Again he did not speak. She stepped back.
“They mean for me to come to Moscow,” she said.
“Do you wish to go to Moscow?”
She nodded. “I want to see my sister. I want to see more of my brother. But I cannot stay a boy forever, and I do not want to be a girl in Moscow. They will try to find me a husband.”
He was silent a moment, but his eyes had darkened. “Moscow is full of churches. Many churches. I cannot—chyerti are not strong in Moscow, not anymore.”
She drew back, crossing her arms over her breast. “Does that matter? I will not stay forever. I am not asking for your help.”
“No,” he agreed. “You are not.”
“The night under the spruce-tree—” she began. All around them the snow floated like mist.
Morozko seemed to gather himself, and then he smiled. It was the smile of the winter-king, old and fair and unknowable. Any hint of deeper feeling vanished from his face. “Well, mad thing?” he asked. “What do you mean to ask me? Or are you afraid?”
“I am not afraid,” said Vasya, bristling.
That was true, and it was also a lie. The sapphire was warm beneath her clothes; it was glowing, too, though she could not see it. “I am not afraid,” she repeated.
His breath slipped cool past her cheek. Goaded, she dared to do dreaming what she would not awake. She twisted her hand in his cloak and pulled him nearer.
She had surprised him again. The breath hitched in his throat. His hand caught hers, but he did not untangle her fingers.
“Why are you here?” she asked him.
For a moment she thought he would not answer, then he said, as though reluctant, “I heard you cry.”
“I—you—you cannot come to me thus and go away again,” she said. “Save my life? Leave me stumbling alone with three children in the dark? Save my life again? What do you want? Do not—kiss me and leave—I don’t—” She could not find the words for what she meant, but her fingers spoke for her, digging into the sparkling fur of his robe. “You are immortal, and perhaps I seem small to you,” she said at last fiercely. “But my life is not your game.”
His grip crushed her hand in turn, right on the edge of pain. Then he untangled her fingers, one by one. But he did not let go. For an instant his eyes found hers and burned them, so full were they of light.
Again the wind stirred the ancient trees. “You are right. Never again,” he said simply, and again it sounded like a promise. “Farewell.”
No, she thought. Not like that—
But he was gone.
12.
Vasilii the Brave
The bells rang for outrenya and Vasya jerked awake, dazed with dreams. The heavy coverlets seemed to smother her. Like a creature in a trap, Vasya was on her feet before she knew, and the morning chill jolted her back to awareness.
When she emerged from Sasha’s hut, she was hatted and hooded and longing for a bath. All around was a swirl of activity. Men and women ran back and forth, shouting, quarreling—packing, she realized. The danger had ended; the peasants were going home. Chickens were being boxed, cows goaded, children slapped, fires smothered.
Well, of course they were going home. All was well. The bandits had been tracked to their lair. They had been slain—hadn’t they? Vasya shook off thought of the missing captain.
She was trying to choose whether she needed her breakfast or a place to relieve herself worse, when Katya came running up, very pale, her kerchief askew.
“Easy,” Vasya said, catching her just before the girl sent them both into the snow. “It is too early in the morning for running about, Katyusha. Have you seen a giant?”
Katya was blotched red with passion, her nose running freely. “Forgive me; I came to find you,” she gasped. “Please—Gospodin—Vasilii Petrovich.”
“What is it?” Vasya returned in quick alarm. “What has happened?”
Katya shook her head, throat working. “A man—Igor—Igor Mikhailovich—asked me to marry him.”
Vasya looked Katya up and down. The girl looked more bewildered than frightened.
“Has he?” Vasya asked cautiously, “Who is Igor Mikhailovich?”
“He is a blacksmith—he has a forge,” Katya stammered. “He and his mother—they have been kind to me and to the little girls—and today he said that he loves me and—oh!” She covered her face with her hands.
“Well,” Vasya returned. “Do you want to marry him?”