The frown between the woman’s eyes deepened. “You have no sling, no pack, no beast. You are not dressed to spend even one night out of doors. Where have you come from, girl?”
“From the forest,” Vasya improvised. “I fell into the river and lost all I had.”
It was almost the truth. The woman’s brows drew together. “Then why—” She paused. “Can you see?” she asked in a different voice. She looked suddenly half-afraid, half-eager.
Vasya knew what she meant. Tell no one who you are. “No,” she said at once.
The eager light faded from the woman’s eyes. She sighed. “Well, it was too much to hope for. Come, there are lords visiting from all about, and their servants; you will not be noticed. You may eat in the hall, and have a warm place to sleep.”
“Thank you,” said Vasya.
The tawny woman opened the door. “I am Yelena Tomislavna,” she said. “The lord is my brother. Come.”
Vasya, heart beating very fast, followed her in. She could feel the dvorovoi at her back. Watching.
YELENA CAUGHT THE SHOULDER of a servant. A few words passed between them. All Vasya heard was “get back to our guest” from Yelena. A strange expression of sympathy crossed the face of the old servant.
Then the servant bustled Vasya into a cellar full of chests, bundles, and barrels. Muttering to herself, she began to rummage. “No harm will come to you here, poor maiden,” she said. “Take off those clothes; I will find you something proper.”
Vasya debated arguing, realized that it might get her thrown out.
“As you say, babushka,” she said and began to strip. “But I would like to keep my old clothes.”
“Well, of course,” said the old servant kindly. “Never fling away wantonly.” Eyeing Vasya’s bruises, she clucked and said, “Husband or father’s handiwork, I care not. Bold girl, to dress as a boy and run away.” She turned Vasya’s cut face to the light, frowned dubiously.
“Perhaps, if you stay here and work hard, the lord will give you a little dowry, and you may find a new husband.”
Vasya wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be vexed. The servant thrust a coarse linen shift over Vasya’s head. Over that went a length of cloth, hanging loose front and back, then belted. Bast shoes for her feet. The servant patted Vasya’s cropped black head and produced a kerchief. “What were you thinking, child, to cut your hair?”
“I was traveling as a boy,” Vasya reminded her. “Safer.” She slipped the wooden nightingale into the sleeve of her shift. The clothes smelled of onion and their previous owner, but they were warm.
“Come into the hall,” the servant said, after a pitying silence. “I will find you some supper.”
THE SMELL OF THE FEAST hit her first: of sweat and honey-wine and fat meat roasted in a great pit of coals at the center of a long hall. The room was packed with people, richly dressed; their ornaments gleamed copper and gold in the smoke-haze. The heat went up, making the air dance, to a hole in the center of the roof. A single star gleamed in the blackness, swallowed by the rising smoke. Servants bore in baskets of fresh bread, dusted with snow. Vasya, trying to peer in every direction at once, nearly tripped over a bitch-hound that had retired, growling, to a corner with her litter and a bone.
The serving-woman pushed Vasya down onto a bench. “Stay here,”
she said, intercepting a loaf and a cup. “Sup at your leisure, and see what you can of the great folk. There will be feasting until dawn.” She seemed to mark the girl’s nerves, and added kindly, “No harm will come to you. You’ll be put to work soon enough.” With that she was gone. Vasya was left alone with her meal and a head full of questions.
“It is the lord’s sister herself he wants,” said one man to another, hurrying past, stepping on one of the bitch-hound’s nursing puppies.
“Nonsense,” said his fellow, with a heavy, measured sort of voice.
“She is to marry; he will not give her up even to the winter-king.”
“He will not have a choice,” said the first voice, significantly.
Vasya thought, Morozko is here then. Frowning, she tucked the bread into her sleeve and got to her feet. The food made a small, comforting weight in her stomach. Wine heated her limbs and loosened them.
No one marked her rising; no one even glanced her way. Why should they?
Just then, the crowd parted, and gave her a look at the folk around the fire-pit.
Morozko was there.
Her breath stilled in her throat.
She thought, That is no prisoner.
He sat in the best place, near the fire. The flames gilded his face, cast dazzles of gold on the curling darkness of his hair. He was dressed like a prince: jacket and shirt both stiff with embroidery; fur about cuffs and collar.
Their eyes met.
But his face did not change; he showed no sign of recognition. He turned his head away to speak to someone sitting beside him. Then the gap in the crowd closed quick as it had opened. Vasya was left shaken, craning her head in vain.
What keeps him here, if not force?
Had he truly not known her?
The bitch on the floor growled. Vasya, whom the crowd was pushing nearer and nearer the wall, found herself trying not to step on the creature. “Could you not nurse in a quieter spot?” she asked the dog, and then a man stumbled into her, drunk.
Vasya lurched into the wall, sending the bitch up snapping. The man pinned her against the smoke-darkened wood. Clumsy with drink, he ran a hand down Vasya’s body. “Well, you’ve eyes like green
pools at twilight,” he said, slurring. “But doesn’t your mistress feed you at all?”
He poked a clumsy forefinger against the side of her breast, as though bent on finding out for himself. His open mouth descended on hers.
Vasya felt her heartbeat quick and furious against the man’s chest.
Without a word, she threw all her weight at him, heedless of the strain on her still-sore ribs, and slipped out from between man and wall.
He nearly went over. She tried to disappear into the crowd, but the man recovered, seized her arm and wrenched her back around. A look of injured pride had replaced his smile. All about them, heads turned. “Treat me like that?” he said. “On Midwinter night, too!
What man would want you, frog-mouthed little weasel?” He looked crafty. “Get you gone. They will be wanting mead there at the high table.”
Vasya didn’t speak but reached for the memory of fire. The flames in the fire-pit blazed up, crackling. Those nearest drew back from the heat; the whole crowd heaved. Thrown off balance, the man’s grip loosened. Vasya pulled away from him, melted into the crowd. The heat and the reek of tight-packed people sickened her; blindly she made for the door and stumbled out into the night.
For long moments, she stood in the snow, heaving for breath. The night was pure and cold; eventually she calmed.
She didn’t want to go back in.
But Morozko was there, somehow imprisoned. She must get closer; she must discover the nature of his chain.
Then she thought, perhaps the man was right. What better way to go near the winter-king unremarked than as a servant bearing wine?
