She pitched herself off Solovey. Medved cringed away, grumbling, but already she had forgotten him. She ran to her father’s head. Alyosha had gotten there before her. He pulled aside his father’s torn cloak. The blow had crushed Pyotr’s ribs on one side, and blood bubbled up between his lips. Vasya pressed her hands to the wounded place. Warmth flared into her hands. Her tears fell onto her father’s eyes. A hint of color tinged Pyotr’s graying skin, and his eyes opened. They fell on Vasya and brightened.
“Marina,” he croaked. “Marina.”
The breath sighed out of him and he did not take another.
“No,” Vasya whispered. “No.” She dug her fingertips into her father’s slack flesh. His chest heaved suddenly, like a bellows, but his eyes were fixed and staring. Vasya tasted blood where she’d bitten into her lip, and she fought the death as though it were her own, as though…
A cold long-fingered hand caught both of hers, leaching the warmth away. Vasya tried to wrench her hands free, but she could not. Morozko’s voice wafted icy air across her cheek. “Leave it, Vasya. He chose this; you cannot undo it.”
“Yes, I can,” she hissed back, breath catching in her throat. “It should have been me. Let me go!” Then the hand was gone, and she spun round. Morozko had already drawn away. She looked up into his face, pale and indifferent, cruel and just a little kind.
“Too late,” he said, and all around, the wind took up the words: Too late, too late.
And then the frost-demon had swung onto the white mare’s back, up behind another figure, that Vasya could only see out of the corner of her eye. “No,” she said, running after them. “Wait—Father.” But the white mare had already cantered off between the trees and disappeared into the darkness.
THE STILLNESS WAS SUDDEN and absolute. The one-eyed man slunk off into the undergrowth, and the chyerti disappeared into the winter forest. The rusalka laid a dripping hand on Vasya’s shoulder in passing. “Thank you, Vasilisa Petrovna,” she said.
Vasya made no answer.
Solovey nuzzled her gently.
Vasya did not heed. She was staring at nothing, holding her father’s hand while it slowly turned cold.
“Look,” whispered Alyosha, hoarse and wet-eyed. “The snowdrops are dying.”
It was true. The warm, sickly, death-smelling wind had chilled, sharpened, and the flowers wilted down onto the hard earth. It was not yet midwinter, and their hour was months away. There was no clearing, no muddy space beneath a gray sky. There was only a huge old oak-tree, its branches twisted together. The village lay beyond, now clearly visible, a stone’s throw away. Day had broken and it was bitterly cold.
“Bound,” said Vasya. “The monster is bound. Father did it.” She reached out a stiff hand to pluck a drooping snowdrop.
“How came Father here?” said Alyosha in soft wonder. “He had—such a look about him. As if he knew what to do, and how, and why. He is with Mother now, by God’s grace.” Alyosha made the sign of the cross over his father’s body, rose, went to Anna, and repeated the gesture.
But Vasya did not move, nor did she answer.
She put the flower in her father’s hand. Then she laid her head against his chest and began, softly, to cry.
Chapter 28: At the End and at the Beginning
They kept a night’s vigil for Pyotr Vladimirovich and his wife. The two were buried together, with Pyotr between his first wife and his second. Though they mourned, the people did not despair. The miasma of death and defeat had gone from their fields and houses. Even the bedraggled remnants of half a burnt village, led past their gate by an exhausted Kolya, could not frighten them. The air bit gently, and the sun shone down, studding the snow with diamonds.
Vasya stood with her family, hooded and cloaked against the chill, and bore the people’s whispers. Vasilisa Petrovna disappeared. She returned on a winged horse. She should have been dead. Witch. Vasya remembered the touch of rope on her wrists, the cold look in Oleg’s eyes—a man she had known since childhood—and she made a decision.
When everyone else had gone, Vasya stood alone at her father’s grave in the dusk. She felt old and grim and tired.
“Can you hear me, Morozko?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, and then he was beside her.
She saw a subtle wariness in his face, and she laughed a laugh that was half a sob. “Afraid I will ask for my father back?”
“When I walked freely among men, the living would scream at me,” Morozko replied evenly. “They would seize my hand, the mane of my horse. The mothers begged me to take them, when I took up their children.”
“Well, I have had enough of the dead coming back.” Vasya fought for a tone of icy detachment. But her voice wavered.
“I suppose you have,” he replied. But the wariness had gone from his face. “I will remember his courage, Vasya,” he said. “And yours.”
Her mouth twisted. “Always? When I am like my father, clay in the cold earth? Well, that is something, to be remembered.”
He said nothing. They looked at each other.
“What would you have of me, Vasilisa Petrovna?”
“Why did my father die?” she asked in a rush. “We need him. If anyone had to die, it should have been me.”
“It was his choice, Vasya,” replied Morozko. “It was his privilege. He would not have had it otherwise. He died for you.”
Vasya shook her head and paced a restless circle. “How did Father even know? He came to the clearing. He knew. How could he find us?”
Morozko hesitated. Then he said slowly, “He came home before the others and found you and your brother gone. He went into the woods to search. That clearing is enchanted. Until the tree dies, it will do all in its power to keep the Bear contained. It knew what was needed, better even than I. It drew your father to you, once he entered the forest.”
Vasya was silent a long moment. She looked at him narrow-eyed, and he met her gaze. At last she nodded.
Then, “There is something I must do,” Vasya said abruptly. “I need your help.”
IT HAD ALL GONE WRONG, thought Konstantin. Pyotr Vladimirovich was dead, killed by a wild beast on the threshold of his own village. Anna Ivanovna, they said, had run out into the woods in a fit of madness. Well, of course she did, he told himself. She was a madwoman and a fool; we all knew it. But he could still see her frantic, bloodless face. It hung before his waking eyes.
Konstantin read the service for Pyotr Vladimirovich scarce knowing what he said, and he ate at the funeral feast hardly knowing what he did.
But in the twilight, there came a knock at the door of his cell.
When the door opened, his breath hissed out and he stumbled back. Vasya stood in the gap, the candlelight strong on her face. She was grown so beautiful, pale and remote, graceful and troubled. Mine, she is mine. God has sent her back to me. This is his forgiveness.
“Vasya,” he said, and reached out to her.
But she was not alone. When she slipped through the door, a dark-cloaked figure unfolded from the shadows at her shoulder and glided in beside her. Konstantin could see nothing of the face, save that it was pale. The hands were very long and thin.
“Who is that, Vasya?” he said.