The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(6)

“Witch!” they shouted. “Give us the witch! Fire! She set the fire!”

Varvara said flatly to Vasya, “They are here for you,” and Marya said, “Vasochka—Vasochka—do they mean you?” Olga’s arm was stiff, holding her daughter close.

“Yes, Masha,” said Vasya, dry-mouthed. “They do.” The crowd before the gate spread like a river against a rock.

“We must bar the door to the palace,” Olga said. “They might break the gate. Varvara—”

“Have you sent for Sasha?” Vasya interrupted. “For men from the Grand Prince?”

“Whom exactly is she supposed to send?” said Varvara. “All the men were in the city when this started. Curse it. I would have had some warning myself, were I not in the terem all the day, and so weary.”

    “I can go,” said Vasya.

“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Varvara. “Do you think you’ll not be recognized? Do you mean to ride that great bay stallion too, that every man, woman, and child in this city will know on sight? I will go, if anyone.”

“No one is going,” said Olga coolly. “Look, we are surrounded.”

Vasya and Varvara turned toward the window again. It was true. The pool of torches had spread.

The women’s whispers were shrill now with fright.

The crowd swelled; people were still streaming in from side-streets. They began pounding on the gate. Vasya could not make out individual faces in the crowd; the torches dazzled her eyes. The dooryard beneath them lay cold and silent.

“Be easy, Vasya,” said Olga. Her face was rigidly calm. “Don’t be frightened, Masha; go and sit by the fire with your brother.” To Varvara— “Take women to help you; put whatever you can find against the door. It will buy time, if they break the gate. The tower was built to withstand Tatars. We will be all right. Sasha and the Grand Prince will get word of the disturbance; men will arrive in time.”

The shimmer of Olga’s golden chains still betrayed her unease.

“If it is me they want—” Vasya began.

Olga cut her off. “Give yourself over? Do you think that can be reasoned with?” A sharp gesture took in the seething mob. Varvara was already chivying women off their benches. The wood was sturdy. It would buy them time. But how much time?

Just then a new voice spoke. “Death,” it whispered.

Vasya turned her head. The voice belonged to Olga’s domovoi, speaking from the oven-mouth. His voice was the whisper of settling ashes after the fire has died.

Every hair on Vasya’s body rose. It is given to the domovoi to know what will happen to his family. In two limping strides, Vasya crossed to the stove. The women stared. Marya’s eyes met Vasya’s in horror; she too had heard the domovoi.

“Oh, what will happen?” Marya cried. She seized Daniil’s bread, making the child wail, and dropped to her knees on the hearth beside Vasya.

    “Now Masha—” the nurse began, but Vasya said, “Leave her,” in such a tone that the whole room drew back in fright. Even Olga’s breath whistled out audibly between her teeth.

Marya thrust her bread at the faded domovoi. “Don’t say that,” she said. “Don’t say death. You are frightening my brother.”

Her brother could neither hear nor see the domovoi, but Marya in her pride would not admit that she was frightened. “Can you not protect this house?” Vasya asked the domovoi.

“No.” The domovoi was little more than a faint voice, and a shape cast by the ember-light. “The sorcerer is dead; the old woman wanders in darkness. Men have turned their eyes to other gods. There is nothing left to sustain me. To sustain any of us.”

“We are here,” said Vasya, fierce with fear. “We see you. Help us.”

“We see you,” Marya echoed, whispering. Vasya took the child’s hand, held it tight. She had already reopened one of her innumerable cuts from the night before. She smeared a bloody hand on the hot brick in the oven-mouth.

The domovoi shivered and suddenly looked more like a living creature and less like a speaking shadow. “I can buy time,” he breathed. “A little time, but that is all.”

A little time? Vasya was still holding her niece’s hand. The women were massed at their backs, wearing various expressions of fright and condemnation.

“Black magic,” said one. “Olga Vladimirova, surely you see—”

“There is death in our fortunes tonight,” Vasya said to her sister, ignoring the others.

Olga’s face drew into grim lines. “Not if I can help it. Vasya, take the end of the bench; help Varvara bar the door—”

In Vasya’s head beat a swift litany: It is me they want.

Out in the dooryard, Solovey squealed. The gates shook. Varvara stood nearest the door, silent. Her eyes seemed to convey something. Vasya thought she knew what it was.

She knelt, stiffly, to look her niece in the face. “You must always take care of the domovoi,” she said to Marya. “Here—or wherever you are—you must do your best to make him strong, and he will protect the house.”

    Marya nodded solemnly, and said, “But Vasochka, what about you? I don’t know enough—”

Vasya kissed her and stood. “You will learn,” she said. “I love you, Masha.” She turned to Olga. “Olya, she—soon, you must send her to Alyosha, at Lesnaya Zemlya. He will understand; he knew me, growing up. Masha cannot stay in this tower, not forever.”