No other room in the castle had coverings upon the stone or wood floors, save for herbs and straw, and the occasional pelt. Here in this small chamber, layers of ornate red tapestries and plush fur rugs cloaked the polished planks, leaving only the outer rim of the floor exposed. Long swaths of crimson velvet hung from the paneled walls, pooling on the dark, gleaming wood. The ceiling was low and divided into gilded squares, each housing a carved rosette, tinted scarlet. A single chandelier dangled in the center of the room. It resembled a large, ornate cage of gold filigree, imprisoning a circle of wax candles carved in the shape of doves. Long strands of red glass beads dripped from the bars of the cage like sparkling droplets of blood. They tinkled softly, stirred by the soft breeze that rushed through the open doorway.
The room was lush, lavish, and decadent, unlike any place Marguerite had ever seen.
"My private salon," murmured Donskoy. "My oasis from decay and despair. I hope it pleases you." He peeled off his jacket and tossed it thoughtlessly onto the floor.
Marguerite nodded.
"I am glad," he continued. "I do not extend the honor of a visit to just anyone."
He watched as she continued to survey the room and its furnishings-the plush red divan, stretched languidly before a pair of low round tables; the throne-like chair and stout square table sitting beside it, each resting proudly on lion's legs; the profusion of red velvet pillows scattered across the floor. A warm fireplace glowed on the left side of the room, with a chimney and a golden hood to keep back the smoke. \n exotic water pipe rested on the floor nearby, its glass bowls red and as round as a spider's abdomen, the long hose coiled beside it like a patient black snake with a slim silver head. A row of white marble pedestals stood along the opposite wall-the kind that displayed busts in a gallery, though they were headless at present. On the rear wall loomed a fruitwood cabinet with gleaming inlaid panels and carved rosettes that echoed the pattern in the ceiling. Marguerite realized she had seen similar designs once before, though in a smaller piece-a chest her father had imported from Lamordia, a northern land noted for its craftsmanship.
Donskoy settled himself on the floor beside the water pipe, lighting it with a slender stick from the fire. "Sit." He motioned toward the divan. "And let yourself relax."
She obeyed, at least the first command. His second wish would be harder met.
Donskoy pressed the tip of the black hose to his lips, inhaling deeply. Marguerite stared. When he exhaled, she noticed that the silver tip was shaped like the head of a cobra; the artisan, too, had envisioned a serpent and conjured its likeness.
"Have you never seen a hookah?" Donskoy asked.
Marguerite shook her head. "It comes from Sri Raji."
Marguerite had never heard of this place. "It sounds exotic."
"More like a steaming pit. I no longer travel abroad, of course, but it is one place I do not miss. There is a smalt present on the table before you," said Donskoy. "You may open it."
On the table rested a silver tray with a decanter of plum brandy-wine and two blood-red goblets. Beside the tray lay a small, square black bundle. Marguerite picked up the package and released the gold cord that bound it. The silk wrapping fell away to expose another shimmering cord and another ebony layer. Beneath it lay yet another. Donskoy smiled with amusement as she peeled away the wrapping, venturing ever deeper. At last, she held a small, square wooden box, lacquered and gleaming. It appeared to have no lid.
"How do I get inside?" she asked.
"Try," he responded smoothly, taking another deep draft from the pipe.
She wrestled with the impenetrable block, stroking and prodding, shaking it lightly and pondering its muffled rattle. She searched its surfaces repeatedly for any sign of a hinge or latch,
"ft is a puzzle," he added.
"So I gathered," she said, her stomach fluttering like an excited child's. She struggled for several minutes. Then it dawned on her that this might be some kind of test, which she might be failing. Her brow furrowed at the thought.
"Perhaps I am glad you cannot open it," Donskoy said gently. "It marks you as without guile."
He took the box from her hands and fondied it until it slid it apart in two pieces, one cantilevered over the other. Then he returned it to her hand.
Nestled in the bottom half was a brooch-a circle of gold, two arms bound by an entwining ribbon, upon which a message was inscribed.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"Forever," he said darkly, as if making it so*
"It's beautiful. Shall I put it on?"
"Please do."
She pressed the pin through the bodice of her gown, and as it emerged from the other side, it pierced her fingertip. She gave a little squeak, then lifted the finger to her lips, but Donskoy was faster-moving to her hand and taking it in his own gloved grasp.
"Allow me," he said, gently sucking the blood from her wound. "You taste so sweet."
Despite herself, she blushed, and her jaw tensed.
"But you are too cold," he added. "Your hands are like ice. I can fee! it even through my gloves." He reached for the decanter of wine, filling the glass. He settled back into the cushions beside the water pipe and gazed upon her, continuing his smoke.
His stare was unsettling. Marguerite could almost see the busy whirl of thoughts behind his eyes, but she could not read them. They sat quietly. She sipped the wine, then gazed at the small hands wrapped around the glass, her skin smooth and blue-white. What is he waiting for? she thought. Though she felt no desire for him, she did, at least, desire the consummation. The silence was palpable, swelling around her. A log erupted on the fire. The sparks drifted like red falling stars onto the hearth, dying on impact.
"The brooch is beautiful," she offered at last, aware that she had repeated herself. "Thank you."
Donskoy made a little ring with his lips and blew out a slow, long puff of smoke. "As are you," he said from beneath hooded lids. He drew his tongue across the stiver tip of the hose. "Drink the wine and let me look at you. It is not necessary to speak."
Marguerite shifted uncomfortably. "Recline, if you would," he murmured.
She put down the wine glass and pulled her legs up onto the divan, nestling her back against a pillow. Donskoy threw another log onto the fire; the edges of his fine linen shirt reflected the flame, defining his silhouette with a faint red glow.
He kept his back to her, still facing the hearth. "I do not wish you to be anxious," he said. "I cannot tolerate an unwilling wife. I have had my fill of it. Do you understand?" His voice was low and level, yet it carried a desperate, nervous note. Perhaps that was it: he was nervous. She could not read him.
"Yes," she said quietly. She retrieved her glass and sipped at the wine.
"I will not make the same mistake twice," he muttered, slumping onto the pillows. Still, he did not look at her.
In time, he repeated, "I will not make the same mistake twice. To drag a black-haired hellion into my bed only to see her cold and withered, spewing bile at my touch. I dreamed she would yield in time. Beware of your dreams. Marguerite, for they shall lead you into the deepest pits of despair."
He shifted and stared at the ceiling, attached to his pipe as if it were a lifeline. He seemed unaware of her presence entirely.
"It had to be done," he said firmly, eyes red and swollen. "And I was, . " He laughed sourly, then coughed, choking. *, . triumphant." His eyes rolled; the whites rose like twin moons. "Perhaps …"
He was long silent after that, apparently drifting, asleep, though his eyes remained partly open. Marguerite wondered how much she couid trust his delirium. An hour passed, and she too began to flirt with unconsciousness. She shook herself awake and studied Donskoy's still body, then realized she could not make out the rise and fall of his chest. Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be dead. A short marriage, after all. And then what?
She walked to his side, gently nudging him. "My lord?" she said softly.
He gasped and flung an arm across his brow as if to shield it from a blow. His eyes widened, white with terror. "Who goes there?" he rasped. His face had twisted into a hideous mask, contorted beyond recognition.
"Your wife," she whispered with alarm. "So!" he hissed. "The wretched succubus returns. See what you have wrought!" He snared her wrist in a crushing grip and bared his teeth wildly, as if ready to attack. She winced and struggled to wrench free.
"Lord Donskoy," she pleaded. She knew he did not see her. "It is I, Marguerite."
The white blaze slowly faded from his eyes, and his entire countenance melted into a boyish grin. "Ah, Marguerite," he said lightly, as if they had just encountered one another on some bucolic garden path. "Have I been neglecting you?"
She shook her head, dazed by pity and fear, massaging her tender wrist.
He winked. "Ah, but I think I have." He reached up and took her hand again gently, drawing it to his face and inhaling. Then he tugged playfully at her dress. "Come, Marguerite. Come and lie down beside me."