Andria Cardarelle - To sleep with Evil

It seemed as if Marguerite's slumber had only just begun when Yelena's hand poked at her shoulder. Marguerite groaned and lifted her still-heavy lids to squint wearily at the intruder. Then she pulled herself up to her elbows and blinked in surprise.

It was apparent that more than a moment had passed. The bed curtains had been parted and tied to the posts. The shutters on the window hung open, allowing a shaft of white light into the room. The fire blazed, freshly fed. And on the table before the hearth lay the familiar silver tray bearing Marguerite's breakfast, along with Donskoy's parchment note. She cringed at the thought of seeing him again, recalling the sting of their last encounter. But she didn't expect to be summoned back to his salon quite yet. Unless his tastes ran otherwise, he would wait several days before he renewed their liaisons.

The mute held out a steaming stone cup. Marguerite swung her legs to the floor and steadied herself, then took the vessel from Yelena's raw, bony hand. Despite the steam, the surface of the cup was cool.

"What is this?" asked Marguerite, forgetting for the moment that her tongueless maid could not respond. The answer came to mind as she gazed into the vessel and saw the white hairlike swirls moving across the surface of a greenish brown fluid. "Did Zosia send this?"

Yelena nodded.

Marguerite lifted the cup to her nose, prepared to grimace. Then she sniffed hard. Oddly, she could smell nothing at all, except perhaps a trace of smoke. She lifted the vessel toward her mouth, but when the cold rim touched her lower lip, she did not drink. Instead, she pulled the cup away and stared once again at the strange mixture inside.

So this is the potion that will make me the mother of Donskoy's son, Marguerite thought. She didn't really wish to bear his child, she realized; the thought of it held no joy. But it certainly was the next logical step- what had to be. The black stream of fate was slowly turning. The future would come, an unstoppable force. And if Marguerite were not pregnant? If she failed her husband? Surely that would carry her to a fete worse than the swelling of her stomach, worse than a bloody birthing in which her own vitality flowed out with the child, worse than gloomy years of mothering Donskoy's son-a son upon whose shoulders the weight of the entire future would be fantastically placed. But who could say? Maybe Donskoy was right. Maybe their fortunes would magically turn with the birth of an heir. Certainty Lord Donskoy believed it was true. Marguerite herself scarcely dared to hope.

She downed the brew. The icy, tasteless fluid coursed into her stomach, then spread across her loins and limbs. It left her even drowsier than before. Yelena took the chalice, and Marguerite sank back into the bed, descending into the pit, succumbing to a strange, numbing sleep.

*****

A week later, the routine had resumed as if her husband's rage and Marguerite's foray into the woods had never occurred. Donskoy became eager and attentive in the salon, bolstered, perhaps, by Zosia's renewed promise that his efforts would soon be fruitful. Marguerite tried twice to seek out Zosia and query her about Ramus's claim that her husband had murdered members of his tribe, but both times the old woman rudely dismissed her from the kitchen, stating she was too busy with Lord Donskoy's brews and had no time. Zosia admonished her to look toward the future, and soon Marguerite did precisely that.

One morning, she opened the parchment on her tray to discover an unusual message: Donskoy was expecting company. Marguerite was to dress in manner befitting the lady of the keep, and be prepared to greet Miss Jacqueline Montarri in the afternoon.

After breakfast, Marguerite requested a bath. Two hours later, Ljubo and Yelena had finished wrestling with the tub and heavy pails of hot water. Marguerite doused her hair and scrubbed herself pink while Yelena stood in attendance, adding more hot water from a steaming kettle in a fruitless attempt to keep the bath from growing chill. When Marguerite had finished, Yelena held out a large linen sheet that had been warmed by the fire. By the time Marguerite had dried, arranged herself in a gown, tied the last layer of blue silk to her waist, and coaxed her shining tresses into submission, she heard the clatter of wheels in the distance.

She went to the window and saw a smart black conveyance approaching across the clearing. To Marguerite's astonishment, she saw that it had no driver, ft was pulled by two black horses, but the reins stretched back to an empty bench where there shouid have been a man-or some other creature to hold the leathers. Instead, the straps simply lay on the seat, as though Miss Montarri's driver had dropped them there when he abandoned her.

The carriage drew to a halt before the keep. The door swung open, and Jacqueline hovered on the step until Ljubo arrived to help her down. She wore a sweeping emerald cioak, and her black hair spilled loosely over her shoulders. She must have sensed Marguerite's gaze from above, for she looked up toward the window and flashed a smile as white as snow. Ljubo looked up as well, grinning broadly,

Marguerite went to the door of her room and hurried down to the foyer. Ekhart stood at the crest of the stairs, stiffly at attention. Terse and to the point, he instructed Marguerite to proceed to the drawing room. There, she encountered Lord Donskoy, who sat before the fire, puffing his ivory pipe. The lord's gaze raked over Marguerite, and he smiled approvingly.

Ekhart appeared in the door "Miss Montarri has arrived," he announced dully as Jacqueline stepped past. She dropped her cloak into Ekhart's hands, exposing her bare white shoulders and her signature green sheath. Ekhart grunted and gave a stiff forward bow, then left the room.

As the usual greetings were exchanged, Yelena arrived with a tray, bringing brandy-wine and sweets. Jacqueline peeled off her long biack gloves and melted onto a sofa, curving her body into a sensual S. The mute girl decanted the wine, serving Donskoy first, then Jacqueline and Marguerite.

Jacqueline put her glass to her lips and gently licked the edge, smiling over the rim. "Marriage must agree with you, Marguerite," she said, "You're looking only a little worse for wear."

Marguerite ignored the jibe. "What brings you to the keep, Miss Montarri?" she asked sweetly.

"Please, call me Jacqueline. You're not sorry to see me, I hope."

"Not at all. I am pleased to have the company."

Donskoy grunted but said nothing. He puffed on his pipe, staring hungrily at his guest.

Marguerite continued, "Is this a pleasure trip, Jacqueline?"

"After a fashion. It has long been my pleasure to visit Donskoy-didn't you know that? And I always try to mix in a bit of business."

"A little business, you say?" asked Marguerite. Perhaps Donskoy intended to sell her after all. Her eyes slid from Jacqueline, who gazed at her with sparkling green cat-eyes, to Donskoy, who continued to stare at his emerald-sheathed guest.

"Mm-hmm," said Jacqueline. "Nothing extraordinary. It would bore you, I'm sure,"

Marguerite found herself studying Jacqueline's face. Something seemed odd about the woman's appearance-but what? She had noticed nothing amiss when the woman entered the room-there was the same languid bearing, the same tiny pinched waist, the same delicate gesturing of finely boned hands. Jacqueline's face was sly and expressive, just as before. Her tone was a little tighter perhaps, but the phrasing and accent seemed familiar-precisely as Marguerite recalled. Yet something was not quite the same. Granted, Marguerite had seen the woman onty once before, by candlelight, and a month had passed since then. But there was something markedly different about her-about her face in particular.

"You seem changed, Jacqueline." At once, Marguerite bit her tongue; certainly she could have been more deft.