slipping between the doors into the cavernous room beyond. It was dark and dank. Marguerite imagined she could hear the sound of running water. She began to step forward.

"Not that way," said Ekhart. "Never that way. You must turn, and rise again."

"What lies that way?" asked Marguerite.

"An impatient fool's demise," Ekhart replied dryly. He was standing in an open doorway to the left. A narrow staircase curved upward behind him. "Just a few yards across from the door, a pit plunges deep into the ground. It is a defensive structure, designed by whoever constructed this keep. Invading hordes were expected to rush straight on and plummet to their deaths. To follow suit would be … suicidal. And most unfortunate for one so young."

"Thank you for the warning," said Marguerite quietly.

The wall behind Ekhart was lit by a torch; it guttered En the breeze. When he was sure she was following, he turned and ascended the stair.

The passage led to a large, torch-lit foyer that was almost completely barren. The dark stone floor had ^een strewn with herbs. Their scent was strange and exotic-a mixture of deep, grassy notes and a sweet, earthy smell that Marguerite could not identify. They crunched beneath her suede boots.

Somewhere to right, Marguerite could hear a man and a woman speaking. The woman laughed. Marguerite paused to listen further.

Ekhart clucked his tongue. "This way, Miss de Boche," he said. "I will show you to your chamber."

"My chamber?" asked Marguerite. "Does Lord Donskoy know I'm here?"

Ekhart stretched the dry skin at the corners of his mouth into something resembling a smile. "Lord Don-skoy will receive you this afternoon, in the meantime, I would suggest you take this opportunity to refresh yourself. Surely you would like to make a good impression. Perhaps you should nap. I mean no insult, of course, but the journey has left you looking rather worn and tired."

Reluctantly, she nodded. She was, indeed, exhausted. The sickly sweet smell of the herbs had a dizzying effect. She followed him to the next level, growing wearier with each step, It was as if the whole castle were a soporific drug.

They traveled down a wide, dimly lit hall. In her growing fatigue, Marguerite stumbled, and Ekhart turned to catch her arm.

"You see?" he said. "You are too tired to meet anyone just yet."

They turned, passing several doors, and climbed another three steps. With each one, Marguerite seemed to grow weaker, until she could barely stand. Finally, Ekhart paused before an arched door, inserting a key.

As the door creaked open to reveal the dark chamber beyond, the last of Marguerite's strength drained away. She swooned. Ekhart's bony fingers clutched her arms, and a whirlpool of blackness closed in. His rasping voice swirled past her on an inky wave: "Weak. Like the last little bitch."

Then Marguerite heard, and felt, nothing more.

TWO

When Marguerite awoke, she was nestled in the pit of a large, soft bed enclosed by a cocoon of wine-red draperies. Soaring dark posts and a massive wooden frame held the curtains and the canopy aloft. Beyond the softly wavering walls, she heard the crackling of a fire. A breeze toyed with a breach in the cloth at the foot of the bed, creating a tall, thin line of flickering gold light. A heavy blanket made of gray rabbit pelts lay before the glowing fissure. Upon the pelts lay a lily white robe trimmed in beige lace. Marguerite smiled- the robe was a gift, no doubt, from her husband-to-be. The castle might be crumbling around them, but he still had an eye for finery and a penchant, perhaps, for gestures of affection.

Someone was shuffling across the wood floor in the room beyond. Marguerite crawled forward to probe the narrow gap between the curtains, gentling parting the cloth. A maid, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, was placing a kettle before the hearth, where a fire blazed, She looked frail and thin, her body all hard lines and angles; Marguerite could see the girl's skeleton poking against her simple linen tunic and long brown overskirt. Her brownish blond hair was bound in a thin plait that hung down her back like a rat's tail, emerging from beneath a little brown linen cap.

Marguerite reached for the white robe and pulled it around her, covering her nakedness. She imagined Ekhart's cold, stiff fingers undoing her traveling clothes, brushing against her bare skin, but she shook the notion from her head. Certainly this girl or another maid-servant had undressed her. A haunting phrase drifted just beyond the edge of her memory, something Ekhart had said as they entered the room. It hovered, teasingly, then was gone. Marguerite thought perhaps she had dreamed it. She turned her attention to the girl.

"Well met," she said. The words sounded stiff and formal.

The girl turned to her and nodded but said nothing. Her features were delicate, her skin pale. The flesh beneath her light brown eyes was dark with fatigue, two purplish crescents on a sallow field.

Marguerite smiled as warmly as possible. "I'm Marguerite de Boche," she said. "But you must know that already. Thank you for lighting the fire, if that's also your doing."

Stiil the girl said nothing, though she nodded again and smiled faintly with downcast eyes. A log exploded, showering the hearth with sparks. The girl nervously brushed them aside.

"What's your name?" Marguerite asked.

The girl touched her own lips and shook her head.

"I don't understand," said Marguerite.

The girl repeated the gesture.

"You can't speak, is that it?"

A simple nod came in response.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Marguerite replied. She didn't know what to say beyond that.

The mute girl busied herself around the room, purposely avoiding Marguerite's gaze. She lit a series of fat candies, creating a dozen pools of warm yellow light, islands In a sea of shadows.

Marguerite surveyed her new quarters. Besides the massive bed, the chamber held several ancient-looking pieces of furniture. Two heavy wooden chairs flanked the fire like thrones, worn siik cushions resting upon their seats. A small service table huddled beside each chair, and a matted fur rug lay between them; but for this, the floor was bare, save for the straw and herbs that had been strewn freely about. Marguerite scanned the shadows for vermin but saw none. To the right of the fire, near the windowed stone wall, stood a wash stand and a luxuriantly talt mirror that reflected the warm glow of the candles and the hearth. Against the wall loomed an enormous cabinet. Marguerite's small bridal chest sat beside it.

The mute girl reached for a kettle near the fire, then filled a porcelain basin upon the wash stand. Steam drifted into the air like smoke. The girl stepped toward the bed and pointed to the slop jar just beneath the edge.