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One bright, bitter morning, not long before midwinter, Vasya ran the horses into the field, whooping, riding the bareback Mysh. But once the horses were settled, the girl dismounted and looked the mare over frowning. Her ribs were beginning to show through her brown coat, not from want, but from waiting.
He will come again, the mare said. Can you smell it?
Vasya had not the nose of a horse, but she turned into the wind. For an instant, the smell of rotting leaves and pestilence closed her throat. “Yes,” she said grimly, coughing. “The dogs smell it, too. They whine when the men set them loose, and run for their kennels. But I will not let him hurt you.”
She began her round, going from horse to horse with withered apple cores, poultices, and soft words. Mysh followed her like a dog. At the edge of the herd, Buran scraped the ground with a forehoof and bugled a challenge to the waiting wood.
“Be easy,” said Vasya. She came alongside the stallion and put a hand on his hot crest.
He was furious as a stallion that sees a rival among his mares, and he almost kicked her before he got hold of himself. Let him come! He reared, lashing out with his forefeet. This time I will kill him.
Vasya dodged the flying hooves, pressing her body to his. “Wait,” she said into his ear.
The horse spun, snapping his teeth, but she clung close and he could not reach her. She kept her voice quiet. “Keep your strength.”
Stallions obey mares; Buran put his head down.
“You must be strong and calm when it comes,” said Vasya.
Your brother, said Mysh. Vasya turned to see Alyosha, hatless, running toward her out the palisade-gate.
In an instant, Vasya had her forearm behind Mysh’s withers, and then she was on the horse’s back. The mare galloped across the field, kicking up the frozen glaze. The sturdy pasture fence loomed, but Mysh cleared the barrier and ran on.
Vasya met Alyosha just outside the palisade. “It is Dunya,” said Alyosha “She will not wake. She is saying your name.”
“Come on,” said Vasya, and Alyosha sprang up behind her.
THE KITCHEN WAS HOT; the oven roared and gaped like a mouth. Dunya lay atop the oven, open-eyed and unseeing, still except for her twitching hands. She muttered to herself now and again. Her brittle skin stretched over her bones, so tight that Vasya thought she could see the ebbing blood. She climbed quickly atop the oven. “Dunya,” she said. “Dunya, wake up. It is I. It is Vasya.”
The open eyes blinked once, but that was all. Vasya felt a moment of panic; she forced it down. Irina and Anna knelt side by side before the icon-corner, praying. The tears slid down Irina’s face; she wasn’t pretty when she cried.
“Hot water,” snapped Vasya, turning round. “Irina, for God’s sake, praying will not keep her warm. Make soup.” Anna looked up with venomous eyes, but Irina, with surprising quickness, got to her feet and filled a pot.
All that day, Vasya sat at Dunya’s side, hunched atop the oven. She packed blankets around her nurse’s shriveled body and tried to coax broth down her throat. But the liquid dribbled out of her mouth, and she would not wake. All that long day the clouds drifted in, and the daylight darkened.
In the late afternoon, Dunya sucked in a breath as though she meant to swallow the world, and caught at Vasya’s hands. Vasya jerked back in surprise. The strength in her old nurse’s grip astonished her. “Dunya,” she said.
The old lady’s eyes wandered. “I did not know,” she whispered. “I did not see.”
“You will be all right,” said Vasya.
“He has one eye. No, he has blue eyes. They are the same. They are brothers. Vasya, remember…” And then her hand fell away and she lay still, mumbling to herself.
Vasya spooned more hot drinks down Dunya’s throat. Irina kept the fire roaring. But the old lady’s pulse faded with the daylight. She ceased to mutter and lay open-eyed. “Not yet,” she said to the empty corner, and sometimes she cried. “Please,” she said then. “Please.”
The feeble day flickered, and a hush fell over house and village. Alyosha went out for firewood; Irina went to tend to her peevish mother.
When Konstantin’s voice broke the silence, Vasya nearly leaped out of her skin.
“Does she live?” he said. The shadows lay across him like a woven mantle.
“Yes,” Vasya said.
“I will pray with her,” he said.
“You will not,” snapped Vasya, too weary and frightened for courtesy. “She is not going to die.”
Konstantin came nearer. “I can ease her pain.”
“No,” Vasya repeated. She was going to cry. “She is not going to die. As you love God, I beg you, go.”
“She is dying, Vasilisa Petrovna. This is my place.”
“She is not!” Vasya’s voice came wrenching from her throat. “She is not dying. I am going to save her.”
“She will be dead by morning.”
“You want my people to love you, so you made them afraid.” Vasya was pale with fury. “I will not have Dunya afraid. Get out.”
Konstantin opened his mouth, then closed it again. Abruptly he turned and left the kitchen.
Vasya forgot him at once. Dunya had not wakened. She lay still, her pulse a thread, her breathing barely felt on Vasya’s unsteady hand.
Night fell. Alyosha and Irina returned; the kitchen filled briefly with a subdued bustle as the evening meal was served. Vasya could not eat. The hour drew on and the kitchen emptied once more until it was only they four, Dunya and Vasya, Irina and Alyosha. The latter two dozed on the oven. Vasya was nodding herself.
“Vasya,” said Dunya.
Vasya jerked awake with a sob. Dunya’s voice was feeble, but lucid. “You’re all right, Dunyashka. I knew you would be.”
Dunya smiled toothlessly. “Yes,” she said. “He is waiting.”
“Who is waiting?”
Dunya did not answer. She was struggling for breath. “Vasochka,” she said. “I have something your father gave me to keep for you. I must give it to you now.”
“Later, Dunyashka,” said Vasya. “You must rest now.”
But Dunya was already fumbling for her skirt pocket with one stiff hand. Vasya opened the pocket for her and withdrew something hard, wrapped in a scrap of soft cloth.
“Open it,” whispered Dunya. Vasya obeyed. The necklace was made of some pale, glittering metal, brighter than silver, and shaped like a snowflake, or a many-rayed star. A jewel of silver-blue burned in the center. Anna had no jewels to equal it; Vasya had never seen anything so fine. “But what is it?” she asked, bewildered.
“A talisman,” said Dunya, struggling for breath. “There is power in it. Keep it hidden. Do not speak of it. If your father asks, tell him you know nothing of it.”
Madness. A line formed between Vasya’s brows, but she slipped the chain over her head. It swung between her breasts, invisible under her clothes. Suddenly Dunya went rigid, her dry fingers scrabbling at Vasya’s arm. “His brother,” she hissed. “He is angry that you have the jewel. Vasya, Vasya, you must…” She choked and fell silent.
From without, there came a long, savage chuckle.
Vasya froze, heart hammering. Again? Last time, I was dreaming. Then came a scrape: the soft sound of a dragging foot. Another and another. Vasya swallowed. Noiseless, she slid off the oven. The domovoi was crouching at the oven-mouth, frail and intent. “It cannot get in,” said the domovoi, fierce. “I will not let it. I will not.”
