“She is only tired, I think,” said Olga.
“She was very brave,” said Vasya.
Olga smoothed her daughter’s hair and said nothing.
“Olya,” Vasya said awkwardly. All the composure she’d found in Dmitrii’s hall seemed to have deserted her. “I—I told you that you would meet him. If you wish.”
Olga frowned. “Him, Vasya?”
“You asked. He is here. Will you see him?”
Morozko did not wait for an answer, nor did he walk through the door like a person. He simply stepped out of the shadows. The domovoi had been sitting beside the stove; now he shot to his feet, bristling; Marya stirred in her sleep.
“I mean them no harm, little one,” said Morozko, speaking first to the domovoi.
Olga had lurched to her feet too; she was standing in front of Marya’s bed as though to defend her child from evil. Vasya, stiff with apprehension, suddenly saw the frost-demon as her sister did: a cold-eyed shadow. She began to doubt her own course. Morozko turned away from the domovoi, bowed to Olga.
“I know you,” Olga whispered. “Why have you come here?”
“Not for a life,” Morozko said. His voice was even, but Vasya felt him wary.
Olga said to Vasya, “I remember him. I remember. He took my daughter away. ”
“No—he—” began Vasya, clumsily, and Morozko shot her a hard look. She subsided.
His face was unchanged, but his whole body was taut with strain.
Vasya understood why. He’d wanted to go near enough to humanity to be remembered, so he could go on existing. But Vasya had pulled him nearer and nearer still, like a moth to a candle-flame. Now he must look at Olga, understand the torment in her eyes, and carry it with him down the long roads of his life.
He didn’t want to. But he didn’t move.
“It is little comfort,” Morozko said carefully. “But your elder daughter has a long life before her. And the younger—I will remember her.”
“You are a devil,” said Olga. “My little girl didn’t even have a name.”
“I will remember her regardless,” said the winter-king.
Olga stared at him a moment and then suddenly broke; her whole body bowed with grief. She put her face in her hands.
Vasya, feeling helpless, went to her sister, wrapped tentative arms about her. “Olya?” she said. “Olya, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Olga made no answer and Morozko stood where he was. He did not speak again.
There was a long silence. Olga took a deep breath. Her eyes were wet. “I never wept,” she said. “Not since the night I lost her.”
Vasya held her sister tightly.
Olga gently put Vasya’s arms aside. “Why my sister?” she asked Morozko. “Why, of all the women in the world?”
“For her blood,” said Morozko. “But later for her courage.”
“Have you anything to offer her?” Olga asked him. And, with an edge, “Besides whispers in the dark?”
Vasya bit back her sound of protest. If the question took Morozko aback, it didn’t show. “All the lands of winter,” he said. “The black trees and the silver frost. Gold and riches made by men; she may fill her hands with wealth, if she desires it.”
“Will you deny her the spring and the summer?”
“I will deny her nothing. But there are places she can go where I cannot easily follow.”
“He is not a man,” Olga said to Vasya, not taking her eyes off the winter-king. “He will not be a husband to you.”
Vasya bowed her head. “I have never wanted a husband. He came with me out of winter, for Moscow’s sake. It is enough.”
“And you think he won’t hurt you, in the end? Remember the dead girl in the fairy tale!”
“I am not she,” said Vasya.
“What if this—liaison means your damnation?”
“I am damned already,” Vasya said. “By every law of God and man.
But I do not wish to be alone.”
Olga sighed and said sadly, “As you say, sister.” Abruptly, she said,
“Very well. My blessing on you both—now send him away.”
