Marguerite dismissed her fears with a deep breath. She forced her delicate lips into a smile and knocked gently.

No one answered.

She inhaled sharply, then knocked harder.

This time, a man's deep, muffled voice bade her to enter.

She pushed the door open and was greeted by a haze of yellow-brown smoke, caustic yet faintly sweet. Across the dimly lit room, a slender gentleman sat in a large, plush chair. His hair was gray, but his posture was straight and elegant. A long, slender white pipe protruded from his lips-the source of the smoke. The ornately carved stem dropped in a languid curve to the center of his chest before joining a bulbous bowl cupped in his right hand. He wore a pair of black gloves. Upon seeing her, he laid the pipe on a side table and rose from the chair.

Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief. While the man before her was more than twice her age, he was neither deformed nor decrepit. He looked about fifty, of average height and slender build- An air of dignity surrounded him. For a moment, he studied her, pushing a gloved hand through his thick silver hair. She curtsied weakly and smiled, not wanting to speak before he addressed her. The man bowed his head and returned her smile, almost mockingly.

Then his grin became genuine and broad. "I am Milos Donskoy," he announced, "and the sight of you, my lovely bride, coufd warm even a dead man's blood."

He came forward with a bold, exaggerated stride, like a performer making a grand entrance on stage. Marguerite stood still, unsure of her own role, certain only that she should not retreat. When he reached her, he clasped her hands in the softness of his black suede gloves. Beneath the supple leather, his flesh was hard, his grip firm. He lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed the top of her fingers, dropping his gaze. A peculiar sensation crept up her spine. His lips were cool upon her skin, but his breath was warm.

Marguerite studied the pale face before her. He had heavy eyelids set beneath a strong forehead and wiry brows. His nose was straight but hawklike; below it, a full white mustache overshadowed a bowed mouth that was delicate and almost feminine. The smooth, clean-shaven jaw had relinquished itself to his neck-except for the point of his chin, which was still strong and rounded, with a little cleft she found almost charming.

He lifted his head. His eyes were a startling ice blue, marred only by the web of fine red veins surrounding them. He locked gazes with Marguerite, suddenly serious. The silence was discomforting.

Then his smile returned. "You do speak, do you not?"

"Yes, of course," Marguerite stammered, suddenly realizing that it was she who had been silent. Long before her journey had begun, she had practiced an introduction. She had memorized an entire roster of witticisms designed lo entertain and to impress. But aH her clever ideas had retreated to the most inaccessible corners of her mind. Mow, like vexing little demons, they refused to be summoned forth. I'm so sorry, my lord," she continued. "I'm Marguerite de Boche."

"So I gathered," he replied with a wink. "I was expecting no other bride-to-be."

She felt the color rising to her cheeks.

"Furthermore," he added, "you have no cause to be sorry, my dear." He released one of her hands but kept the other. "Have you recovered from the journey?"

"Yes," she answered. "Almost."

"Well, I'm certain a meal and a full night's rest will restore you completely."

He gestured broadly to a sofa at the side of the room. "Let us sit for a moment together." He slipped his hand to her waist. "The dress becomes you," he murmured.

Marguerite stiffened a little, and he removed the hand. She chided herself for her apprehension.

Before the sofa was a low table. A teapot had been set alongside a decanter of brandy. He offered her both; Marguerite chose the tea. Instead of pouring, he looked into the shadows at the edge of the chamber and beckoned.

To Marguerite's astonishment, the mute girl appeared. Apparently, the servant had been lurking in the corner, either cloaked by shadow or behind the cover of one of the voluminous tapestries.

"You have met Yelena, have you not?" Donskoy asked.

Marguerite nodded, marveling at the girl's stealth.

"She's rather quiet but useful," added Donskoy, "when she remembers her instructions."

Marguerite felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. Zos\a had described the servant in much the same way-as if Yelena were some kind of tool, broken yet still functional. Marguerite wanted to ask how Yelena lost her tongue, but she refrained. It was a forward question, much too forward to ask this soon, and perhaps embarrassing or painful in front of Yelena. It was even possible that Donskoy had had something to do with the injury. Marguerite dismissed the thought as soon as it entered her mind. She had no reason to believe such a thing.

The waiflike servant decanted a brandy for Donskoy, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. Then she poured tea for Marguerite and presented a little cake. Marguerite accepted it gratefully, but it proved dry and stale. She took one more bite and set it aside, focusing on the tea. Yelena retreated to the shadows like a beaten dog.

Donskoy watched Marguerite carefully, "i did not have much prepared, because we will be dining soon."

"This is more than satisfying," Marguerite replied. It was a lie, of course. The cake had left a lingering taste, reminiscent of moldy earth. She tried to wash it away with more tea, but met with limited success. She hoped the meal would be more palatable,

"And is your chamber to your liking?" Donskoy asked.

"Yes, very much so. The bed is immense and soft, and there's no trace of vermin whatsoever. I'm unaccustomed to anything so grand." ft was the truth.

He laughed softfy. "I would not call my castle grand anymore. No, it has begun to crumble, as you must have noticed. It is my own doing." He sighed. "I was married once. Did the gypsies tell you that?"

She shook her head. They had not.

"My wife died tragically," he continued, fixing his gaze at some point in the shadows. "I do not care to discuss the details. I mention it only so that you understand what your arrival means to me. It is my chance for rebirth. For decades after my first wife's death, I became as lonely and as brooding as the land around us. I did not embrace life, and I entombed myself in despair." He turned to her. "It has been my curse. But you, my dear, will change all that, won't you?"

Marguerite felt a wave of compassion. "Of course," she replied. Without thinking, she extended her hand and placed it on his. Realizing how bold that might seem, she began to withdraw it, then felt his gloved hand firmly seizing her own.

"You," he said, "will help restore this place to glory." His voice was low and even. It was virtually a command. "Will you not?"

Marguerite nodded, wincing at the tightness of his grasp. "I wilt certainly try."

"No," he replied, "You will do more than try. Together, we must succeed."

Marguerite felt her compassion aroused again, along with her instinct to nurture. Apparently, she and Donskoy had something in common-a desire to build a future that would block out the past.

For a moment, Donskoy seemed lost in thought. Then his tone and his grip relaxed. "But first," he said cheerfully, "we shall share a proper meal."

Marguerite noted how quickly his moods seemed to change, how complex the thoughts behind his well-chosen words appeared. Or perhaps he was simply as nervous as she.

Donskoy led her across the foyer into a hallway, then onward to a modest hall established as a dining room. A fire blazed in the hearth. In the center of the chamber lay a dark rectangular table. It held two place settings with silver goblets, one at each end before a high-backed chair. There was no other seating. Additional furnishings lined the sides of the chamber, but they were draped in sheets, an audience of ghosts.