To Sleep With Evil Page 3

  "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.

  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 casca
de. 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.

  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. Zosa 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.