It might be a bannik—surely that was it: he was in a bathhouse, after all, a wizard’s bathhouse, to boot, and an Old Man of the Bath was not necessarily a hostile or a baneful creature to strangers, just peevish and difficult and probably wondering what he was doing here, a prisoner in its domain.
He thought desperately—that if he could just gather the little strength that had come back to him, he would gladly oblige the bannik and make a fast run for the door, escape across the yard to the horses, wherever they were. He might ride out of this place, and reach—
But he had no idea where he had been going. Not home. Not back to his father, never, never—
A log fell, making his heart jump, with whatever-it-was creeping closer and closer. He felt it on his right, he felt it almost on him, and he leapt for his feet in a tangle of wet towels—fell and scrambled on his knees toward the door. He pushed it and pulled it and it no more than rattled to his efforts while the presence loomed over him. He flung himself around with his shoulders pressed to the door, his senses reeling with the heat and the light. The shadows of beams and posts and rafters gyrated in a gust of wind from the smoke hole.
Whatever-it-was cast no shadow itself, but he felt its chill between him and the fire. He reached back and gripped the solid wood of a beam, hauled himself up sitting against the door and waited for it.
A bannik? A Bath-thing, in a bad mood? They had long, long fingernails that they used when they were angry—always—from behind you. He knew that from somewhere—they would always come at you from behind.
Which this one could not do, while he had his back against (he door—so long as he could keep his eyes open, and keep from fainting in the heat.
Hot tea and blankets. Ilyana had never been so sore or so tired in her life. There were scratches all over her arms, her father and her uncle had had their baths, but that had only helped the mud and the soot: they both had deep burns and scratches she wanted well, dammit, right now: it was the one point on which her thoughts were not scattering tonight, and she wanted that fixed.
“Thank you, mouse,” her uncle said, with that strange, distant feeling he had had since he started talking to her again, and she did not know how to fix that. She only nodded unhappily, having her mouth full, and wondered if her uncle was finally angry at her—not fair, if that was the case, though she had deserved it a hundred times before this, and supposed it was due on other accounts. Or on the other hand her uncle might be upset about the fire and just not trusting himself close to people. She did not want him to be upset, please the god: her mother being upset was enough to be wrong with the world. She needed her uncle to have his wits about him, please.
“Thank you for that, too, mouse—and, no, it’s quite all right. There’s just enough gone on today, and I’m very tired. Nothing’s your fault.”
“Everything’s my fault. I didn’t need to go after Patches, I could have wished her out, if—”
“None of us had choices,” her uncle said. “That’s why I tell you don’t ever wish for generalities. You didn’t chance to wish up a young man, did you?”
Her face went hot. “Certainly not to drown one!”
“Of course not,” uncle said. “But if he is an ordinary young man, you above all mustn’t make wishes about or at him. It wouldn’t at all be fair.”
“I want him to get well!”
“Of course you do.” Her father, next to her on the bench, poured Babi’s waiting mouth a dash of vodka, poured his own cup, and then poured a large dose into her tea. She had just taken another bite meanwhile, and she needed a drink even to protest her father’s recklessness. She washed down her mouthful of bread with a gulp of the only liquid she had and gasped, her eyes watering.
“Father! That’s more than I’ve ever had!”
“This once,” her father said.
She took a more cautious sip. It was strong, but she could taste the tea this time, and the fumy vodka eased her throat and her eyes the way the tea had not. She sipped it slowly, thinking how her mother would say, Pyetr! Don’t give her that much. But her mother was not here. Her father had the only say-so, and his rules were not so strict, about anything. The whole world seemed wider and more dangerous, with her father in charge, and he was treating her like a grownup.
Her uncle said, “I think we should get some rest while we can. Our friend’s asleep out there. I’ve seen to that.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” her father said. “Ilyana, your uncle’s put the old tub in your bedroom; I’m afraid the bathhouse is rather well taken tonight.”
“I don’t know why you can’t bring him up here tonight. The kitchen’s more comfortable than the bathhouse. What if he needs help?”
“Your uncle’s already sleeping here, remember? He’s having to share a bed with me tonight, and I’m certainly not having any stranger bedded down next to the kitchen cutlery.”
“He doesn’t dress like a bandit. I think his father must be a boyar at least.”
“That’s no recommendation. I’ve dealt with boyars’ sons, and there’s not a one I’d trust outside your door.”
Her face went warm a second time. She took a drink to cover what she was sure was a blush, forgetting about the vodka until she found herself with an entire mouthful of tea. There was nothing to do but swallow it. Her eyes watered and she felt hot all over—dizzy, too. “Father, I—”
“ He stays in the bathhouse.”
“I don’t think he’s any—” The room was stiflingly close of a sudden. Her head spun. She felt of her forehead to be sure where it was. Or where her fingers were. “Oh, dear, papa.”
“Mmmm. Never mind the sheets, baby mouse. I think I’d better go straight on to bed.”
“Papa—”
Dirty trick. Yes. Her father stepped over the bench, took her arms and helped her step over. She caught her foot on the bench. He swept her right up in his arms like a baby and the whole room went around and around as she found the ceiling in front of her eyes. It had been years since he had carried her at all, and she grabbed at his neck for fear of falling. But he got her safely through her bedroom door and let her down gently on her bed.
“The mud,” she objected.
“That’s all right.” He tugged at the covers under her. “Sheets will wash. You’ve had one near-drowning tonight. You don’t need another, in the tub. Tuck your feet up.”
Sleep settled around her, soft and deep as the covers her father pulled over her. He leaned down, kissed her on the forehead, and pulled a snag from her hair.
“Good night, mouse. Shut your eyes.”
Silly wish: she already had.
The house was quiet, even the anxious domovoi having settled. Pyetr lay on his back in bed beside Sasha, with just the embers from the fireplace giving them light, wondering what ’Veshka was thinking tonight, and where she was, and whether she was warm and safe. Distracting Sasha with that question did not seem a good idea right now.
He asked Sasha instead, “What in hell are we going to do with the boy? We can’t leave him in the bathhouse till the snowfalls.”
“I think we should get some sleep. In the morning we’ll think of something.”