And then he raised his hand, Niko cowering, and I lurched to my feet, pulling my skirt out from under Papa’s boots. He stumbled back, nearly crashing into Sevas and Derkach, but catching himself instead against the wall.
When at last he had righted himself, his face as purple as his beard, Papa only said, “Marlinchen, you’ve made a bad mistake.”
Before I could even flinch, Sevas stepped between us. There was blood smeared on the back of his hand.
“Mr. Vashchenko,” he said, sounding more abased than I had ever heard him, and still scarcely looking up from the ground, “there’s no need for you to use your magic here. I can pay. I can pay double.”
The brilliant violet flush flared at Sevas’s interruption, but as Papa considered his words, his face cooled again. In an icy tone, he said, “Eighty, then.”
Sevas nodded, and then glanced over at Derkach with a furrowed brow and beseeching eyes. Sighing, Derkach retrieved a sack of coins from his pocket and thrust them all at Papa. Without speaking, Papa snatched the bag from him.
I stared up at Sevas, unable to summon any words myself. There was the cold shadow of Papa’s magic, still seeping like damp winter air into my bones. There was my own terror, too, so many awful imaginings turned loose in my mind: What had Sevas offered Derkach, to earn his easy acquiescence?
I had made countless trades like this myself, vows that I would keep like holding a steaming skillet in my bare hands, biting my lip as it burned, debts that would come due only when everyone else had gone and the house was empty and I was lying curled in my bed.
Our gazes met, and Sevas gave me a crooked, trembling smile.
“There,” Derkach said, after Papa had counted out all his coins and tucked them away in his tumorous pocket, “now that this has all been settled, we can take our leave. In the future, Ms. Vashchenko, I would prefer not to see you at the ballet theater again. Ever since your visit this week Sevas has been more inattentive than ever. Please, he has enough trouble keeping his mind on his work.”
Papa did not speak a word to me as we left Sevas’s flat. His fingers were clamped so tightly around my wrist that I could feel the skin breaking under his nails. I did not dare to even whimper.
He dragged me through the streets of Oblya, his footsteps brisk and hard, like stones being dropped from a great height. I was so scared that my mind kept spluttering and stammering around all the possibilities; my fear was a pit too huge to swallow. When at last Papa jerked open the gate and hurled me into the garden, I was panting and sweating profusely, my bodice and corset straining with every breath.
Still he did not speak. Indrik gaped at us over a blackberry bush and the goblin peered out from behind his cloven feet. I could feel my gorge rise, even though I had eaten nothing that day. As Papa pulled me into the house, I had to clap my free hand over my mouth to keep from retching.
My sisters were awake now, and when they heard us they came hurrying out into the foyer, just as the grandfather clock gonged noon. Papa did not say a word to them either. He only hauled me up the stairs, down the long hallway, and into my bedroom, Rose and Undine mewling at our heels.
He let go of my wrist at last, blood welling from the tiny crescents that his nails had dug into my skin. He wrenched open the door of my wardrobe and flung all my dresses onto the floor, clawing through the silk, whalebone snapping in his fists. He dumped out all of my jewelry, whatever hadn’t been sold, and pawed at the heap of pearls and gold.
When he found nothing, he stormed past us into Rose’s room, gutting her wardrobe and disemboweling her jewelry box and crushing the teeth of the ivory-handled comb that lay on her desk. Mama’s comb. I put my wrist into my mouth and licked at the blood there, salt bursting on my tongue. Finally he went to Undine’s room.
There, Papa threw her dresses on the floor and scattered her jewelry over the carpet and even smashed her boudoir mirror, glass shards exploding like a dandelion’s split seed hull. Tiny sharp bits landed on my dress and in my hair. Beside me, Rose was weeping without making a sound, tears tracking two neat paths down her cheeks. Undine lunged toward Papa and beat her fists against his chest.
“I hate you!” she screamed. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
Papa thrust her away from him with a mindless, animal twitch, like a bull shaking off a gathering of flies. She lilted to the ground, limp and bodiless as a white linen dress. On her hands and knees, golden hair falling in twin curtains over her face, Undine began to weep too.
“How did you do it?” Papa grasped me by the shoulders and shook me hard enough to make my teeth rattle. “Selfish daughters, thankless daughters, wretched daughters, tell me how you broke my spell!”