The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(56)

She saw him understand. “You were alone then, Vasya,” he said. “Now you are not.” She had both hands on the inner doorframe, as if men were coming in to drag her out. “Even then, you still walked out of the fire.”

“It cost me,” she said, but the gnarled hand of fear loosened its grip on her throat.

“The village isn’t angry,” Morozko said. “They are delighted. There is power in this night.” She felt a blush creeping along her cheekbones. “Do you wish to stay? It is hard for me to linger, now.”

She paused. It must be like coming to a place that had been home, but wasn’t anymore. Like trying to fit back into a skin already shed.

“Do your lands border my great-grandmother’s?” Vasya asked him suddenly.

“They do,” said Morozko. “How do you think my table once had strawberries for you, and pears and snowdrops?”

“So you knew the story?” she pressed. “Of the witch and her twin girls? You knew Tamara was my grandmother?”

“I did,” he said. He looked wary now. “And before you ask, no, I never meant to tell you. Not until the night of the snowstorm in Moscow, and by then it was too late. The witch herself was either dead or lost in Midnight. No one knew what had become of the twins, and I could remember nothing of the sorcerer, who had made magic to set himself apart from death. All these things I learned later.”

“And you thought me only a child, a tool to your purposes.”

“Yes,” he said. Whatever he thought or felt or hoped was buried deep, and locked tight. I am not a child anymore, she might have said, but the truth of that was written in his eyes on her. “Never lie to me again,” she said instead.

“I will not.”

“Will the Bear know you are free?”

“No,” he said. “Unless Midnight tells him.”

    “I don’t think she will meddle so,” said Vasya. “She watches.”

In his silence this time she could hear a thought unspoken.

“Tell me,” she said.

“You needn’t go back to Moscow,” he said. “You’ve seen enough horror, and caused enough pain. The Bear will do his best to see you slain now: the worst death he can devise, especially if he finds out I remembered. He knows I would grieve.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It is our fault he is free. He must be bound again.”

“With what?” Morozko demanded. The candle leaped up with a violet flame. His eyes were the color of the fire; his outlines seemed to fade, until he was wind and night made flesh. Then he shook off the mantle of power and said, “I am winter; do you think I will have any power in summertime Moscow?”

“You needn’t make it cold in here to score a point,” said Vasya, resentfully. “We have to do something.” She took her own clothes from his hands. “Thank you for these,” she added, and went to the inner room to dress. At the threshold, she called back, “Can you even go out into the summertime world, winter-king?”

His voice behind her was reluctant. “I don’t know. Perhaps. For a little time. If we are together. The necklace is destroyed but—”

“But we don’t need it anymore,” she finished, realizing. The tie between them now—layers of passion and anger, fear and fragile hope—was stronger than any magical jewel.

Dressed, she returned to the doorway. Morozko was standing where she’d left him. “We could perhaps get to Moscow, but to what end?” he said. “If the Bear finds out we are coming, he will delight in setting a trap, so that I must watch, helpless, while you are slain. Or perhaps one where you must watch while your family suffers.”

“We will just have to be clever,” said Vasya. “We got Muscovy into this; we are going to get her out.”

“We ought to return to my own lands, come to him in winter when I am stronger. Then we’d have a chance of victory.”

“He surely knows that,” Vasya returned. “Which means that whatever he is planning, he must do it this summer.”

“It might be your undoing.”

    She shook her head. “It might. But I am not going to abandon my family. Will you come with me?”

“I have said you are not alone, Vasya, and I meant it,” he said. But he sounded unhappy.

She managed the ghost of a smile. “You are not alone either. By all means, let us continue repeating it until one of us believes it.” Briskly, she managed to say without tremor, “If I go out there, will the village try to kill me?”

“No,” said Morozko, and then he smiled. “But a legend might be born.”

She flushed. But when he extended a hand, she took it.

The village had indeed gathered outside the bathhouse. They drew back when the door opened. Their eyes roved from Vasya to Morozko, hand-fast, disheveled.

Yelena stood at the front of the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with the man who had tried to save her. She flinched when Morozko turned to her. It was to Yelena that the frost-demon spoke, although the whole village heard. “Forgive me,” he said.

She looked shocked. Then she gathered her dignity and bowed. “It was your right. But—” She looked more closely at his face. “You are not the same,” she whispered.