To Sleep With Evil Read online

  "What now?" asked Marguerite. "Yes, I see what you've brought, but I prefer the kitchen. Surely it isn't filled with some mysterious peril. And you can guide me there, should someone object to my leaving this room without an escort."

  Yeiena simply nodded. She moved to the fire, look­ing guilty, then bowed her head and made a gesture from her heart toward Marguerite.

  "Apoiogy accepted," Marguerite replied.

  The servant mustered a faint smile, tight-lipped as always. She took the kettle from the fire and filled the wash basin, then waited while Marguerite dressed.

  Marguerite chose her clothing carefully. If she was to explore the grounds and woods outside the castle, she would have to be prepared. She donned a long, heavy tunic with split sides, cinching it at the waist with a wide belt. Then she pulled on leggings and tall boots. Because she intended to leave directly after breakfast, she took the green woolen cloak as welt,

  "All right, then," she said. "To the kitchen."

  Yelena turned and fed the way. They descended the same stair to the foyer, then followed a passage that seemed to skirt the back of the dining hall in a series of jogs. With only an occasional sconce to provide light, the corridor gave no hint of the time of day. Don-skoy was right. The castle was a veritable labyrinth.

  Yeiena opened a door and they descended a short stair, then turned sharply and entered a large room with a blazing hearth. A heavy oak table lay in the center. Bundles of herbs hung from the beams in the ceiling. Baskets and barrels lined the walls.

  Zosia stooped by the fire, stirring a kettle. She rose slowly and turned, her expression impassive.

  "Good morning," Marguerite said brightly. "I trust you won't mind the intrusion, but I'd like to have breakfast here. I was feeling a bit cooped up in my chambers."

  "Then the wandeln you have planned for later should provide much satisfaction," said Zosia, in a deep and throaty voice. "The wander ing-out-of-doors,

  I mean to say. That is why you are dressed so, is it not?"

  "You are very observant," Marguerite remarked.

  "Only the blind could miss such obvious signs, child," Zosia replied. She cackled. "Yelena, fetch Mar­guerite some ale and bread. And perhaps some smoked eel to thicken her blood. She looks a bit pale."

  Marguerite seated herself upon a rough chair before the table while Yelena scurried in compliance, probing one of the small storerooms adjoining the kitchen.

  When a full platter and mug lay before Marguerite, Zosia motioned for the servant to leave. Yelena hesi­tated for a moment. When Marguerite did not object, the mute gir! curtsied, then crept up the stairs and dis­appeared.

  "Zo," said the old woman. "You have already grown weary of your chamber. Does it not suit you?"

  "No, it's not that. The room is quite nice," said Mar­guerite."But—"

  "But you are restless. That is natural. 3 too was rest­less once."

  "I was about to say," Marguerite added quickly, "that I did not appreciate being locked in my chamber."

  Zosia raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Locked in? How peculiar. Perhaps the door swelled and became wedged into place." She paused for a moment and winked, then added, "And where is it that you would like to go in the middle of night?"

  "Nowhere. That's not the point—"

  "Ah—" interrupted Zosia. "Then perhaps while experiencing a walking-dream you locked the door yourself? To keep someone out, not in. Did something disturb your sleep?"

  "No," said Marguerite, exasperated. She had the feeling Zosia was not listening—or that she was listening, yet talking to someone else, Then Marguerite recalled that her sleep had been disturbed by a woman's laughter. She decided to switch to a more interesting subject. Yelena could not speak of the visi­tor, but Zosia could. Marguerite chewed on a piece of bread for a moment, wondering how best to approach the topic. If the strange woman's presence was meant to be kept from her, she would have to be deft.

  "I saw a woman here this morning," she announced lightly.

  Zosia's dark eyes sparkled. "Did you, child? A woman with raven hair perhaps?"

  "I don't know," Marguerite replied. "She was outside the castle with Lord Donskoy this morning."

  "Ah," said Zosia simply.

  Marguerite paused, expecting more, but the old woman added nothing further. "Yes," said Marguerite. "She must have been a guest here overnight."

  Zosia took a small bundle of herbs from the mantel and began grinding them with a mortar and pestle. "And what makes you think that?" asked the old woman, seemingly disinterested.

  "I heard her laughing while I slept. She woke me."

  "You must be mistaken, my dear. You heard the normal sounds of the castle. Don't let them disturb you. The stones have absorbed much through the centuries; it is only natural that they should let some­thing out."

  "I did not hear a stone," retorted Marguerite.

  Zosia turned to her and smiled slyly. Her black eyes sparkled."Why do you not simply ask what you are thinking? You want to know who the woman is."

  "I am curious, yes," said Marguerite.

  "Curious, naturally," said Zosia, chuckling. "It is one of your little faults."

  Affronted, Marguerite started to reply, but Zosia stopped her with a raised hand. uTsk," the old woman said. "Allow me to answer your question. The woman is a close acquaintance of Donskoy. They have known each other for many years, since Donskoy first assisted her in a matter of some procurement. She visits him when the mists are willing. He would not like you to know of her yet. But she knows of you. And she is, no doubt, intrigued. Still I think Donskoy wants to treasure you for a time, so as not to share his new bride with any others too soon."

  "Share me?"

  "Simply to display you. This woman might be a little jealous, you see. But you need not be jealous of her. You will be Donskoy's bride, not Mistress Jacque­line Montarri. Of course, you must not let it be known that I have told you these things. You must allow your husband to think he reveals his own secrets to you, when he chooses."

  Marguerite was stunned. She had not expected a complete expose, yet she had done nothing to stop it. Now she wondered if this might have been a test, a little game designed to measure her loyalty to Donskoy,

  Zosia sighed. "You are apprehensive now," she said. "Curiosity can sometimes lead to that state."

  ul do not wish to keep secrets from my husband," said Marguerite. "Or to show disloyalty before we even wed."

  "Oh, but you do keep secrets, do you not, child?" Zosia replied. "About yourself." She cackled again. "And some, you keep so well that even you have forgotten them,"

  Marguerite was silent. Clearly, the old woman had unusual powers of perception—perhaps even a gypsy /guru's perception. But Marguerite had never heard of any Vistana who had embraced a sedentary life. The Vistani were, by nature, nomads. She began to sus­pect that Zosia was a sorceress. A witch. Or perhaps she had simply made a well-calculated guess, hoping to trick Marguerite into revealing some flaw.

  Zosia continued, "Yes, of course, I see a great deal. For as an old woman I have seen so many things, so many times, that I now recognize them without effort. Do not fear an old woman, Marguerite."

  "I'm not afraid of you." It was true. Compared to other threats she had faced, Zosia seemed quite manageable.

  "Good. It is all right that we speak together. Soon I shall seem like a grandmother to you, and you will come to know me as Donskoy's first wife did."

  "His first wife?" Marguerite asked. She had posed the question without thinking, intrigued by this new glimpse into Donskoy's life. It was bold and improper to pry—even unwise, if Zosia intended to report this indiscreet behavior to the lord of the castle. Still, Mar­guerite could not resist.

  Zosia had turned to busy herself at the kettle, seem­ingly oblivious to Marguerite's spoken and unspoken questions. Perhaps her old ears had not heard,

  "Donskoy told me his first wife died in a tragedy."

  "Did he?" Zosia asked. "That is rare. It is no
t a sub­ject he enjoys."

  "Well, he didn't speak at length."

  "I should think not, dear child. Even he would not dwell on the dead white entertaining his new bride for the first time. Even later, I doubt your lord will ted you more. Donskoy prefers that the dead should rest, you see, though whether he acknowledges them or not cannot alter their condition."

  "How did she die?"

  Zosia sighed. "It was very long ago, and an equally long tale. Some day, perhaps, I will share it with you.

  But now, I must return to my work."

  Marguerite felt dismissed. It was odd, she thought— hadn't Zosia herself broached the subject?

  The old woman hobbled over to her and patted her hand. The touch was dry and coot. "We will talk again tomorrow, before the wedding," she said. "Mow why don't you begin your explorations outside? Shall I send Yelena to find Ekharf?"

  Marguerite hesitated. Another test, perhaps? Don-skoy had not quite insisted that she walk with a chap­eron, yet the desire was clear.

  Zosia answered her own question. "No, naturally you do not wish the company of a stiff old man, so I will share with you another secret—a way out through my garden. And then you will enjoy your wandetn alone." She raised a finger at Marguerite. "You must take care not go very far and become lost. For then I shall have to send Ekhart with the hounds to search for you."

  "I won't get lost," said Marguerite. Tm accustomed to hiking. In Darken I often ventured into the woods, and I never lost my way."

  "Very good. Remember what I have said to you; do not venture very far. If the mists rise up, they can be ... disorienting." She paused and frowned. "Have you truly finished eating already? Such a tiny appetite, like the vista-chiri."

  Marguerite had barely touched the oily chunks of eel on the wooden platter before her.

  "For now, yes," she answered, "but I'll take another piece of bread with me—if that is all right." "But of course," said Zosia. The old woman led Marguerite to a small door across the room, which let out into a winding hall. The rough stone walls stood barely a shoulder's width apart; the cavelike ceiling hung so low that Marguerite stooped beneath it. The corridor ended before another door, which opened onto a small outdoor court, com­pletely surrounded by high walls. Despite the looming enclosure, the court housed a garden. Neat rows of short, withered plants filled one side. The only living flora was a cabbage, brilliant scarlet, glazed with frost. Tiny mounds of earth occupied the other half of the court, resembling miniature graves, freshly dug. Small glass domes flanked a cobbled walk that split the graveyard in two. Set with their mouths to the earth, they reminded Marguerite of cupping jars, the kind healers used to suction and burn human skin while "bringing forth the blood."

  Zosia hobbled across the court, her black skirts sweeping the earth. Marguerite spied a dark form crouching at the base of the far wall. A large cat, per­haps? That would complete the strange picture—a sorcerous old woman, a garden of oddities, and a black cat familiar. But when the creature moved, it exhibited none of a cat's grace. Rather, it half sham­bled and half hopped toward Zosia. The old woman scooped up the animal, stroking and cooing as she turned back toward Marguerite. In her arms lay an inordinately large, jumpy toad. Forget the cat, thought Marguerite. This amphibious wonder was the size of a small dog. Its skin was dry yet gleaming, as if a mass of bubbling and frothing tar had hardened to glass. The creature paddled one fat, clawed leg impatiently through the air, then quieted, fixing its damp, glisten­ing gaze on Marguerite. The eyes appeared to be set more closely together than an ordinary toad's. Mar­guerite was both fascinated and repulsed.

  "This is Griezell," said Zosia, in a voice that resembled a soft growl. She stroked the creature's flat head and clutched it to her breast. "Our restless Griezellbub."

  Marguerite recalled an old wives' tale about hags suckling their familiars from mystical teats that oozed blood instead of milk. Like a grandmother to me, indeed, she thought.

  Noting Marguerite's gaping expression, Zosia clucked, "My dear, it is only a toad, though most cer­tainly a queenly specimen. Surely you have seen toads in Darkon."

  "Of course," Marguerite replied, "but I guess I'm not so well acquainted as you."

  "No? Then perhaps you will be soon." One of Griezell's dark eyes closed in a wink. "I have heard claims that a bed full of black toads ensures concep­tion, especially on the wedding night."

  Marguerite grimaced. She hoped Donskoy would put no store in such a disgusting superstition. "I have no intention of sleeping with toads," she said firmly, "whatever their powers may be."

  Zosia chuckled. "I am only teasing you, child. Oh, yes, it is true that toads can be useful for medicinal purposes, as any good cook and wise woman knows. But Griezellbub is much too unusual to be reduced to pickled liver and powdered bone." She cackled. "As if such a thing were possible."

  Still nestling the creature in one arm, Zosia turned to the far wall and probed the stonework. She uttered something Marguerite could not understand, and an opening appeared. A tangled curtain of dead, woody vines hung just beyond.

  "My secret escape," said Zosia with a feral, satisfied grin. "Though in reality it is more of a convenience. It's only a secret to my enemies."

  Marguerite parted the vines and stepped outside. The magical door shut behind her. She turned and ran her hands over the stones.

  "Zosia?" she called.

  There was no reply. Part of her felt relief; it was still morning, yet she had experienced enough eccentric­ity for one day. A mysterious trollop, a grinning toad, a tongueless servant, and a witchy cook—not one of them made the castle cozy, and Marguerite was glad to leave them behind. Clearly she would have to find her own way back into the keep. But for now, she was free.

  FOUR

  Outside the wall, a clean, moist breeze caressed Marguerite's face. She inhaled deeply, savoring the air's comparative freshness. She had not realized just how dank the castle had been. Even the atmosphere of Zosia's courtyard had been permeated by a musty, earthy smell. Marguerite felt revived.

  She stood upon a narrow, mossy path that hugged the sloping base of the castle wall. Vines covered the masonry, yet they seemed to shy from the path, leav­ing it untouched. The ground fell away steeply on the other side, sinking into a wooded ravine—a deep, for­bidding tangle of gray scrub and leafless trees. The towers protruding from the wall ahead and behind looked identical. Marguerite took a moment to orient herself. The walled court surrounding the stables lay on the opposite side of the keep. Ahead lay the road.

  Using the vines for support, she followed the slim path toward the front of the castle. About halfway there, the ravine turned sharply away, plunging into the evergreen forest. A swath of gray, leafless trees marked its path, pointing toward the horizon like death's bony finger. The green-black forest blanketed the terrain all around it, sinking low, then rising again in waves toward a rim of sable mountains that pushed against the gray, misty sky.

  The previous night, Marguerite had seen a campfire burning deep in the wood. She tried to recall its loca­tion. If it were visible from her window, it had to lie somewhere ahead and to the left. As she gazed into the dense primeval wood, she wondered how it had been possible to spot the fire. Surely the trees would have blocked the light.

  She padded along the path until she reached the corner of the castle. To go any farther, she would have to enter the clearing and risk being seen. Even now, she imagined Ekhart's stern, reproachful gaze upon her, his scabrous lips bent in a condemning frown. Just ahead, another path appeared to dip into the evergreens. She scampered to the cover, then ducked into the trees. Panting, she turned and iooked back toward the clearing. No one had seen her. Mar­guerite's spine prickled. At least, it appeared no one had followed.

  The pines pressed in around her. She stroked their soft, feathered branches and drank in their scent, rev­eling in their heady embrace. She headed deeper into the wood. The path soon ended, splintering into myr­iad fingers of soft ground that wrapped
themselves around the trunks of trees, then disappearing com­pletely beneath the carpet of needles. Marguerite broke a branch to mark her passage, in case she should lose her direction on the return.

  Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a soft rushing—a small waterfall perhaps, or a stream surg­ing over a course of rocks. She followed the sound. In time, her path merged with a deer trail skimming the edge of a shallow cliff. Below, she could see a ribbon of black, glistening water.

  She walked on until she came upon a broad, open expanse of rock sparsely covered with gray-green lichens. It overlooked a small waterfall below. She sat near the jagged edge, gazing across the chasm at a wavering wall of branches. The drop to the water measured at least fifteen feetr but the stream was nar­row; with a running start, she could probably gain the other side. Years ago, when she had shared the follies of reckless children, she might have attempted it. Now she contented herself with the thought.

  She sat for a moment, enjoying the solitude as she finished the bread she had carried with her. Of course, she was not completely alone. She had the company of the creatures into whose realm she had intruded. She scanned the trees for signs of them. From the flat crown of a black spruce, an enormous raven took wing, circling once overhead, then veering out of sight. Upon the towering skeleton of a lightning-struck hemlock, Marguerite spotted a great owl, sitting motionless, watching her with bright yellow eyes. It had twisted its head almost backward on its gray-brown body.

  How patient it must be, she mused. Come nightfall, when moonlight touched this clearing, the owl would still be watching—waiting to glimpse some small furry shape as it scurried across the open space. Then the majestic bird would swoop down silently, gliding in for the kill. What must this quiet predator be thinking of her now? That she was in the way, no doubt.

  She called out a greeting: "Whooo . . .* The owl blinked, looking bored, and turned away.

  Marguerite smiled. She leaned back until she lay spread-eagle on the rock, her cloak spread beneath her like a pair of great green wings. A swath of gray sky hung low overhead. In summer, the sun would pierce the opening in the bower and strike the rock.warming it and everything upon it. She would lie here and offer herself to its heat. This would be her private spot—her sanctuary- Here, she could read or sketch, pursuing the pleasant occupations of noble ladies. Or perhaps she would simply gaze at the clouds drtfting overhead, losing herself in daydreams. Some summer day. Mot now.