The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(52)

He did not answer, and when he moved she did not hear him, only felt a breath of cold air, strange in the heat of the room. He knelt before her. Their eyes met. She saw a flicker of unease run through him, as though some crack—some small crack—had opened in the wall of ice in his mind. Without a word, he cupped his hand; water pooled in the palm. He let the water fall into the wound on her wrist.

Where the water touched her raw flesh, pain blazed up. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. The pain died as fast as it had risen, leaving her shaken, a little sick. The cut on her wrist was gone, and only a line of white remained, catching the light, as though ice were embedded in the scar.

“You are healed,” he said. “Now tell me—” He fell silent. Vasya followed his gaze. There was another scar on her palm, where he had wounded her—and healed her—once before.

“I did not lie,” said Vasya. “You know me.”

He did not speak.

“You once tore my hand with yours,” she went on. “Smeared your fingers in my blood. Later, you healed the mark you’d made. Can’t you remember? Remember the dark, the dead thing, the night I went into the forest for snowdrops?”

    He got to his feet. “Tell me who you are.”

Vasya forced herself to stand as well, though she was still light-headed. He took a step back. “I am called Vasilisa Petrovna. Do you believe now that I know you? I think you do. You are afraid.”

“Of a wounded maiden?” He was scornful.

Sweat rolled down the hollow of her spine. A fire in the inner room snapped fingers of flame, and even there in the outer room, it was hot. “If you do not mean to kill me,” said Vasya, “and you do not remember me, then why are we here? What can the lord of winter have to say to a servant-girl?”

“You are no more a servant-girl than I am.”

“At least I am not a prisoner in this village,” said Vasya. She was near enough to catch his gaze and hold it.

“I am a king,” he said. “They make a feast in my honor; they give me sacrifices.”

“Prisons are not always made of walls and chains. Do you mean to spend eternity feasting, lord?”

His expression was cold. “A single night only.”

“Eternity,” she said. “You have forgotten that too.”

“If I cannot remember, then it is not eternity to me.” He was getting angry. “What matter? They are my people. You are only a madwoman, come to plague good people on Midwinter night.”

“At least I wasn’t planning to kill any of them!”

He did not reply, but cold air rushed through the bathhouse, setting the candle-flames to swaying. There was little space in that outer room; they were almost shouting in each other’s faces. The crack in his defenses widened. She could not reason away whatever magic kept him forgetful. But emotion dragged his memory a little nearer the surface. So did her touch. So did her blood. The feeling between them was still there. He did not need to remember; he felt it, just as she did.

And he had brought her here. Despite all he’d said, he had brought her here.

Her skin felt thin, as though a breath would bruise it. Vasya had always been reckless in battle; that same recklessness had her in its grip now. Deeper than memory, she thought. Mother of God, forgive me.

    She reached out. Her hand with its white scars paused a breath from his cheek; his hand shot up, his fingers closed on her wrist. For a second they stood motionless. Then his grip slackened, and she touched his face, the fine, ageless bones. He didn’t move.

Low, Vasya said, “If I may defer my death an hour, winter-king, I am going to bathe. Since you have brought me to a bathhouse.”

He did not react, but his stillness was answer enough.



* * *





THE INNER ROOM WAS utterly dark, save for the glow of the hot stones in its oven. Vasya left him standing behind her. She was shaken by her own temerity. In a life littered with questionable decisions, she wondered if she was doing the most foolish thing she’d ever done.

Determinedly, she stripped off her clothes, laid them in a corner. She ladled water on the rocks and sat, arms wrapped about her knees. But the blissful languor of the heat could not overtake her. She did not know if she was more afraid that he would go away or that he wouldn’t.

He slipped through the door. She could barely see him in the dark; only knew his presence by the shift of the steam as he moved through it.

She lifted her chin, to hide sudden fright, and said, “Won’t you melt?”

He looked affronted. But then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “I will try not.” He sank with undiminished grace onto the bench opposite her, leaned on his knees, his hands laced together. Her glance lingered on his long fingers.

His skin was paler than hers; he made nothing of nakedness. His stare was cool and frank. “You had a long road,” he said. She could not see his eyes in the shadows, but felt his gaze like a hand. Whatever he had not seen of her skin before, he was seeing it now.

“And it is not over,” she said. With unsteady fingers, she touched the scab on her cheek, raised her eyes to his, wondered if she was hideous, wondered if it mattered. Still he didn’t move. The faint light lit him in pieces: a shoulder, a hollow beneath the ribs. She realized that she was considering him, throat to feet, and that he was watching her do so. She blushed.