He closed his book, put away his pen, and rubbed his eyes—god, they were scratchy tonight; or maybe it was the sleep he had not gotten, with Pyetr tossing and turning all the rest of the night, after he had gotten him to bed at all.
He unstuck the candle from the desk—slopped hot wax onto his finger, and onto the floor. Damn it. Probably onto his trouser leg. Candles were a mess—safer than oil-lamps in this clutter, but certainly hell on the furniture.
He set the candle on the bedside table, in a ring of previous wax spots, sat down to pull his boots off, thinking, A wife would be very nice. Someone to talk to would be nice. Someone to keep the damned fire in the fireplace lit, and the house warm, and echoing with voices.
That thought got completely out of hand. Completely. He thought, Why should I give up my whole life for everyone else?—which was not even reasonable: if not for Pyetr and his family he would be the sole occupant in that house down the hill, and within a year it would look like this one—or worse, stand neat and silent and foil of unused furniture.
No, left on his own, he would have probably gone and courted some farmer’s daughter downriver, and maybe had a little girl of his own by now, who did not exist, thanks to the years he had spent bringing Ilyana up; and who probably would never exist, considering the years he had already spent working and making notes and piling his house full of things he meant to take care of and still had to do. Somehow he had just gotten—
—damned lonely, in an overcrowded little house he did not quite know how had gotten this way. He wished for someone—
Oh, my god, he thought.
No. I don’t want that.
He could not lie to himself. That never worked.
He thought—There’s nothing for it; I’ve done it now. I’ve got to do something about this before it just happens—maybe go out and find somebody, if I can reason with ’Veshka and not have some poor girl turned into a toad on my account.
God, what have I done to myself? I haven’t got time for this. I’m not sure I even want a wife. I’m not sure I want any stranger coming between me and my family. I’m not sure I want some strange woman who can’t read straightening up my papers, or having another little girl to bring up, who might be a wizard, too—or, god help me, a little boy, or three or four of them—
It did not help that there was the sound of thunder in the distance: rainstorms were natural enough in the spring. But one did not like to make important wishes when nature was unsettled. Instabilities bred instabilities, and he certainly did not want distractions tonight, while he was chasing this unruly, unasked-for notion of a wife: distractions like Eveshka out on the river in a thunderstorm, or Pyetr worrying about her or Ilyana making wishes about the weather for her mother’s sake—
Damn it all, miss us! Go north! We can do without the rain tonight!
But thunderstorms were damnably difficult to deter.
He blew out the light, slipped under a comfortable weight of covers and stared at the dark overhead, thinking—
I truly don’t want this. I really, truly don’t want this. I don’t know why I do such contrary things—but I can’t take it back, now. Something slipped, just then, I felt it go: old wishes, maybe—remembering the mouse was worried about me, something she wished for me.
Dammit all.
The wind rose. It was moving fast, that storm: hope that Eveshka was safely moored somewhere—but she had taught them all they knew of handling that boat, and she could certainly see and hear the storm coming. He had no doubts of her, so long as she had her wits about her.
Eveshka would kill him for what he had done—wishing for a wife. Maybe she even knew about it. Maybe that was the source of the storm. Or maybe what he had just wished was the answer to their present difficulties, maybe it was even good, what had happened: impossible to know until the air settled. They had brought Ilyana this far alive and well and nature had to take its course: he had no intention to do to the mouse what Uulamets had done to him—bequeathing him in one instant everything he knew: which itself might solve matters, but it was damnably hard on a fifteen-year-old, he knew that from experience; and besides, he was by no means sure a wizard who was not dying could do it.
Rumble. A spatter of rain.
Not a good time to think about Uulamets’ death, or about lightning—god, he hated fires. He remembered Chernevog’s house burning, and remembered, earliest of memories—his parents’ screams, the neighbors flinching while he huddled behind a forest of grown-up legs, feeling the heat—
The neighbors had said, The boy’s a witch, you know. Vasily beat the boy once too often—
Now a fire would not stay lit in his hearth.
He gazed into the dark above the rafters—hearing the thunder. He had a vision of himself directly beneath the sky, the roof seeming suddenly no shield from Uulamets’ fate; or Chernevog’s.
He felt the storm, felt the instability in the heavens. He thought—I should get up. I should go down the hill for safety tonight. I don’t like this. Something’s definitely fractured.
But to go outdoors under that lightning-pregnant cloud, perhaps to bring ill luck with him, to Pyetr’s house, right where Ilyana—
No, that’s foolishness. I should wish not, the lightning’s up there right now, and I can’t want it away from me—
Not if Pyetr’s house is its other choice. Send it to the woods, burn the forest down? The leshys wouldn’t understand that.
God!
4
Bang! went the thunder, and Ilyana waked with her ears ringing and her heart in mid-leap. Rain on the roof. That one had shaken the house, as if a bolt had landed right in the yard.
Missy positively hated storms.
“Babi?” She rolled from the side of the bed, touched a straw to the night-wick with shaking hands and lit the lamp.
No Babi. Babi had been curled up on the covers at her feet, but he had probably gone for the stable the minute the storm started, that being his proper venue. She wished the horses well and calm, wished the lightnings not to hit that close again, please! while she pulled on the pair of trousers she wore for rough work, and the old pair of boots and the sloppy shirt, beltless. She flew through the door to the kitchen and opened the front door on a rain-laden gust and a red glare. There was a fire on the hill, a huge fire.
Oh, god! “Papa! Uncle’s roof!”
Her father’s bedroom door banged open and he came running through the kitchen and past her—he had stopped to dress, too, pushing his arm into his shirt as he headed down the walk-up into the storm without a word what to do— whether to come help or stay out of the way. He ran faster than she had imagined anybody could run, banged through the outside gate while she was still clumping down the walk-up in too-large boots worn slick on the soles, and holding to the rail in quivery fright. She could wish there to be no more lightning bolts, and for her uncle to be all right and for his house not to burn—
Bang!
A horse screamed. Boards splintered. She thought of fire and broken boards and panicked horses, and splashed around the corner to be sure the stable had not been hit. It was still safe; Volkhi and Missy were in the pen, but Patches was out, running around the yard in panic.
“Patches!” she cried, and wanted her to come to her; but Patches dashed in panic right through her mother’s garden and charged right into the hedge—ran right through it, and the pickets, and fell outside.