The warmth of the tea spread to her limbs, melting away the cold ache that had seized them, Marguerite lay beside the fire. Her lids sank of their own accord, then fluttered and sank again. The embers glowed before her like a red-gold haze.
Music began to fill the cavern. Lazily, she rolled her head toward the sound. Ramus stood beside the fire, one biack boot planted upon the log he had cut to make a stool, playing his violin. She listened, enrapt and dreamy, saying nothing. Ramus watched her as he played, his dark eyes damp and warm, his lips stretched into the slightest glimmer of a smile. The fire cast a glow upon the polished fiddle, and upon his shining black hair, which seemed shaped from the same gleaming piece of coal. He was playing slowly, methodically, sliding the bow back and forth, then back again, spawning the most bittersweet stream of notes that Marguerite had ever imagined. His fingers on the neck of the instrument fascinated her; she watched them as if nothing else existed, watched them arch and dance, moving like the white spider that once had inhabited the same cave. And then suddenly, as she stared at the fingers on the violin, it seemed to her that those same fingers were stroking her neck, her spine, her thighs, as if she were the instrument being played. Ramus pressed deeply into a string and shook it teasingly, then moved to another and pressed again.
A soft moan of pleasure escaped Marguerite's lips. The music had pierced her heart, then mixed with her blood and flowed out into her body, flowed through her, slipping into the deep, dark recesses where things lie forgotten and denied. She gave in to it, telling herself there could be no harm in listening. The music coursed into her and sought out her terror, then gently carried it away. Gone were her thoughts of Donskoy orchestrating the murder of the lost travelers, gone were the images of Jacqueline and her lovely embroidered sack, filled with the golden-haired head. Gone too was the picture of Ljubo, scuttling into the woods with his beheaded prize flung over his shoulder, like the carcass of the swine he had brought back for the wedding banquet. And gone were Marguerite's thoughts of the keep, her memory of the cold couplings in the red salon, brusque and endless. She heard only the music of the fiddle, felt only its warmth, knew only its agony and bliss.
She became aware that Ramus had moved beside her, had drawn the blanket from her body. Her flesh shimmered with sweat; she felt aflame. His hands slid over her, and his skin pressed against hers. The violin had been set aside, yet the music continued. His fingers played at her thighs. Marguerite did not resist; she was molten. They melted into one another, merging like two parts of the same melody, and with ever a quickening tempo, they moved passionately through the phrases, notes rising and falling, then rising higher still until at last the music crested in a fierce, climactic crescendo.
In the quiet that followed, Marguerite felt herself settling back into her body, regaining a sense of its weight. It was if she had been lifted out of it entirely.
Ramus had wrapped himself around her, warm yet strangely light, like steam. Her mind drifted, and she knew she no longer wanted to return to Darkon. She wanted to stay with Ramus, if he would have her, and travel the mists wherever they might lead, as far away from this domain as possible. Part of her realized it was a fantasy, but it was so sweet, so appealing, that she allowed herself to pursue it.
After a time, Ramus rose and dressed himself, then stepped toward the mouth of the cave. Outside, it was still dark. He cocked his head. Then he stepped back into the cavern, picked up Marguerite's clothes, and tossed them on the ground beside her.
"Get dressed," he said. "It's time to part ways."
"Part?" she said. "I thought you would help me return to Darkon, or at least help me to go elsewhere. I thought-"
"You were mistaken."
'lMo. You said we would talk of it. You were going to take me back to Darkon, I can't go alone. I need your help to get safety through the mists."
Ramus turned and looked at her strangely. "I could not take you through the mists, Marguerite, even if I desired it. If Donskoy chooses to seal you in, there is nothing I can do to stop him. Now get dressed. I'm taking you back to the keep,"
"No, I can't. I don't want to return to the keep." Her words quickened. "How can you suggest such a thing? You have told me that Donskoy murdered your tribe. If you send me back, you'll only be adding my blood to his hands. Surely you can't be so cruel. Surely-"
"You are wrong, Marguerite. I hear his hounds in the wood. Your husband is searching for you even now. It is your fate to return to him."
"But he will kill me!"
"He will not. Lord Donskoy wants one thing more than all else. A son, And now he believes you are pregnant, Zosia showed him the test last night. He will never let you leave, so you must return to him. Unpleasant, I agree, but he will not harm you so long as he believes you are with child."
"How do you know these things?"
"I know ali that occurs in the castle. I share a bond with Zosia. . and with Donskoy as well."
"Bond? What sort of bond?"
Ramus did not answer.
"What bond could you share with Donskoy?" Marguerite demanded, struggling into her clothes. "He is a fiend. I don't-I can't go back to him. If Zosia has deceived him, she has only delayed the inevitable. He will find out soon enough. A month will pass, and then he'll know. He'll see that I have not conceived. And then I'll be dead. Or worse." Her voice ascended to a higher pitch. "Or worse. He has warned me. Let me leave here with you. Else! shall certainly depart this domain in a long black box!"
Ramus merely chuckled.
"It is true!" she cried.
"The truth is, a month wili pass and you shall grow round with child."
"You can't possibly know that."
"But I do. I have given you a gift, Marguerite. Our paths may part, but I have left something behind."
Marguerite stared at him with a shocked expression. "What do you mean?"
"The web, Marguerite," Ramus said. "Or do you think Zosia's potions as barren as your husband?"
Marguerite's jaw fell, and she said nothing.
"You wanted me to keep you safe," said Ramus. "I have done so in the only way I can. Lord Donskoy is rotting from the inside out. He can no longer spawn a son. So I have done you the courtesy. I have spared you your head, pretty giorgia. How I suggest you use it wisely. Return to the keep and act as though nothing has happened. Play the role you seized upon so eagerly just a short time ago. Donskoy will dote on his burgeoning bride. Play him well, and you wilI survive to see my son born."
Marguerite sat down hard. Of its own accord, her hand passed over her stomach. "I don't believe you …"
Ramus shrugged. "That is nothing to me."
Outside, in the distance, Marguerite could hear the hounds baying. They were growing closer. Her panic rose.
She scrambled back to her feet. "Did you use me only to win your vengeance? Is your heart as black as Donskoy's?"
Ramus threw his satchel over his shoulder, then turned to look at her. "It is not."
'Then take me with you," she whispered. "You must."
Ramus shook his head sadly. "You do not know what you ask. You do not know what I am."
"I know enough," she said. "I know I cannot bear to stay here, i know that only you can help me escape. I know your touch."
Ramus choked on a bitter laugh. "You know nothing. You have no idea what [am."
Outside, the dogs began to howl.
Ramus continued, "Shall I show you then, what you must fear?"
"I am not afraid of you," she said. "Whatever secrets you hold, I do not fear them,"