Romanov(62)

“I was planning to bring you more, Babushka.” Zash had given his spell ink to me. That’s why he’d had it in his pack—for his grandmother.

She waved him away. “This will do.” Then she returned to our conversation. “I am a local who used to create simple spells for colds and bruises and broken bones. A few spells of wisdom and memory stirring here and there. But nothing the likes of which might heal the tsarevich.” She reached back inside the hole left from the brick and pulled out a silver pin. “Now eat your soup and let me work.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes away as she dipped the pin into the bottle and drew out a tiny drop of the glistening rainbow liquid. “But you’ve been hiding spell ink!”

“Your commandant may be able to detect spells, but nothing can detect spell ink. It is neutral when a spell master makes it and only activated once you blend your voice or blood with it.”

“Spell masters make it? How?”

She eyed me through slits. “You’re a bit curious for a grand duchess. Is this really the time to interrogate me about spell mastery?”

I shook my head and spooned some borscht into my mouth. It warmed me like an internal fire. Reminding me of life. “Was it hard to start a new life?” I asked quietly as she worked.

“It is if you separate the two—old life and new life. But once you learn that it’s all one life and each day is a new page, it gets a bit easier to let your story take an unexpected path.” She set out four squares of paper and bent over the first one, meticulously dotting out a word. A spell.

As she did this she hummed and occasionally sang in a weathered voice and a language I did not recognize. Alexei stirred but not in discomfort. He seemed to be soothed. Her humming went on for several minutes and did not appear to be stopping soon.

I ate my borscht.

She told me one hour. With each slurp of soup the seconds seemed to increase. My body ached to lie down and sleep. To remain seated on the cushioned chair. To test the fates and see if I would truly wake up to this same life and nightmare. But ticking in the back of my head was the knowledge we would be leaving. Soon. Most likely returning to the forest, and once we did that, I didn’t know where we’d go. I couldn’t follow Zash again. It was doubtful he had a second spell-master babushka hiding in a local village.

I didn’t know when I’d finished the soup, but I still felt empty inside. Zash took my bowl and returned with it full again. This time he added a dollop of sour cream. It turned the red soup a light pink and brought the extra fat my stomach craved. In another lifetime—a more polite lifetime—I would have declined, knowing it had taken Vira hours to make it when she hadn’t expected guests. But I accepted the soup and ate every last drop.

Alexei moaned and my head snapped up. His eyes fluttered. Vira continued humming but made eye contact with him. He frowned. Blinked a few times, and then his voice came out in a croak. “Spell woman . . .”

“Tishe, Tsarevich,” she tried to soothe.

“Will you fight with me?”

She stopped creating the spells for a moment. A lump rose in my throat. Was he aware of what he was saying? He’d been unconscious for quite some time.

“I am making spells for you—to help you.” Her voice remained in that soothing tone as when singing.

“Make a spell for the White Army. Join them. Help them . . . fight.” His voice grew weaker, but his gaze remained fixed on hers.

She took a deep breath and I feared she would abandon helping him at all. “Tsarevich, if you come back to me healthy and ready to lead . . . then I will fight for you.”

That seemed to be all Alexei needed. He returned to the darkness and Vira returned to her small paper squares with her bottle as though nothing had passed between them. But both Zash and I remained silent, soaking in the moment. No one could have missed the intensity of their exchange. They had understood each other in a way I’d never communicated with Alexei before. Even now, I wasn’t sure what he had asked of her. Somehow she knew.

Vira’s low singing filled the room. It went beyond my ears and into my very skin, soothing me. Swaying me. I relaxed. And the next thing I knew I’d folded in half and left the darkened little cottage in exchange for dreamless bliss.

*

I startled awake at the clatter of wood on wood. I’d dropped my soup bowl. The heaviness in my eyes and limbs told me I hadn’t slept for long. But I’d slept enough for my ribs to scream in pain and demand I adjust my position.

Vira had finished her spell making. No more singing. Dim light came from the lowering of the sun. It had been longer than an hour. She and Zash spoke softly.

“You have chosen them, Zash. They are under your care now. You’ve made yourself their provider.”

“But what of you?”

She snorted. “I will manage.”

Zash shook his head. “How?”

“Don’t press me, boy. I’ve been saving your soldier pay, not squandering it. It’s enough to get me by. You have new duties now.” She handed him one paper square. “Use this one on the girl. Her ribs are broken. This will set them, but they will still pain her for some time. These other three are for the tsarevich.”

“I’ll take them.” I pushed myself up to a sitting position and held out my hand.

“I know my boy. I don’t know you, even if you are the grand duchess.” She passed the squares to Zash. “One will close up his wounds, but it must sit in the paper for an hour before it is mature enough. Neither spell will stop the internal bleeding. It was all I could do and I’ve already used an extra hour to write it. The other two spells are identical—they numb his pain. This should allow him to wake and to function enough to walk. Each lasts for twenty-four hours, but there is no healing power in them.”