Juniper & Thorn(30)
“I told you, I’m not that kind of witch.”
“Keep it anyway,” Sevas said. “If you ever find yourself in dire financial straits, I’m sure there are women in Oblya who would pay a baffling amount of rubles for a feather that once touched Sevastyan Rezkin’s skin.”
He said it all without a trace of smugness or pride. The feather felt warm to the touch, as though his flesh had leached some heat into it, as if it still held the memory of being under those sweltering stage lights. With a heedless rush of wanting, I tucked the feather into the pocket of my dress.
“I know a story about a beautiful bird who was the envy of all the other fowl,” I said. “They all loathed him for his beauty, but he just wanted their love. So he gave away one of his beautiful feathers to each of them, until he was plucked completely bald.”
“I think I like that story better than Bogatyr Ivan.”
My brow furrowed. “But why?”
“Because at least it’s closer to the truth. People are resentful and cruel and desirous.” Sevas shook his head slightly, as if he wanted to rid himself of the thoughts. I saw a small metamorphosis in him then: a shift from the brute, unpleasant reality to the smiling, indulgent dream-world. From Sevas to Ivan, a glimmer of mischief in his eye. “Have you ever taken a stroll down the boardwalk?”
“No. Not since my mother was alive. My father—”
“Let me guess, he finds fault with the sea itself. But your father isn’t here. So let me show you.”
There was another spell of silence, a long moment like a held breath. Behind me, a woman’s laughter rippled the air like the susurration of tiny wings.
“You can’t,” I said at last, even as the lemon balm wafted into my nose and the spearmint parched my throat. I was thinking of the salt air and the black sand, all the things that would reveal me without Papa even needing a potion. “It’s so far from here, and I need to be getting back home . . .”
“It’s not even midnight, Marlinchen.” He leaned closer, and suddenly I felt the metal between my breasts burn like a bullet, all its shrapnel fissuring outward. I felt half-dying, and there was lead in my veins; how could he stand to be so near to me? Wasn’t he scared that whatever I was would catch?
I drew my hand over my chest, as if to cover the wound, but Sevas didn’t pull away, and said, “What use is there sneaking out from under your father’s nose if only to run back again before you’ve even gotten to see your own city?”
“It’s not really my city. The Vashchenko family has lived here since before it was Oblya, when there was just the steppe that ran right into the sea without anything to stop it. Before the land was lashed to bits and each scar was given a name like Kanatchikov Street. Oblya is a rude intruder to the place we’ve always known.”
“And I am an intruder upon the intrusion?” Sevas arched a brow. “You don’t need to drag around your family history like an old dead dog.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say—your family is hundreds of miles away.” My breath caught at my own meanness.
“It’s not easy at all,” Sevas said quietly, and finally drew away from me, raising himself to his full height and rubbing some of the sweat-dampened gold paint that remained on his cheek. “Do you think I left everything in the slums of Askoldir? Dr. Bakay tells me that history lives in the planes of my skull and the thrust of my brow. I don’t know of any surgery that can excise a century. That’s how long my family has lived in Rodinya, give or take a few years. But I know that, if I could, I would shave off those years like slivers of bone.”
He kept his voice low, but even so I felt I was a wave that had come upon a seawall, his words solid and immovable. What did I know of any history besides my own, and even that hazy, half-remembered? There was a whole world spreading its roots outside my father’s house, and oaks just as old as the ones in our garden. I grew up with his words and the stories in the codex, but did I really know anything at all?
And then there was Dr. Bakay’s name in his mouth, which might have made me retch if not for the waft of Rose’s tincture.
“I’m sorry,” I said embarrassedly. “We don’t have any history books in our house. No books at all, aside from my father’s codex.”
Sevas gave a short laugh, and his eyes were bright again, as if it were all forgotten. “Those were the least cruel words I’ve ever heard spoken on the subject; trust me, there’s nothing to be sorry for. But have you really never read a book, an actual book?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, still feeling mortified. “Papa—my father’s codex has lots of stories and spells, and recipes for potions.” It had the smell of damp moss and was as ancient as Indrik claimed to be. “I like the stories where swans turn back into maidens so they can marry princes.”
“Now I see why you love Bogatyr Ivan,” he said with only the barest of smirks. “Heroes triumphant, evil banished, crowns won and wedding vows sung. There are so many books like that you could spend your whole life reading, just like I’ll play Ivan every night until I’m too old and ugly for it—likely around age thirty.”
The idea of him ever turning ugly was as unthinkable as a spell to turn iron into gold, the most impossible of all impossible alchemies. Yet Rose’s prediction lingered. “And what will you do after?”