Echo North(46)

The mirror swirled white.

And then I was looking down the street of my village, following my father as he strode up to the bookshop, his hands in his pockets, whistling.

He fished out a key and unlocked the door, then stepped inside and went about the business of opening the shop: dusting the register, drawing the curtains, sweeping the already-spotless floor.

A man came in when he was only partially finished with this ritual and requested a book, which my father found quickly. The customer laid silver in my father’s hands before stepping back outside, tipping his hat as he went. This scene repeated several times, with various men and women, and my heart twinged—my father’s business was successful, for the first time in years. I wondered what had changed. Maybe Donia was right—maybe my face had cursed him.

The mirror shifted.

I saw Donia sitting on the couch in front of the fire, her fingers flashing with needle and thread. Her belly was round and tight beneath her dress, and she hummed as she sewed. Snow clung white to the window.

And then the scene changed again. I saw Rodya receiving his tradesman’s sigil from his master, saw him stride out into the street where a girl waited for him, nut-brown hair curling from under her kerchief. She had soft eyes and a shy smile, and she fingered his sigil and kissed his cheek.

Rodya laughed and laughed, and kissed the girl properly, holding her close and safe against him. He murmured quiet words into her ear: “We’ll be wed before spring, if you’ll still have me.”

And then it was the girl’s turn to laugh.

The mirror wavered a third time, and went blank.

I raised my head from the mirror and found the wolf beside me, his amber eyes very bright. “Echo, why are you crying?”

“They are so happy. Oh, Wolf, they are so happy without me.” And I wrapped my arms around his white neck and sobbed into his fur.



THE WOLF AND I WENT to the garden, and settled on the step near the lily pond. The wind was cold but the sun was warm; the air smelled of honey.

I told the wolf everything I’d seen in the mirror, words tumbling out of me until I was emptied of them. I hugged my knees to my chest and wiped away the remnants of my tears.

He watched me, passive and sad, and for a while didn’t say anything. Over the iron fence, the wood was heavy with snow.

“I did this to you,” the wolf said at last, his voice low and more gruff than usual. “I scarred your face. I made your life into something it never should have been.”

It wasn’t at all what I expected. “Wolf, I’ve never blamed you.”

“Then why do you blame yourself?”

That was something I had no answer for.

“What others see in you reflects upon them, not you. Your stepmother treated you poorly—your whole village did—but that is not your fault. It never was. It never could be.”

I picked up a pebble and threw it into the lily pond, but it only made a pathetic little plash before disappearing beneath the surface. “I have always been powerless.” I fought to keep control of my voice.

The wolf shook his white head. “Just because you have always thought that does not make it true. Do you think your brother and your father were kind to you out of pity? Or because they saw the trueness of your heart, your goodness and your worth?”

I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “What is my worth?”

“Deeper than you know.”

Everything felt sharp and cold, though the sunlight poured warmth into the garden. I didn’t want to think about my scars anymore. I didn’t want to think about my father and Rodya, or be afraid they were happier with me gone.

“If others cannot see your true self, if they refuse to see it—that is a flaw in their own character. Not in yours.”

“Have you seen my true self?”

He looked at me. “I’m beginning to.”

“Have I seen your true self?”

For a long, long moment, he gave no reply. We stared at each other, while the wind blew dead leaves into the water. “In part.”

“Will I ever see the whole?”

“I do not know, Echo Alkaev.”

I thought of the bauble room, the clock and the curl of silver hair. The wood, the wood, the wood. Puzzle pieces, waiting for me to fit them together, if I was brave enough to try.

“Wolf, why did you really bring me here?”

His sorrow was palpable. His eyes over-bright. “Because you are the opposite of her. You are full of life and kindness. You are not brimming with malice and hate, or waiting to twist others’ goodness to your own cruel purposes.”

“What has she done to you? What is she going to do?”

But he shook his white head. “There is a … bond … on me. I … cannot …”

“I know.”

He nuzzled my knee and I wrapped my arms around him and held him close.

We sat there like that until the sun sank and the air bit cold, then went back inside to our dinner.



I SETTLED THE NEXT MORNING on the piano bench and opened the Czajka piece I’d been working on. Outside the window, sunlight refracted off the snow, I started playing, easing into the notes after fumbling a bit in the beginning.

The music swallowed me and I lost myself for a while in the soaring melodies and fairy-bright ornamental passages. I thundered into the last passionate crescendo and let the remaining few notes whisper out into the room, wavering with sorrow before they died away.