But then the door to the hut clatters open. A figure steps through the threshold, hefting a mound of firewood that obscures their face. From where I’m sat on the floor, I can only see the fringe of an embroidered skirt swinging across a pair of furred boots.
Gáspár rises at once, throwing off his pelt. “Who are you? Why did you bring us here?”
The firewood tumbles to the ground. The girl who was carrying it brings up a hand to wipe her brow. She looks my age or even younger, with pretty, shining eyes and pink cheeks.
“I saved your life, Woodsman,” she says coolly. “If you would prefer, I could take you back to where I found you on Lake Taivas and see how well you’d fare.”
Gáspár’s gaze flickers to me, and a deep flush comes over him, from forehead to chin. I am so relieved to see it that I almost sink back down into my pelt. Instead I clamber to my feet, readying myself for a bolt of pain as my left hand knuckles over the wooden floor. Nothing comes. My littlest finger is still gone, but there’s no more phantom ache.
“Who are you?” I press, staring and staring at the absence of my pinky.
The girl pulls off her mittens and runs a hand through her black hair, stiff with cold. She has the olive complexion of a Southerner, nearly like Gáspár’s, which I had thought impossible in a place so bereft of sunlight.
“Tuula,” she says.
A Northern name. But Tuula doesn’t look like a Northerner. In Virág’s stories, the Kalevans all have flaxen hair and ice-chip eyes, and skin as white as the snow under their boots.
“And the bear?” I venture.
Tuula looks around blankly, as though she’s forgotten it’s there.
“Oh,” she says after a moment. “That’s Bierdna. Don’t worry, she won’t hurt you as long as her belly is full and I’m in a pleasant mood.”
Gáspár and I exchange glances.
“Lucky for you, I’m usually in a pleasant mood.” Tuula nudges the bear, splayed out by the fire like an extraordinarily large fur rug.
I am too bewildered and sleep-muddled to think of what to say. My last memory is lying on the ice beside Gáspár, my fingers curled around his wrist. I think of how he dove after me without flinching and something stirs in my belly, a feather rustle like a flock of birds taking flight.
Across the room, I watch Gáspár roll up his sleeve. My throat tightens, anticipating a furrow of black rot, his veins spider-webbed with poison. But there’s only a swath of clear, unblemished skin, edged by the raised white mottle of his older scars. A strangled noise comes out of me.
“How?” I choke. “How did you do it?”
“That wasn’t me,” Tuula says. “And there was nothing to be done about your finger either. One of the sloppiest cuts I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. It looked like it was chewed off by a weasel.”
“Maybe it was,” I say, stomach lurching. I don’t trust this stranger enough to offer her the truth. ?rd?g’s threads are twitching around my wrist, but I don’t know the margins and limits of my newfound magic, and I’m not sure how well I would fare against a fat, full-grown bear. Gáspár’s ax rests against a woodpile on the other side of the room, over the mound of the bear’s furry back, and my knife is missing from my pocket. I quickly check for my braid and my coin, and find both with a tremor of relief.
“Then what an intrepid weasel it must have been.” Tuula’s voice is light, halfway to laughter, but there’s a gleam in her dark eyes, like the reflection of a blade flashing. “But since I did save your lives, I’d like to ask a favor of you. I’ve heard that Woodsmen are very keen on holding to their debts. What’s your name, sir?”
Her sir sounds as bitter as a snakebite. Gáspár glances between Tuula and me, and then between Tuula and the bear, who, even sleeping, provokes some worry.
“Gáspár,” he says finally, a hard edge to his voice. I wonder if he thinks Tuula might recognize him as the prince. I wonder if he wants her to. Kalevans are notoriously tepid toward their Southern rulers, even after nearly a hundred years of vassalage to the Crown.
But there’s no flicker of recognition in Tuula’s gaze. “And you, wolf-girl?”
I meet her eyes steadily. My palms are slick, but I don’t want her to think I’m afraid. “évike.”
“Well, Gáspár, évike”—she nods at each of us in turn—“will you help me slaughter Bierdna’s supper?”