To Sleep With Evil Page 7

  She hurried up the long flight of stone steps, twice slipping on their wet surface and falling to her hands and knees. She prayed the doors would not be locked, sparing her the humiliation of battering on them till someone—probably Ekhart—appeared from within. By the time she reached the summit, she was soaked to the skin.

  To her astonishment, Yelena stood at the entrance, holding the great door ajar. The tongueless waif motioned frantically for Marguerite to hurry, emitting gravelly little squeaks from her cavernous mouth. Marguerite did not need the encouragement.

  They flew up the stairs. Marguerite slowed their progress twice—first to seize a torch to light their way, next to stop at the library near her chamber. Indis­criminately, she grabbed three books from a shelf while Yelena fidgeted and squeaked behind her. As Marguerite turned to leave, Yelena ran toward her and knelt on the floor, using her own skirt to mop up a muddy puddle. It had barely been perceptible.

  When they reached the room, Zosia stood by the hearth. She put a finger to her lips. Yelena grabbed the books from Marguerite and dropped them on the table by the fire. A pot of tea rested there already, beside a cup with a trace of leaves at the bottom, as if it had just been emptied. Yelena proceeded to strip Mar­guerite of her garments. Then the giri shoved a linen shift over Marguerite's head, handed her a pair of slip­pers, and pushed her into the chair by the hearth. Marguerite responded like a puppet, too exhausted to resist. She put her faith in her accomplices.

  Yelena rubbed a shawl over Marguerite's damp hair in a fruitless attempt to dry it. The mute was still struggling when a knock came at the door. Marguerite grabbed a book and opened it to the middle, quickly righting it when she saw the volume was upside down. Zosia motioned to Yelena, who picked up the tea tray and shuffled toward the door, head bowed low. Tears welled in the mute girl's eyes. Apparently, she feared for herself; Marguerite could not imagine that the ser­vant felt such empathy for her.

  "Yes?" Marguerite called. But the door had already opened, and Donskoy now stood upon the threshold, surveying the scene. He held a square bundle under one arm, wrapped in black cloth. Yeiena slunk past him, never meeting his gaze.

  Donskoy entered the chamber and flung the pack­age onto the bed, then strode to her side.

  "So," he said, reaching down to kiss the back of her fingers. "Are you enjoying my library, Marguerite?"

  "Yes, thank you,'f was her only reply. It took alE her concentration to keep the hand Donskoy held from shaking.

  He let the hand drop and pulled the book from her lap. "Secrets ofSwordplay," he said. "My dear, are you expecting a contest?"

  "I'm a little curious about the subject," she replied.

  "Ekhart tells me you wandered out without him this morning."

  "Yes," she said, "I'm sorry, I—"

  "I sent her out with Yelena," Zosia interrupted.

  Donskoy sneered. "Yelena had other matters to attend to."

  "It was for a very short time," said Zosia smoothly. "Ekhart's company is hardly pleasant for a young woman."

  "Ekhart told me she has been gone the entire day."

  "Ektiart," replied Zosia, in a low, gravelly voice, "is mistaken. Apart from her excursion, Marguerite has visited your upstairs library. She spent the remaining time with me in the kitchen, where we discussed how a bride might please her husband."

  Donskoy chuckled darkly, "if I catch your drift, old woman, you are not a suitable instructor." He lifted the other two books from the table, and smiled as he read the first title: UA Good Woman's Primer. Let's read a bit shall we? 'When you go out in public, shun question­able associates, but surround yourself with compan­ions who are suited to your position. Keep your gaze eight feet in front of you and on the ground without looking at any strange woman and most certainly not at any strange man ....'" Donskoy smiled with amusement. "This should be an easy matter for you. Your only suitable companion here is me, and rarely would you meet a stranger."

  The second volume, Marguerite saw, was titled Van Rtchten's Guide to the Vista.nL

  Donskoy did not voice the name. Instead he scowled and flung the book into the fire. "Worthless slop," he muttered. "I must pay more attention to my library. And what are you doing here now, Zosia?"

  "I have been reading Marguerite's tea leaves and telling her what a wondrous day she will have tomorrow.I'

  Donskoy was silent, smiling slyly. Marguerite felt sure he knew the entire scene was a ruse, but for some reason, he chose to accept it—or to ignore it. !f he acknowledged that his wife and his servants had deceived him, he would have had to act upon it.

  He pointed to the bed. "I have brought you a gown," he said solemnly, "for the wedding."

  "Thank you," Marguerite began, "but—" She saw Zosia's admonishing look and Donskoy's own tense reaction. "But you are too kind."

  "Until tomorrow, then," he said. He kissed her hand stiffly, squeezing it so tightly that Marguerite winced. Then he turned to leave the room.

  Marguerite exhaled slowly. "Zosia—" she said.

  The old woman put a finger to her lips, then tipped her head toward the door. "Yelena and I will come to ready you in the morning," she said. Then, Zosia, too, left the room.

  As Marguerite slumped in the chair and closed her eyes, she heard the dull click of a key in the lock.

  FIVE

  Marguerite lay half-awake through most of the night. Time and again, she slipped into the murky pool of dreams only to rise abruptly to the surface, panicked and gasping for air. With each ascension, the demons from which she had fled slithered back into the black depths, patiently awaiting her return. Mever did they brave the light and invade her con­scious thoughts. When fatigue claimed her at last, morning was near; outside, a pale, cold glimmer lit the horizon. She fell into a dreamless, numbing sleep.

  When she awoke, Yetena's hand lay upon her shoul­der, gently shaking her awake. The sallow face before her was less troubled than it had been the previous night, but even in her hazy half-lucidity, Marguerite could not miss the new disfigurement; an ugly weal lay across Yelena's cheek. The tongueless girl greeted her with a feeble smile, lips fused as one. Then she went to the window to throw open the shutter.

  Marguerite rose and stretched, gazing about the room, struggling to clear the cobwebs from her head. The chamber was dim, but it was as warm and wel­coming as she had ever seen it. The bed curtains had been pulied aside and tied with gold ribbon. Flames danced in the hearth, as the logs popped and crackled in contented submission. A tray with tea, bread, and hard cheese sat upon on the table by the fire. A large bouquet of dried flowers lay beside it, faded and mummified, yet still tinted in delicate shades of ivory and lavender.

  Marguerite stretched, then shook her head. A round wooden tub had been placed before the hearth and lined with linen sheets. Long, lazy ghosts of steam rose from the water's surface. She could not imagine how Yelena's bony body had managed to haul the tub into her room, much less the heated water. Ljubo per­haps? And all the while she had dozed.

  Then it struck her. Today was her wedding day—the day of bonding till death. She had known, and yet she had let this knowledge be blurred by the remnants of sleep. An eddy of conflicting emotion rose within her—hope churned by doubt, longing tainted by fear. It's only wedding jitters, she thought, releasing an unconscious laugh. Every bride succumbs. But she did not feel like "every bride."

  The events of the previous day drifted back to her on a wave of guilt. Perhaps she should tell Donskoy about her experience after all. So many questions remained unanswered. The rotting vardo was a curiosity; did Donskoy know of it? Who was Ramus, and why was he in this land? Donskoy probably didn't know, but he might be interested in learning of the gypsy's presence. Of course, by now, Ramus had doubtlessly moved on. Vistani seldom lingered in any place.

  Marguerite knew, however, that she would volunteer nothing to Donskoy. While she regretted the sub­terfuge, her guilty conscience would not control her. The matter had been settled already. Now was a time to
look forward. She was grateful to Zosia and Yelena for their assistance. They had risked a great deal with their web of white lies, and she did not wish to betray their kindness. Moreover, if she were honest with her­self, she would have admitted that she enjoyed shar­ing a secret with this pair; together, they had created a fortress of feminine wile. After all, what had Donskoy been doing yesterday? She would never be allowed to question it.

  A knock came at the door, and Zosia entered with­out waiting for a reply. She surveyed the scene, shak­ing her head. "Zo little progress," she said in her inimitable husky tone. "You haven't eaten, Marguerite, and your bath is growing cold."

  "I'm not hungry," Marguerite replied.

  "Tsk. Then do as Zosia says. Into the tub now."

  Marguerite stripped to the skin and dutifully stepped in, immersing her legs to the knees, it was a standing tub; there was not room enough to sit. The water had been scented with rose petals. Zosia reached out and gently turned her backward, then forward again, inspecting her as if buying a bolt of cloth. Then the old woman began to bathe her, humming softly as she stroked Marguerite's limbs. Occasionally Zosia voiced the words to the tune, as if she had suddenly remem­bered them, but the song was in a language Mar­guerite did not understand.

  Marguerite studied her own body in the mirror opposite, wondering what Donskoy would think of it, if she would please him. Her plump, round curves proved that she had eaten well, though not to excess; her family had never known famine. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, save for the faint marks on her throat. She drew her fingers across the flecks, wondering if they would be apparent enough to draw her husband's notice when the two of them were alone and unclothed. The marks of the snake.

  Zosia said softly, "You needn't worry. The vampire only touched you at the neck, did he not? You are still pure enough for Lord Donskoy."

  Marguerite's mouth dropped open. "How did you know?"

  Zosia cackled. "Your secrets are not so secret after all, eh? Your lord knows of this incident as well, but it doesn't concern him. He is a worldly man, quite capa­ble of overlooking the unpleasantries he deems it best to ignore. What matters to him is that you are strong and pure, the perfect wife, the appropriate vessel for his child. You have worried for naught."

  Marguerite was amazed. If Donskoy knew these things, why had he questioned her so over dinner? The answer was obvious. He had wanted to test her. Fortunately, she must have passed, for their wedding was soon to occur.

  Yelena stood beside the bed, struggling to unwrap the ominous black bundle Donskoy had delivered the previous night. Marguerite had hesitated to open it herself, fearing the contents might look as grim as the cover. She had once read a tale about a place where brides wore black to signify the death of their youth and innocence. Here in this macabre fairy-tale keep, anything seemed possible.

  In her trunk lay the simple but precious dress she and her mother had prepared together: a white shift with a gaily embroidered bodice, and a wide-sweeping overskirt adorned with a profusion of multi-colored ribbons. Her mother had cried with virtually every stitch, half with joy, half with sorrow, in a way that only mothers can. Marguerite wished she could have hon­ored that memory by wearing the gown, but her mother, she knew, would understand. A wedding marked a turning point, after which a bride honored her husband above alt others—after which there was no turning back.

  The black bundle was so well tied that Yelena had to fetch a knife to cut the string. To Marguerite's relief, the servant extracted an ivory and blush gown from within. It was sheer and glistening, and flowed from its hiding place like liquid silk. The long train trailed behind as Yelena stepped back from the bed with eyes wide, as if she were pulling a worm from the earth and had discovered it was endless. The gown's cut was narrow and slim through the bodice, flaring slightly at the hips. The sleeves were wide and flowing. It was a masterpiece, made of layer upon layer of translucent fabric, each no thicker than a layer of skin.

  The remaining preparations passed in a blur of nimble hands and muffled compliments. Before she knew It, Marguerite stood in her gown before the mir­ror, wondering where her own flesh ended and the dress began. The fabric was remarkable; soft and vel­vety to the touch, yet faintly crinkled, and shot through with tiny glistening threads like capillaries.

  Zosia took Yelena and left, saying that Ekhart would come to escort Marguerite to the chapel. Marguerite was dismayed, but did not object. As the castle cook, Zosia would be busy with preparations, as would Yelena. Besides, the role of escort called for a fatherly figure, and, aside from Donskoy himself, Ekhart was the only man appropriate. Certainly, Ljubo would not have made a gallant figure for the short journey.

  Marguerite sank into a chair before the fire, letting her eyes close, forcing her breaths to become more even. A log burst, erupting in sparks, and she leaned forward quickly to check her skirts. Something hissed and spat beside the grate. Marguerite looked closely. It was the book Lord Donskoy had thrown onto the fire the previous night. Amazingly, it had not been destroyed. The cover seethed and bubbled faintly, but the pages were still visible at the side; they had not been reduced to ash.

  Glad for the distraction, Marguerite reached into the fire with a poker and dragged the book forward, allow­ing it to cool. It seemed a shame to burn any tome, especially a scholarly work. She took the black shroud in which her wedding dress had been wrapped and placed it over the book, lifting it carefully from the floor so as not to soil her hands or gown with soot. Slowly she pushed the cloth into place, until the book was securely wrapped. She looked around the room. The cabinet door hung open. Marguerite laid the charred book inside, near the back.

  A knock sounded from the hall. Marguerite bareiy managed to close the cabinet before Ekhart opened the chamber door and stood at the threshold, saying nothing. Marguerite felt a sudden chill. She went to him quietly, forgetting the dead bouquet of flowers that had been on the table when she awoke.

  The pair walked in silence. At the first turn, Ekhart turned and stared deliberately at her—a look full of contempt and condemnation. Marguerite's temper flared. Who was Ekhart to judge her? Who . . . Her unspoken tirade quickly faded. Her mind had slipped easily into this diversion, but she knew this was no time for a battle of wills. She struggled to focus on the upcoming ceremony, and she felt a sudden, peculiar desire to look "fresh." The word echoed in her mind, though she could not determine why.

  Ekhart led her through the castle with a slow, stiff gait, never varying his even pace. Once, she stumbled on the hem of her gown and, to her horror, left a ragged piece lying on the floor. The torn fabric seemed to shrink and curl, becoming dark pink at the edge. Ekhart tugged on Marguerite's arm, and she abandoned the piece behind her.

  Soon each twist and jog in their winding path was mirrored by a turn of her stomach. Wedding jitters, she repeated silently. Every bride succumbs.

  In time she and Ekhart stood at the threshold of a chapel. How they had reached it, Marguerite could not say. Ekhart sank his bony fingers into her elbow and whispered, "Stay here until the priest calls you forth." He looked at her, then sneered and added, "If you can manage."

  Ekhart stepped across the threshold and walked toward the front of the dark chapel. His silhouette quickly faded into the shadows.

  Marguerite gazed after him. The chapel was small, but the ceiling soared to an impossible height, as if to penetrate the realms of gods. In the inky darkness, she could not discern the apex of the vault; she knew the distance only by the pointed window set high overhead. Light streamed through the crimson glass, creating a pale shaft of color that pooled like blood when it struck the floor near the front of the church, ft was the only light of any brightness. The left wall was rent by a row of tall, narrow windows, but the shutters were closed tightly upon them; each dark, heavy panel was illumined by a small candle fixed in a bracket beside it. The tapers struggled in vain to brighten the nearby area, but inches from each flame the darkness won out.

  Slowly Marguerite
's eyes adjusted to the scene. Pews blackened with age emerged from the shadows. Near the front of the chapel two dark figures sat flank­ing the aisle—one tall and slim, the other small and stooped. They were mirrored by another unmoving pair seated near the back of the chamber. Marguerite struggled to discern the nearer couple's identity, but failed; they were facing away.

  A light flared at the front of the chapel, revealing a dark figure in a hooded robe. His fingers were stroking a line of candles on the aitar, coaxing the wicks to life. Marguerite blinked. He held no taper, no burning candle whose fire would be shared with the others. Instead he needed only the long, curving nails of his fingers. A mere touch ignited the flames.

  The altar resembled a long platform cloaked in indigo velvet. By the feeble, flickering light, she could see small, dark shapes resting before the candles—a pair of goblets, perhaps, and a collection of objects that refused to let her eyes define them.

  The hooded figure lifted a round gold censer and moved slowly about the room, filling the air with a sweet, musky haze. As Marguerite watched, waiting for her cue to enter, she was filled with dread. She closed her eyes and thought of Darkon, recalling dreams of a wedding that never was.

  In Malanuv, had she married, Marguerite and her beloved would have knelt outside, before the sacred stones, to exchange their vows. Afterward, jubilant brothers and burly cousins would have borne them through the streets on chairs held aloft, ribbons streaming from the rungs. She had witnessed count­less weddings in this tradition, and in her mind's eye, she was there now.