The sun had passed its zenith. The trees nearest the palisade threw long shadows onto the ruined izby and hid a little of the horror. Solovey halted at the edge of the wood. “Wait for me here,” said Vasya.“If I call, you must come for me at once. Knock people down if you have to. I am not going to die because of their fear.”
The horse dropped his nose into her palm.
The village lay in ghostly silence. Its people had all gone to the church, where a pyre was building. Vasya, clinging to the shadows, crept past the palisade and flattened herself against the wall of Rada’s house. The woman was nowhere in sight, though there were drag marks where they had taken her husband away.
Vasya firmed her lips and slipped inside the hut. A pig in one corner squealed; her heart almost stopped. “Hush,” she told it.
The creature eyed her beadily.
Vasya went to the oven. Foolish chance, this, but she could think of nothing else. She had a little cold bread in her hand. “I see you,” she said softly, into the cold oven-mouth. “I am not of your people, but I have brought you bread.”
There was a silence. The oven-mouth was still, a deadly hush lay upon that house, whose master was dead, whose child had been stolen.
Vasya ground her teeth. Why would a strange house’s domovoi come at her calling? Perhaps she was a fool.
Then movement came from deep in the oven, and a small, sooty creature, all covered in hair, poked its head out of the oven-mouth. Twiggy fingers splayed on the hearthstones, it shrilled, “Go away! This is my house.”
Vasya was glad to see this domovoi, and gladder still to see him a solid creature, unlike the cloudy bannik in that ill-fated bathhouse. She laid her bread carefully on the bricks before the oven. “A broken house now,” she said.
Sooty tears welled in the domovoi’s eyes, and it sat down in the oven-mouth with a puff of ash. “I tried to tell them,” it said. “？‘Death,’ I cried, last night. ‘Death.’ But they only heard the wind.”
“I am going after Rada’s child,” said Vasya. “I mean to bring her back. But I do not know how to find her. There are no tracks in the snow.” She spoke with her head turned, listening hard for footsteps outside. “Master,” she said to the domovoi. “My nurse told me that if a family ever leaves its house, a domovoi may follow, if his people ask him rightly. The child cannot ask, but I am asking on her behalf. Do you know where this child has gone? Can you help me follow her?”
The domovoi said nothing, sucking its splintery fingers.
It was only a faint hope after all, Vasya thought.
“Take a coal,” said the domovoi, voice gone soft, like settling embers. “Take it, and follow the light. If you bring my Katya back, my kind will owe you a debt.”
Vasya drew a pleased breath, surprised at her success. “I will do my best.” She reached into the oven with her mittened hand and seized a lump of cold, charred wood. “There is no light,” she said, examining it doubtfully.
The domovoi said nothing; when she looked, it had disappeared back into the oven. The pig squealed again; faintly Vasya heard voices from the other end of the village, the crunch of feet in the snow. She ran to the door, stumbling on warped floorboards. Outside it was true evening now, full of concealing shadows.
On the other side of the village, the pyre caught and went up: a beacon in the fading light. The wailing rose with the smoke, as the people mourned their dead.
“God keep you all,” Vasya whispered, and then she was out the door and away, back into the clean forest, where Solovey waited beneath the trees.
The domovoi’s coal was still gray as the evening. Vasya mounted Solovey and peered down at it, dubiously. “We’ll try different directions and see what happens,” she said at length.
It was getting dark. The horse’s ears eased back in obvious disapproval of such slipshod proceedings, but he set out to circle the village.
Vasya watched the cold lump in her hand. Was that—？ “Wait, Solovey.”
The horse halted. The wood in Vasya’s hand now had a faint red edge. She was sure of it. “That way,” she whispered.
Step. Another. Halt. The coal brightened, grew hotter. Vasya was glad of her heavy mitten. “Straight on,” Vasya said.
Slowly their pace increased, from walk to trot, to ground-skimming lope, as Vasya grew surer of her direction. It was a clear night, moon nearly full, but bitterly cold. Vasya refused to think of it. She blew on her hands, drew her cloak round her face, and followed the light determinedly.