Marguerite puzzled for a moment, then said, "No, thank you, it hasn't been used." She was not accustomed to a personal maid.

A muffled knock sounded at the door. Before Marguerite could reply, the door creaked open and an old woman entered. She was small and stooped, dressed completely in black. Her rough, layered skirts swept the floor, and a simple scarf covered her head.

Marguerite assessed the woman, and in turn the woman gazed at her. The visitor's plump face was deeply crinkled, the skin chalky and dry. She had an intense stare, with round dark eyes that sparkled like a possum's. The wrinkled lips parted in a smile.

Marguerite had expected to see gums, but the teeth were unusually white and strong.

The old woman clasped her withered hands before her. "Zo, you are awake." Her voice was low, but it crackled with age, and she spoke with an accent unfamiliar to Marguerite. "That is good. Ekhart informed us that you fainted earlier. Are you feeling better, my child?"

Marguerite nodded.

"Very good. But you must not worry if you feel a little tired for a time. A new home requires adjustment. And you may still be somewhat weak from the potion your escorts gave you."

"The potion?" asked Marguerite,

"I am only assuming, of course," the woman replied. "But it is customary to introduce a sleeping potion on journeys such as yours. A passenger who is asleep is less troublesome for the Vistani, yes?"

Marguerite felt a wave of indignation. This certainly explained her prior nausea and her embarrassing swoon into Ekhart's arms.

The old woman added, "I have even known of one caravan who ferried giorgios heaped in a cart like the undertaker's corpses, but of course the passengers yet lived. I trust your own journey was more pleasant?"

Marguerite nodded, stunned. In truth she had no recollection of how she had spent her journey. She had evidently slept the whole time.

"I am Zosiaf" continued the old woman, "cook and companion to Lord Donskoy. And when the time comes, I shall serve as your midwife; you could ask for no one more skilled or better suited." She pointed at the mute girl. "And this is Yelena. She has no tongue, as you might have guessed."

Yelena stood in the shadows beside the door, head bowed, almost invisible.

"Yes, the tongue is gone," Zosia rattled on, "but her other parts remain functional. She can still be quite useful when my own hands grow tired. Will you need Yelena's assistance to dress, Marguerite?"

Marguerite shook her head.

Zosia shooed the girl away with two sharp, quick waves of her hand. Yelena curtsied, then opened the door and retreated into the dark hall beyond. The heavy door creaked shut of its own accord.

"Do you feel hunger?" asked Zosia.

"Yes," replied Marguerite. Suddenly she realized that she was famished.

"That is convenient. Lord Donskoy awaits you downstairs and expects to dine with you soon. You can find your own way after you have dressed. Go left from this door and follow the hall to the first stair, then dimb down to the foyer. The door just opposite is your goal. Carry a candle and guard it well; the passages aredrafty."

Marguerite felt as if she had been issued instructions for invading an enemy's camp,

"I have looked in your chest," Zosia added. "Your clothes are not suitable. Lord Donskoy expects his wife to dress in a manner that compliments his stature. The cabinet contains several gowns that he has procured." She stroked her chin thoughtfully, her eyes sliding up and down Marguerite's body as if to measure it. "Put on the purple silk. I'm sure that it will fit to satisfaction."

Marguerite did not know quite how to respond to this barrage, so she nodded and said, "I'm sure it will be fine."

Zosia continued, "Pull the bell rope if you wish Yelena's assistance, after all. Unfortunately, neither she nor the bell can always be relied upon."

The old woman gestured toward a silk cord that hung beside the door. Then Zosia herself passed into the hall, her exit marked by the dull thud of wood against wood.

Marguerite stood alone. The room seemed strangely silent, though the fire still crackled and the wind howled softly in the flue, a distant ghost. She gazed around the chamber. It seemed almost familiar, as if she had stood here a long time ago or had seen this place in a dream. But then she had often read tales about ladies in their keeps.

Save for the exterior wall, which was stone, the chamber was paneled in carved wood. It had a single shuttered window set deeply into the corner. On either side of the fire hung tapestries-one depicting a fox treed by a pack of hounds, the other portraying a group of noble ladies standing beside a garden fountain.

Marguerite went to the wash stand and cleaned her face. Then she opened the great cabinet and peered inside. A gasp of astonishment escaped her lips. A dozen dresses hung on wooden pegs, with their accoutrements folded and stacked below. She fingered the fine fabrics-smooth silks and plush velvets and soft, supple wools, each a rich, vivid color, including a noble's scarlet and purple. Oddly, the gowns appeared to be of slightly different lengths. A cloth-of-gold skirt caught her eye, and she fingered the fabric until she noticed a rusty stain in the folds. So they are not new, thought Marguerite. She was thrilled nonetheless. Such a collection befit the wealthiest of ladies, representing a high, uncommon stature. She had heard tales of the great, decadent fetes that Lord Aza-lin hosted in Darkon, but surely not even the nobles and favored trollops in attendance could boast such finery. Marguerite withdrew the purple silk as Zosia had recommended, noting its wide neckline and tight bodice. The ivory undersleeve was tightly buttoned to the wrist, with the oversleeve wide and sweeping. A matching velvet mantle lay folded below in the cabinet, but this she left inside.

Marguerite removed her robe and replaced it with the purple gown, then inspected herself in the mirror. The dress fit well enough; it was a little loose about the shoulders, perhaps, but It hugged her slender waist and fell from her hips in a graceful cascade. She was more concerned about how Donskoy would find her.

Would he be pleased by how her amber hair formed a fine cloud about her face, by how it fell almost to her waist? Perhaps he would find her bowed mouth and upturned nose too girlish? She had dark eyes, not blue like her mother's, and if he looked closely, he would see that they contained little flecks of violet. Her grandmother had liked to tease her that they showed a hint of gypsy blood, as did her skin, which was smooth and the color of milk-tea. Marguerite doubted the claim, but she thought Lord Donskoy would enjoy this hint of the exotic. Her mother had told her that men liked the spice of foreign beauty.

Marguerite lifted her hair to examine the skin of her neck. To her relief, the marks were almost gone- barely noticeable. The memory of the blood-sucking soldier who had left them-the kargat officer from the secret police-would take longer to fade. But no good would come of thinking of that now; it had ended when she left Darkon.

Marguerite took a deep breath, gathering her courage, then stepped into the hall. She followed Zosia's instructions and found the designated door in the foyer. There she stopped, hesitating.

She smoothed her skirts, pinched her cheeks, and drew herself up straight. Earlier she had been eager and hopeful for this meeting. Now a dozen questions flooded her head, borne on a wave of apprehension. Could she hide her displeasure if he were an old her-mlt, as leprous as Ljubo? And, ugly as he himself might be, would Donskoy find some fault in her appearance or manner and cast her out? Or worse yet, would he use her to seek a sadist's pleasures? None of these horrors had been forecast, of course. The Vistani matchmakers in Darkon had painted a picture of an average lord of better-than-average means, thirty years her senior but robust, alone in a remote land, seeking an heir and a young wife's companionship. The matchmakers had a reliable reputation, and they had claimed the union was ordained by fate. Yet there was always a chance the gypsies had lied. More than once in her past, hope had been the forerunner of despair.