"No," she replied.

"Good." He rose from the table. "Then I shall see you in your wedding gown, the day after tomorrow.

We shall marry after the sun has passed its peak."

"Won't I see you before then?" she asked.

He walked over to her chair and took her hand, then kissed it lightly. "Would you like to?"

"Yes," she answered truthfully. Courtship was by no means inherent to their arrangement-nor was companionship, for that matter. Still, she had hoped to get to know him better before the wedding. Or, more to the point, before the wedding night. The thought of it sobered her.

Donskoy touched her shoulder gently. "As much as your eagerness pleases me, I regret that I cannot comply. I have other matters to attend to before we wed. Tomorrow, I'm afraid, you must find a means to entertain yourself. Perhaps you could take a walk outside. Ekhart will accompany you to see that you do not become lost or injured. The terrain can be challenging."

The thought of a stroll with Ekhart did not appeal to Marguerite. "Or I could look around inside the castle," she suggested. Td like to get to know my new home."

Donskoy paused. "If you wish to explore the keep, I would prefer to accompany you. Or that you ask Yelena to do so. Unfortunately, she will be rather busy making preparations for the wedding."

"Am [not to roam freely?" Marguerite asked, somewhat affronted.

"Of course. Within limits. And when you are familiar with the dangers. Until then, you are free to pass along the corridors you already know. You are hardly a prisoner."

"Ekhart warned me about the pit in the foyer," Marguerite said. "And I will certainly exercise caution."

"The pit is not the only danger. The keep has many twists and turns, and much of it lies in disrepair. The doors in the lower levels are particularly unreliable, and prone to holding fast. You might become disoriented or lost. Or worse." He smiled at her. "And I would not wish to lose you so soon."

"I see," Marguerite replied.

"I have an extensive library that you might enjoy. The room at the crest of the stairs near your chamber houses part of my collection. You can read, [assume?"

Marguerite felt a little sting. "My upbringing was perhaps simpler than some, but not without education. In fact, I used to read stories as a glutton eats sweets. I also read music, and I can play the clavier and lute."

"Really," he answered dryly. "I was unaware of such talents. I am not a great lover of song, but the castle does have a music room of sorts. No one has visited it in years. I will have to show it to you after we wed."

Lord Donskoy gripped her shoulder a little more firmly. Marguerite sensed his annoyance,

"I will look forward to our time together," she said. "And tomorrow, a walk outside and a visit to the library will make for a full day."

He took her hand and kissed it again. "Until the wedding, then. Now Yelena will escort you back to your chamber."

He left her.

Marguerite and Yelena walked quietly through the winding corridors and up the stairs, cutting a glowing path through the darkness with a torch. When they reached the door, Yelena opened it and went to check the fire. It was fully stoked. Apparently, someone had prepared the room earlier.

Yelena turned and slunk from the room, pulling the door shut behind her. A moment later, Marguerite heard a dull metal click. When she went to the door to investigate, she discovered it was locked. No key was in the lock on her side. She knocked softly. "Yelena?" she called. No one answered.

Marguerite sighed. Tomorrow morning, of course, or perhaps even later tonight, Yelena would return to restore the fire. In the meantime, she was to remain alone and in this room. Despite Donskoy's assurances as to her freedom, she felt more like a prisoner than the mistress of the keep.

She walked to the window and drew open the shutters. The glass was covered with a delicate frost. Marguerite blew upon it and watched a dark spot appear. The water melted away in a peculiar pattern, forming three lines running parallel toward the sill. Marguerite shrugged and wiped away the rest of the frost, looking off to the terrain she would explore tomorrow- An amber light pulsed deep in the wood. A fire, she thought to herself. Or perhaps a gypsy camp. But then she remembered Arturi's refusal to venture any farther onto Donskoy's land. More likely, it was simply a traveler or a distant farmer's watch.

Shivering against the cold, Marguerite closed the shutters. Then she stripped off her fine gown and crawled onto the soft, feathery bed, pulling its curtains closed behind hen

THREE

Marguerite woke once during the night, roused by a woman's hearty laughter. When she realized it must have been a dream, she sank back into slumber's deep embrace. In Darkon, dreams had often disturbed her sleep, bringing unwelcome visitors. But thankfully, for the rest of this night, no other phantoms made their presence known.

When she woke again, her mouth was dry and cottony, and her head felt leaden. She sat up and drew on her morning coat, vowing to imbibe less wine in the future.

The room was cold. A tiny cloud of breath took shape before her lips, then drifted away and dissolved. Beyond the bed's velvet curtains, the morning light beckoned. She rose, cringing at the touch of the icy floor beneath her feet. One of the shutters on the window had swung open, allowing a sunbeam to penetrate the chamber. She must have failed to latch the shutter the night before.

The castle seemed unnaturally quiet. Embers glowed softly in the hearth, but the flames had died out. Marguerite scurried to the heavy door and tried the handle. It still held fast. Disgruntled, she strode to the hearth and tossed another log onto the grate. The coals stubbornly resisted her offering. She poked and prodded at their charred remains until at last they relented, and the log burst into flame. For a moment, she watched the tongues of flame devouring the wood. Then she went to the nightstand and lifted the water pitcher to her lips, drinking gratefully.

From outside came the muffled echo of wheels grating harshly against stone. Marguerite padded to the window and drew open the remaining shutter, wincing at the sudden brightness. Though a delicate pattern of frost partially obscured the view, on the drive below, she could still make out a black carriage behind a team of dark horses. A slender, feminine form stood beside the coach with a gray-haired man. The woman merged with the black shape of the carriage, disappearing inside. The man patted the door.

Ekhart, perhaps? thought Marguerite. No, this man was not as tall or as rigid. Further, his hands were black. Marguerite remembered Donskoy's gloves. She rubbed the glass hastily. The man stepped out of view and the coach lurched forward. Marguerite noticed a long dark crate secured to the back of the conveyance-the same crate that had accompanied her to the castle. Shortly thereafter, a horse cantered away from the keep. It overtook the carriage and assumed the lead. Apparently Donskoy was providing an escort. The road turned sharply, then both the rider and the coach disappeared into the dark folds of the forest.

Marguerite recalled the laughter that had roused her during the night. It had been a woman's. While the source could have been a servant, it certainly was not the tongueless Yelena, and Marguerite had observed no sign of frivolity in anyone else at the castle-save Ljubo. The explanation that came to mind did not please her. Donskoy had entertained a visitor, one he did not wish to reveal, A paramour perhaps? It was not out of the question. Yet he had claimed that guests were rare. All that morose banter over not embracing life, she mused. And meanwhile, he was embracing the warm flesh of a woman.