“No guarantee we even have a guest at this point.” The latch on the outside of the bathhouse door was new, Sasha’s handiwork, the hour Sasha had learned they were bringing company this evening, but a latch might only keep a helpless boy inside. For other things the smoke hole was enough. So was the crack under the door quite enough for a shapeshifter, not mentioning that certain magical creatures could be anywhere they wanted to be without any cracks and crevices at all to slip through. Certain unpleasant things could pop into the room with them right now, except the domovoi’s and Babi’s watching.
“Babi hasn’t objected to him,” Sasha said, “and if it isn’t a real boy, it certainly took a great deal of trouble getting here, only to leave now.”
That much was true: Babi had curled up on the quilts at Ilyana’s feet in quite his ordinary fashion, with no evident interest in the bathhouse. Babi hated shapeshifters: he would chase them so long as he could smell the least trace of them—once he could tell what they were.
“Go to sleep,” Sasha wished him. So Sasha believed that they were safe to do that now, no matter that Sasha’s house was cinders and someone’s wishes other than his had made havoc of this night.
“No,” he tried to object—might have objected: an ordinary man could be more stubborn than a wish, but proximity made a difference with magic, and tired as he was, close as he was to Sasha, he had not a chance: he was already slipping down into dark.
—at the same moment he thought he heard ’Veshka say, out of the dark and the faint patter of rain on the roof: “Pyetr, care of her. For the god’s sake don’t let that boy near her.”
5
Uncle was awake, at the table in the kitchen—uncle was being as quiet as anyone could be, but Ilyana had heard the cellar door open and close a long while ago, and waked again hearing the scratch of uncle’s pen, and the creak of her father’s door, just now. “There’s tea,” her uncle whispered; then her father’s voice said, very low: “How long have you been up?”
“Not that long.” Ilyana strained to hear something she did lose, and heard her father walk across the kitchen. Pottery rattled. Tea cups, she thought.
Then she remembered the most remarkable event of a very remarkable yesterday and wondered if their guest was all right—whether he had slept last night, or whether he was feeling better this morning.
She thought, Yes, without a reason for knowing that.
And then she thought, He really can’t stop me from hearing him. I think I just woke him up. —Please don’t be scared, Yvgenie Pavlovitch.
He was more than scared. He was terrified, waking on the ground, against the door: she heard a pounding from far away and knew that was him trying to open the bathhouse door.
That’s odd, she thought. Why doesn’t he just lift the latch?
No. The door was barred from outside. But there never had been a latch outside. That was terribly dangerous, on a bathhouse. When had that happened?
How long have I been asleep?
She caught terrible fear, so strong it stopped her breath. — Please, she wanted Yvgenie to know, no one’s going to hurt you. They’ve only locked the door to keep you from wandering off last night. I’m sure that’s the reason.
—Ilyana! Go to sleep!
Her uncle frightened her, he was so strong and so angry, surprising her like that. She heard, with her ears, him saying to her father: “She’s fighting me.”
Then her father’s voice, sternly: “Mouse, go back to sleep.”
That confused her. Her father was kind, her father would never hurt anyone, he was not on her mother’s side. So why had they latched the bathhouse door? Why did the boy remember them threatening him?
She tried to tell her father, The boy won’t hurt anything. You’re scaring him!
And her uncle: Ilyana! Don’t wish at your father. Go back to sleep.
She wanted not to. She was determined not to. Her father was saying, “… take him down the river, fast—if we had the damn boat.”
Her uncle gave off terrible thoughts of a sudden, houses all crowded together, afire, and horses and men in metal, with swords.
Then uncle knew she was still listening: uncle was very angry at her and wanted her very sternly to mind him and go to sleep.
She said, making her lips work, too, so her uncle could not make her forget what she was saying, “Stop it, please stop doing this to me.”
She felt cold and afraid. She was numb and cold in her right leg and bruised about the shoulder and her hand that she had used on the door—
“Ilyana!” her uncle said, and her door opened (but not that door) and she was lying warm and in bed with Babi at her feet.
“He’s cold,” she said. “He’s cold and the fire’s out and he’s scared, uncle, please don’t scare him any more.”
Her uncle came and sat on the side of her bed and brushed her hair out of her eyes. Her uncle looked worried, and tired, and harder than she had ever seen him. Her uncle said, somberly, touching her under the chin,” Ilyana, you haven’t been dreaming, have you?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing about Owl?”
Another shake of her head. God, she had not even thought about Owl last night. Or her friend. She had outright forgotten. Damn!
Her uncle said, “Ilyana, you can’t take things as you want them to be. I very much fear your young man drowned last night.”
“He didn’t! There’s nothing wrong with him, except the fire went out—” She had not meant to forget her friend, please the god he knew that—her father had made her sleep—
“Mouse, listen to me. Look at me. I don’t want you to argue with me. It’s very dangerous for you to argue with me, dangerous to your father and to you and to me. Don’t think about Chernevog.”
“Don’t eavesdrop!” Thoughts of her friend went skirling away, like the mist. She could not hold them, could only feel the fear coming from the bathhouse—”Stop it, uncle!”
“Mouse, calm. Be calm. I’m not going to hurt anyone. Or frighten him unnecessarily. But you mustn’t fight me. Go to sleep now.”
“I don’t want to go to sleep! I want to see him. I want you to let him out of the bathhouse! Please!”
“Don’t be frightened, mouse.” Her uncle touched beneath her chin, looking worried, but hard and distant, too. Like a stranger. “And don’t listen to the boy. That’s very dangerous. Do you hear me?—Do you hear me, Ilyana?”
“Yes,” she said. She had to say yes. Her uncle put his hand on her eyes then, and wished her to sleep.
And she was not strong enough to stop him.
The door creaked and gave way abruptly: Yvgenie felt it go, too late, and sprawled in the dust at someone’s feet—someone with a sword in his hand, who gathered him up by the arm while his eyes were confused by the sunlight. There were two of them—he could make that out; one of them was the dark-haired wizard.
“Come on,” Pyetr’s voice said: he was the one with the sword. But he could only take hold of Pyetr’s sleeve and hold on to him, blinded as he was, and with his foot asleep. Pyetr tolerated it, put his other arm around him and helped him walk. Pyetr took him as far as the first bench and let him down. The door was still open, the smoke hole let in light, and he could make out shapes again, through the watering of his eyes from the sun. Pottery clattered. He smelled hot tea, that Sasha was pouring, that Sasha then offered to him, and he held out both hands for the cup, not trusting one alone not to spill it.
It warmed his hands, it warmed his face, and he had not known till then how thirsty he was. It had a little vodka in it, besides the honey, and it soothed his throat of a pain he had not realized he was suffering.
He thought, They’re not so bad, they don’t mean me any harm after all.