The Girl in the Tower (Winternight Trilogy #2)(53)

Olga frowned. The child’s silk cap lay askew, and she had torn her sarafan. It was high time to replace her nurse. “Very well,” Olga said. “Send them up at once. Sit down, Masha.”

Marya’s nurse came wheezing belatedly into the room. Marya gave her a wicked look, and the nurse shrank back. “I want to see my uncle,” the girl said to her mother.

“There is a boy with him, Masha,” said Olga wearily. “You are a great girl now; better not.”

Marya scowled.

Olga’s jaded glance took in the crowd about her oven. “Varvara, bring our visitors to my chamber. See that there is hot wine. No, Masha; listen to your nurse. You will see your uncle later.”



DURING THE DAY, OLGA’S OWN ROOM was not so warm as the crowded workroom, but it had the advantage of peace. The bed was curtained off, and visiting there was quite usual. Olga seated herself just in time to hear the footsteps, and then her brother, fresh from the road, stood in the doorway.

Olga got heavily to her feet. “Sasha,” she said. “Have you killed your bandits?”

“Yes,” he said. “There will be no more burning villages.”

“By God’s grace,” Olga said. She crossed herself and they embraced.

Then Sasha said, with unaccountable grimness, “Olya,” and stepped aside.

Behind him, in the doorway, lurked a slender, green-eyed boy, hooded and cloaked, wearing supple leather and wolfskin, two saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The boy at once paled. The saddlebags thumped to the floor.

“Who is this?” Olga asked reflexively. Then a shocked breath hissed out between her teeth.

The boy’s mouth worked; his great eyes were bright. “Olya,” she whispered. “It is Vasya.”

Vasya? No, Vasya is dead. This is not Vasya. This is a boy. In any case, Vasya was only a snub-nosed child. And yet, and yet…Olga looked again. Those green eyes…“Vasya?” Olga gasped. Her knees went weak.

Her brother helped her to her chair, and Olga leaned forward, hands on knees. The boy hovered uncertainly at the doorway. “Come here,” Olga said, recovering. “Vasya. I can’t believe it.”

The erstwhile boy shut the door, and with her back to them, raised trembling fingers and fumbled with the ties of her hood.

A heavy plait of shining black slithered out, and she turned once more to face the oven. With the cap gone, now Olga could see her little sister grown: that strange, impossible child become a strange, impossible woman. Not dead—alive—here…Olga struggled for breath.

“Olya,” Vasya said. “Olya, I’m sorry. You are so pale. Olya, are you well? Oh!” The green eyes lit; the hands clasped. “You are going to have a baby. When—?”

“Vasya!” Olga broke in, finding her voice. “Vasya, you’re alive. How came you here? And dressed so…Brother, sit down. You, too, Vasya. Come into the light. I want to look at you.”

Sasha, meek for once, did as he was told.

“Sit down, too,” Olga said to Vasya. “No, there.”

The girl, looking eager and frightened, sank onto the indicated stool with a loose-limbed grace.

Olga took the girl by the chin and turned her face into the light. Could this really be Vasya? Her sister had been an ugly child. This woman was not ugly—though she had features too stark for beauty: wide mouth, vast eyes, long fingers. She looked far too like the witch-girl Konstantin described.

Her green eyes spilled over with sorrow and courage and terrible fragility. Olga had never forgotten her little sister’s eyes.

Vasya said, tentatively, “Olya?”

Olga Vladimirova found herself smiling. “It is good to see you, Vasya.”

Vasya fell to her knees, crying like a child into Olga’s lap. “I m-missed you,” she stammered. “I missed you so.”

“Hush,” Olga said. “Hush. I missed you, too, little sister.” She stroked her sister’s hair, and realized she was crying as well.

At last Vasya raised her head. Her mouth quivered; she wiped her streaming eyes, drew breath, and took her sister’s hands. “Olya,” she said. “Olya, Father is dead.”

Olya felt a little cold place form and grow inside her: anger at this rash girl, mixed with her love. She did not say anything.

“Olya,” Vasya said. “Didn’t you hear? Father is dead.”

“I know,” Olga said. She crossed herself, and could not keep that coldness from her voice. Sasha glanced at her, frowning. “God give him peace. Father Konstantin told me all. He said you had run away. He thought you had died. I thought you had died. I wept for you. How came you here? And dressed—so?” She eyed her sister in some despair, taking in anew the disheveled shining plait, the boots and leggings and jacket, the disturbing grace of a wild thing.

“Tell her, Vasya,” said her brother.

Vasya ignored both question and order. She had shot stiff-legged to her feet. “He is here? Where? What is he doing? What did Father Konstantin tell you?”

Olga measured out the words. “That our father died saving your life. From a bear. That you— Oh, Vasya, better not to speak of it. Answer the question: How came you here?”

A pause, and all the ferocity seemed to rush out of her. Vasya dropped back onto her stool. “It should have been me,” she said low. “But it was him. Olya, I didn’t mean…” She swallowed. “Don’t listen to the priest; he is—”