The Tailor of Semenov: Retelling the Legend of Anastasia: Alydia Rackham's Retellings, #4

By Alydia Rackham

Her empire has fallen. Her family has been brutally executed. And this lone Romanov daughter has fled for her life into the wilderness, never to return.

After days of starvation, her footsteps haunted by wolves, this once-grand-duchess finds her way to the remote Jewish village of Semenov in Siberia. She conceals her name, and the truth, from the kind tailor and his niece and nephew, hoping to start a new life away from the turmoil of the rising new regime. But the fingers of Lenin's Red Terror are long, and she may not remain safe, even here. Especially when Soviet soldiers come to Semenov...
And among them is the man who secretly saved her life.

"The Tailor of Semenov" is another of Alydia Rackham's vividly re-imagined stories—familiar enough to devotees of the Romanov legend, yet thrilling and unexpected. If you like historical adventure, daring coming-of-age tales, bone-deep friendships and heart-rending romance, you will love Alydia Rackham's "The Tailor of Semenov: Retelling the Legend of Anastasia."
Savor the fading, golden glow of Imperial Russia when you pick up this adventure today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224874941

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

Prologue

"C ommunists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution."

-Karl Marx

How can you make a revolution without executions?

-Vladimir Lenin

Religion is the impotence of the human mind to deal with occurrences it cannot understand.

-Karl Marx

In one word, you reproach us with intending to do away with your property. Precisely so: that is just what we intend.

-Karl Marx

Root out the counterrevolutionaries without mercy, lock up suspicious characters in concentration camps. Shirkers will be shot, regardless of past service.

-Leon Trotsky

"We are not fighting against single individuals. We are exterminating the bourgeoisie as a class. Do not look in the file of incriminating evidence to see whether or not the accused rose up against the Soviets with arms or words. Ask him instead to which class he belongs, what is his background, his education, his profession.

These are the questions that will determine the fate of the accused.

That is the meaning and essence of the Red Terror."

-Martin Latsis

Chapter One

Июль, 1918 (July, 1918)

Siberia, RUSSIA

A long time ago, there lived a merchant in a faraway czardom. He had lived many years with his wife, and they only had one daughter. Her name was Vasilissa...

Her lips barely moved as she whispered the words, her eyes unfocused as the light reflecting off the moving water glittered across her face. Her bare feet had sunk to the bottom of the rocky stream and gone numb a long while ago. She sat on the bank, her hands braced in the mud on either side of her, her head low. She could just make out the light brownish reflection of the ragged curtains of hair hanging around her face. She blinked, and her vision sharpened enough that she could see the bruises and cuts on her feet and ankles through the clear water...and watch the tattered, blood-stained hem of her skirt float with the current like a ghost...

She lifted her head and stared across the stream at the dark forest beyond it. The dark, endless forest. Every tree the same. On and on, for countless hundreds of miles in every direction...

How many days had she walked beneath the shattered shadows of these pines, the high winds whistling through the needles? Sharp pinecones and stones biting her heels and toes as she shuffled through the maze....thorny bushes catching her skirt and sleeves. Eternal sameness. Unfathomable silence.

Except for the occasional caw of a crow, or the scurry of a rodent through underbrush, she heard nothing during the days as the high, indifferent sun glared down through the canopy and heated the bed of needles beneath her feet. But at nights, as she lay curled beneath a prickly shrub or under the overhang of a boulder, the haunting chorus of wolfsong flooded the black air, reaching to the stars, even as their god—the sullen and silvery moon—sent beams flickering down through the trees.

The wolves. Her constant companions. She could always hear them just past her line of sight, pacing and panting all around her in the darkness. Every night, they had ventured closer and closer, sniffing the air. She could feel their glowing eyes on her as she curled herself tighter and tighter, gripping a stick in both hands. Several times an hour, in frightful spasms, she would reach beneath the collar of her shirt with dirty, shaking fingers and clench the amulet that hung around her neck.

Friend, Friend, Friend... she would whisper. Help me. Help me. Help me...

Each night, the wolves grew bolder. Came closer. Since it was summer and they had plenty to eat, nothing stronger than curiosity inspired them.

So far.

But how long could that last? How long until she fell down and couldn’t get up, and they realized she wouldn’t fight back? She drank from every stream she could find to fill the hollow pit of her stomach, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten.

Wait. Yes, she could.

It was that day. That day, at a table, with the feeble light of one candle in the middle. Someone sat across from her—

But every time a memory tinted with those shades arose in her mind, a harsh wall of darkness instantly swallowed it, and her mind went blank. And her stomach felt even more hollow.

One still, hot morning, as she had meandered listlessly down a deer track, past a fallen tree, mosquitos buzzing around her head—

She thought she heard the distant rumble of a motor.

The engine of a truck growling its way through the forest.

Heedless and blind, she had dived into a bed of ferns, her heart slamming against her ribs—

And there she lay, completely paralyzed, for a full revolution of the sun. Too terrified even to breathe. She had stayed so still that a rat had crawled up her back, over her shoulder, and finally sat on her hip while he chewed strands of grass.

She didn’t even move when a long snake whispered right past her feet. Or as a swarm of mosquitos descended on her face, arms and legs.

The wolves sang again that night. Closer than ever before. A chill wind washed through the ferns, rustling their leaves around her face. And as she shivered, staring wide-eyed out into the shadows, she could swear that once—twice, three times—she glimpsed the jagged peak of a roof out there in the shadows, touched by a pale finger of the moon. The roof of a house that shifted its weight slowly, as if it walked on long, spindly legs...creeping its way forward through the trees, closer and closer to her...

A house made of bones. 

All she could do was clutch her amulet tighter and tighter, her mind reeling with incoherent prayers as she begged the horrifying house to stay away...stay away...

Now, she couldn’t remember how many days she had wandered through this haunted labyrinth, passing thousands and thousands of old trees, drifting beneath their crisscrossing shadows. All she knew was that, as she sat by this stream, she had finally reached the end of her strength. Even if a wolf had crept right up behind her, breathing against her neck, she couldn’t have stood up. All she could do was sit here, staring down into the water, hoping her entire body would go numb before the day faded from the sky, and those sharp teeth finally sank into her.

She blinked slowly. Her brow furrowed. What was the next part of that fairy tale...?

Something flickered against the water. Something white, and also dark. Though the water moved, the reflection stood still. She squinted one eye closed...

With great effort, she managed to lift her head slightly, past the flashing river, and toward the opposite bank, where the shade looked muddy and indistinct. She frowned harder, blinking again.

And at last, she saw what looked like...

A person.

A young, lean woman with narrow, angular features and wide blue eyes. Her dark hair was mostly hidden by a white kerchief, and she wore a plain brown dress and faded, tan apron with a tattered hem. She stood with a canteen in both hands, as if she’d forgotten about it. Staring across the river.

Isak, the stranger gasped, her blue eyes even wider. Isak...! Come here!

What? What is it? Now, a young man came stomping noisily through the woods toward the young woman. He wore patched brown trousers, a dark waistcoat and white shirt, and some sort of short, striped apron of his own, with dangling tassels. He had a short beard, a cap, and the sunlight flashed across his spectacles.

No coat. No insignia. No uniform.

No gun.

He jerked to a stop and stared in the same direction the young woman did.

Wh...It’s a person! Isak cried, slapping a hand to his head. A girl!

Hello? the young woman called across urgently. Hello, are you all right?

The one they were looking at curled her fingers through the mud on the bank, and fought to draw in enough breath to form a reply in her mind. The two people didn’t feel dangerous. Their Russian sounded strange—a different accent...She should say something, they were talking to her...

I’m... she tried, her voice low and hoarse. I’m...

Isak, go get her, the young woman commanded, pointing violently, even as she frantically tied the canteen to her apron strings. Isak plunged into the stream up to his knees, splashing as he fought to keep his footing. He sloshed awkwardly through the stones toward her, almost tumbling onto the bank when he reached her. He bent down, and suddenly, she could see his brown eyes behind his spectacles—bright and grave and frightened.

Are you all right? he asked.

She swayed slightly, and shook her head once.

I can’t walk, she rasped. The wolves...will eat me.

What did she say? the young woman cried, twisting her apron.

She says the wolves will eat her! Isak replied indignantly.

"No, the wolves are not going to eat her," the woman pressed her hand to her forehead. "Oi gevalt! Pick her up, Isak, bring her here!"

Oh, Raisa, her feet are shredded, Isak lamented. And—look at this, she’s...She’s just covered in blood...!

"Don’t just stand there, bring her here!" Raisa frantically wrung her skirt. Oh, I knew it, I wondered when we’d see some sign of it...

Sign of what? Isak grunted as he bent down and slipped his arms underneath the girl on the bank and lifted her up, holding her close to his chest as he turned back around.

Of the pogrom in Burikh, Raisa twisted her apron again. It isn’t that far from here—she must have escaped...

The girl frowned dully, bumping her forehead against the side of Isak’s face as he painstakingly bore her back across the water to the side where Raisa waited. His beard scratched her skin. He sloshed ashore, gripping her hard so he wouldn’t drop her.

Here, quick, bring her back to the cart... Raisa urged, hurrying ahead of them up a path through the underbrush toward an opening that looked like a thin, weedy road, which followed the stream. Out there stood a thin mule, his head low, ripping up bits of grass and chewing. He was hitched to a two-wheeled cart all packed and cluttered with things covered by a tarp. Isak brought the girl around and eased her down onto the back of the cart and stepped back. She swayed, but her right shoulder met the side of the cart, so she didn’t topple over.

Instantly, Raisa invaded her vision—brilliant blue eyes, dark eyebrows drawn together, freckled cheeks, and a prominent nose. Nevertheless, something about Raisa absently struck her as being very pretty.

"What is your name, zeeskeit?" Raisa asked gently, reaching out and taking the girl’s battered hands up in her own. She had calloused fingers, but they felt warm...

The girl blinked. Stared up at Raisa’s blue eyes as a sudden jolt traveled through her heart.

My name...my name...

"Listen to me, Maria Nikolaevna...! Listen...Please, do as I say..."

No. No, no.

Something else, something else...!

Mashka, she answered hoarsely, Raisa’s features swimming before her eyes. Mashka...Rogova.

Did you come from Burikh, Mashka? Raisa pressed, now gripping her arms. The pogrom there?

Maria nodded faintly.

Oh, Isak...! Raisa gasped, suddenly on the verge of tears. Mashka—did they kill everyone?

Again, Maria nodded. She couldn’t seem to make herself think, or do or say anything else. Why not nod?

Raisa, we need to give her something to eat, Isak said. Raisa let go of Maria, and Maria leaned heavily against the cart as the other two rustled through a bag, and suddenly—

Bread and cheese appeared in Maria’s lap.

Her vision instantly focused. The smell of the food hit her like a slap. She snatched up the cheese and stuffed it in her mouth, hardly stopping to chew before biting into it again and again. She had barely swallowed the last bit before she started in on the piece of bread—it was thick and chewy, and her eyesight blinked dark and light as her jaw worked. Unconsciously, she took the canteen Raisa held out and gulped the water between huge mouthfuls of bread.

She’s starved to death... she heard Raisa murmur. How long do you think she’s been out here all alone?

Maybe weeks, Isak replied, equally quiet. Look how thin she is.

Maria finished all the food, her body tingling all over, her stomach feeling strangely heavy—but still screaming at her. She looked up at the other two, finally able to focus on their faces. They stared at her intently, not moving.

Is there any more? she rasped.

Oh—yes! Isak leaped into action. Yes, I’ll...I’ll go without tonight—I’m not hungry at all. He dug out another piece of bread and hurriedly handed it to Maria. She muttered a swift thank you before biting into it. They continued to watch her as she ate, their arms folded. Maria finished chewing, then finished all the water in the canteen.

Look at the wound on her head, Raisa observed.

Doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore... Isak noted. He hesitated, his voice lowering. What are we going to do with her?

Maria’s attention sharpened again—but her back and shoulders had suddenly turned to lead. She couldn’t even lift her head to look at them...

"What our parents would hope someone would do for us if we’d been caught in a pogrom and lost in the woods, Raisa answered firmly. Take care of her. And if she’s from Burikh, she’s like family, anyway."

You think Uncle Aron will—

I’ll talk to him, Raisa assured him.

All right, Isak sighed. But I think we should keep traveling, and find a place to pitch the tent before we do anything else. It’s past the middle of the afternoon.

Maria didn’t hear Raisa’s reply. Her head nodded, falling forward, and she couldn’t force her eyes open. The next moment, she felt hands on her shoulders—they moved her back further into the cart and laid her back on a pile of something soft and heavy. Then, something else covered her up to her neck, like a horse’s blanket. A few moments later, the cart rocked, jerked—and started forward, bumping gently down the grassy lane beneath the flickering shadows of the trees. Seconds later, Maria fell asleep.

DEEP AND TOTAL DARKNESS swallowed her body for hours. She was completely unconscious of the rocking of the cart, the distance they traveled, any sounds or voices. She slept, and slept, without moving. Sinking deeper and deeper...Drifting through a weight of blackness and silence...

Wandering, sightless, down ever descending and winding paths. Unable to see her feet, or where she was going...Warm and soundless...Down and down...

An eternity later, something changed. Something all around her shifted. Grew still.

With great effort, she rose up out of the darkness, like a piece of wood released from the bottom of the ocean. Drawn toward the dim, faraway light that pressed against her eyelids. With an even greater effort, she managed to open her eyes just enough to let in a sliver of sight.

The air around her had turned dusky and heavy, purple shadows hanging around the ferns and dripping from the trees. The sky had taken on a soft, pinkish hue, and the evening beetles buzzed far off in a low, quiet hum. Gradually, she noticed other sounds, too. Occasional voices, talking quietly in that same odd accent she’d never heard before...a man and a woman...

The people by the river. The man who had carried her across. The woman who had given her food...

She squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open again, drawing in a deep breath and trying to lift her head.

Her entire back and both shoulders stiffened. She let out a grunt.

Oh, she’s awake, the woman—Raisa—exclaimed, and hurried around to the end of the cart by Maria’s feet. Raisa stretched out both hands and gave her an encouraging smile. Here—give me your hands. I’ll help you up.

Maria frowned dully, then laboriously lifted her arms and managed to take hold of Raisa’s calloused fingers. Raisa gripped her firmly and pulled. Maria’s head lolled back as her body came up, and Raisa caught her around the shoulders.

I don’t feel well... Maria whispered, closing her eyes. I’m...

Isak, can you come here and carry her? Raisa called. She’s too weak to stand up.

In a moment, Maria felt Isak’s arms surround her again, and lift her without much effort, carrying her around the edge of the cart. His feet rustled through pine needles.

Set her here, on this blanket. She can lean against our bags, Raisa instructed. Isak lowered Maria down onto a wool blanket by a pile of beaten luggage. Maria lay back against the pile, mostly upright. After blinking a few times, she could look around.

They had set her in the midst of a small, half-circle campsite just off to the left side of the road, in a little clearing. To her right stood a canvas tent tied to the trees. In front of her, a fire crackled, its orange flames dancing and sparking, smoke welling up with the scent of burning pine. Over it stood a spit, from which hung a small black pot, which steamed with the smell of beef broth. Two wooden chairs stood near the fire, one of them bearing a flour sack of tin cups and plates. Behind them somewhere, she could hear the eternal murmur of the river. Feebly, Maria watched Isak return to the cart and draw the mule closer into the campsite, then start unhitching him from the harness.

Movement to her right. Raisa, kneeling down in front of her with a bowl of clear water and a clean rag.

Let me help you, Mashka, Raisa said gently, wetting the rag, wringing it out, then taking Maria’s head in one hand and lifting it. With the other hand, she began to firmly wipe at Maria’s cheek and forehead, as if she were scrubbing off a difficult stain.

Can you hear me? Raisa asked, glancing into her eyes for a moment.

Yes, Maria replied, her attention drifting to the fire.

I’m Raisa Kravitsky, she said slowly. This is my brother, Isak. And that’s our mule, Czar.

Maria snorted. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raisa instantly smile.

Isak named him, Raisa teased, glancing across at her brother. Isak, carefully hanging the tack on the chair, just watched them. Raisa dipped the rag in the water. It turned the water brown.

We’re on the way to Semenov, Raisa continued, rubbing at Maria’s eyebrow. Have you heard of it?

No, Maria breathed, letting her eyes drift shut. Raisa’s rhythmic strokes felt familiar...like those nights when candlelight swam against the ceiling, lying in wet sheets, a cold rag pressed over and over to her hot forehead, a voice softly singing: "Little one, little one of mine, by the bed’s edge you mustn’t lie...Else the grey wolf will come to your side..."

Darkness swallowed the candlelight. Maria opened her eyes. Raisa was speaking again.

We’ve come from Lievka, which...isn’t a village anymore, Raisa’s voice quieted. This winter, more than half of us died of fever. Including our parents. Now, everyone has had to leave.

Maria closed her eyes, opened them—and looked at Raisa. Raisa looked back at her for a moment, her brow furrowing. Then, her attention flicked to Maria’s hairline.

What happened to you? Raisa asked, gently parting Maria’s hair with her fingers. You have a deep cut here. Did you fall and hit your head?

A bright flash—silent—concussed through Maria’s mind. She didn’t answer.

She probably doesn’t know, Isak spoke up. Remember? Cousin Abram hit his head two summers ago, and couldn’t recall all the week before or after it happened.

Mm, Raisa mused. She rinsed out the rag again, and finished cleaning Maria’s face. We’re going to Semenov to live with our father’s brother, Uncle Aron. He’s the tailor, and keeps a tavern there. He has no wife anymore, and no children. I think he’s looking forward to having someone in his house with him again.

Isak finished taking the tack off of Czar, and tied him by his bridle to a tree. Isak came back toward the fire and stirred the soup in the pot with a wooden spoon. The light had faded from the sky, turning it deep purple, and the shadows closed in around the campsite. But as they did, the little fire seemed to burn brighter and warmer.

Semenov is a strange place, Isak stated, the spoon clanking against the walls of the pot.

You think so? Raisa asked.

Yes—it’s always been. Like it has a spell on it.

"That’s because the last time we were there, you were just a tatala!" Raisa laughed.

But the way the mist hides it every morning, Isak insisted. And you could walk right past the turning, if you didn’t know it was there.

Maybe that’s good for us, Raisa remarked, the mirth gone from her voice. We’ll avoid what happened to Burikh.

Isak fell silent as Raisa arose and dumped out the dirty water, then poured new. Raisa then knelt down, and began washing Maria’s bare feet—her bloody, bruised, dirty feet. 

Maria stared at her, shocked, as the blood and grime rinsed free of her skin. Her breathing quickened, shimmering images of sublime paintings rising up before her mind’s eye: paintings of a soft-eyed man, with gentle hands, kneeling on the floor, washing the feet of the twelve men around him...

Tears dripped down Maria’s cheeks. She choked, and let out a strangled sob.

Raisa’s head came up, her eyes widening. Maria folded her arms tight around her middle, another helpless sob shaking her.

"Oh, zeeskeit, am I hurting you?" she asked urgently.

No, Maria’s head fell forward as more tears fell. No... And she broke down, her thoughts scattering.

Sha, sha, sha! Raisa insisted, her voice powerful and soft, as she leaned in and wrapped her arms around Maria, enveloping her in warmth. Maria’s forehead fell onto Raisa’s shoulder, and she feebly encircled Raisa’s waist. The other woman strengthened her hold, pulling Maria against her chest, rubbing her and rocking her back and forth.

Sha, sha, Raisa whispered. It’s all right. You’re safe now. You’re safe. We have you.

A sobbing gasp tore through Maria’s body, and she buried her face in Raisa’s collar. The next moment, she felt a heavy hand rest on the crown of her head. Isak. And warmth spilled down through his touch, and into her bones.

She’s right, Isak murmured. You don’t have to be afraid of the wolves anymore. 

Chapter Two

"We can and must write in a language which sows among the masses hate, revulsion, and scorn toward those who disagree with us."

-Vladimir Lenin

As soon as Maria could breathe again, and sit up on her own, Raisa bandaged her feet and tugged a pair of stockings on over the bandages. Then, she set to brushing out Maria’s snarled hair. Starting at the ends, Raisa painstakingly loosened every tangle, pulled free every twig, leaf and thorn that had gotten caught, and smoothed every strand. Maria’s hair wasn’t as long as it had once been—only shoulder-length, because of the dark, sweaty nights by candlelight...

Soon, Maria sat with her eyes closed again, mesmerized by the steady, repeated strokes of the brush pulling through her hair, from her head all the way down across her shoulders. As she worked, Raisa sang a song Maria had never heard, with words she couldn’t understand. It seemed a melancholy, swaying song, that meandered like a frosty river through an autumn valley...

Then, with expert fingers, Raisa bound Maria’s hair into a tight braid, and tied it off with a piece of string. Somehow, it felt like a great relief—a breath of fresh air—to have her hair combed, smoothed, and tied back, off of her face and neck.

Isak ladled out cups of the broth and handed them to his sister and to Maria. Maria almost put it to her mouth, then stopped. She was used to someone saying a prayer before meals...

But the other two just very carefully began to drink their soup. So, Maria did the same. The first sip burned her tongue, but she didn’t care. She soon swallowed it all, then asked for more. They willingly gave it to her, while Isak and Raisa shared a portion of cheese and bread. Raisa even gave Maria yet another piece of cheese.

The darkness now hung like a curtain around their little room in the forest, with the fire at the center like a beating heart. Maria studied the faces of the siblings by its light, now that her vision had cleared completely, and her stomach was full.

Isak had large brown eyes and black lashes and eyebrows, his glittering spectacles always seeming to be sliding down his nose—the same prominent nose his sister had. His cheeks had been browned by the sun, but not freckled, and his curly dark hair fell across his forehead and over his ears, beneath his beaten cap, which bore a rather large patch. His clothes were old and worn, but had been cared for, and meticulously mended. He sat cross-legged, tossing pine needles into the fire and watching them crackle. He had a large scar on his left thumb.

Raisa was indeed pretty. But not in the way Maria was used to. She wasn’t delicate or fair—but she had an effortless, natural beauty that softened in the firelight. Curls of brown hair around her ears, beneath her kerchief. Brilliant blue eyes with traces of green. A ready smile on a sweet mouth. She had hands well-worn with work—strong and knowing.

Then, after they finished eating, Isak suddenly lifted his eyes and started speaking. Raisa suddenly sat still, too. Maria, frowning, watched them.

"Barukh ata," Isak said. "Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam shehakol niyah bidvaro."

Maria stared at him for a moment, wondering about what language that could be. Then, Raisa arose, crossed the clearing and started brushing Czar, talking to him as if he were a little child.

How old are you, Mashka?

Maria blinked and turned to see Isak watching her, his fingers twisting several needles together.

Nineteen, she answered quietly, studying the way the firelight played across the right side of his face. He smiled a little, obviously studying her in the same way.

I’m twenty-three, he said. Raisa is twenty-one.

Maria nodded, tilting her head a little.

What are you?

His eyebrows raised.

Me? I’m...Well, I’m a cobbler, and a shoemaker. And...Raisa is a master of all trades. Cleaning, sewing, caring for animals, midwifery, fixing broken tables and chairs—

I cook, Raisa interrupted from across the way. "I cook for everyone."

Isak smiled—and it brightened all his features.

Amen. And she’s very good.

Maria didn’t say anything. That hadn’t exactly been what she meant...

But she paused before opening her mouth again. For some reason, they had assumed that she was from a village where everyone had been killed, in a pogrom—whatever that was. Raisa had said that, if she was from that village, then she was like family, anyway.

But...what if they realized that wasn’t true? What if they found out she wasn’t one of them?

Would they change their minds about her?

Would they leave her here?

Maria shivered, and clamped her mouth shut.

Are you cold? Isak asked immediately. Here, here. He got up, found another blanket, came near her, knelt down and wrapped her up in it, tucking it around her shoulders. He smiled as he caught her eye, and his hands lingered on her arms.

I said earlier that Semenov is a strange place, he said, drawing his hands back. Something careful and hesitant entered his manner. "But...it isn’t a bad place. I didn’t mean to make it sound as if it was."

What he means is, Raisa spoke up, coming back toward them. ...Would you like to come there with us?

Maria stared up at her.

With you, she repeated, fighting to let the meaning of those words sink through her in a way she could fully understand them. But she failed.

"What I mean is, Isak clarified pointedly. Is that you are welcome to come with us. And stay with us. Uncle Aron wouldn’t have any objection, especially after what has happened to you."

Why should he? Raisa asked. Remember how many birds and rabbits and cats he’s taken in?

Isak chuckled, then turned a warm look on Maria.

It’s true, he said. He never could resist anything that’s been abandoned in the woods.

Maria gazed at him, lost in the glimmer of firelight in his eyes. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Thank you.

Isak’s smile broadened.

Good, he said. I’m glad.

MARIA SPENT THE NIGHT inside the little tent with Raisa, while Isak made his bed lengthwise across the door of the tent, just outside it, rising every few hours to put more wood on the fire. Maria lay there in the quiet, hearing the rhythm of Raisa’s breathing and the crackle of the fire...

Thinking how achingly wonderful it felt to be lying swathed in old blankets, surrounded by tent walls instead of thorny bushes, warmed by a fire instead of chilled by the unfeeling silver moonbeams...

But the more she thought of it, the more burning tears ran down her temples and snagged in her ribs. So, she turned forcefully over onto her side and pulled the blanket over her head, binding her arms close to her chest...

And was soon lost to a deep oblivion again.

MARIA AWOKE TO THE sounds of voices and birdsong. Unfamiliar. Frowning, she slowly opened her eyes...

And glimpsed the canvas wall of a tent. She frowned harder, her mind starting to spin.

Where was she? Who was talking...?

She screwed her eyes shut, confusing images swirling through her head. Limitless woods, the howling of wolves, the creeping and crawling of Baba Yaga’s house of bones...

It’s a person! A girl!

The flashing of a river in the sunlight. Reflections on the water.

Two people. A brother and sister.

Isak. And Raisa.

Maria slowly opened her eyes again—and found them cloudy with tears. It was then she realized that her entire body hurt. Her arms and legs ached, and her feet throbbed. She let out a long, shaking breath, and buried her face in the blanket.

Rustling, and movement.

Mashka? A voice. Raisa’s voice. Are you awake?

I’m... Maria managed, shifting painfully under the blankets. I’m awake...

I’ll bring you something to eat, Raisa decided, and left. Maria faded in and out of consciousness, feeling absent tears trail across her nose, until Raisa returned. She helped Maria sit up and lean against a pile of baggage, and laid out bread and cheese and water to drink on and near Maria’s lap. While Maria ate slowly—she felt dizzy, and her head pounded—Raisa rolled up the bedding and packed it up.

After, Raisa helped Maria get ready and take care of all her morning needs, then helped her limp to the door of the tent. There, Raisa called to Isak, who immediately came and picked Maria up as if she weighed nothing. Maria blinked, glancing up at the bright morning sunshine flickering through the treetops. Isak bore her over to the cart and set her down in it, urging her to lie down, which she did. But she curled up on her side, pillowing her head on her arm, watching Isak and Raisa dismantle the tent and tie it all up together, put out the fire and take apart the spit, and load it all onto the other side of the cart. Then, at last, the brother and sister urged Czar around in half a circle through the campground, pulling the cart, then out onto the road.

Maria shifted slightly so she could look upward as the cart rocked and bumped beneath her, tracing the opening of sky she could see between the line of trees, above the lane. She listened to the birds singing, watching them dart back and forth between the branches. Once, high up, she spotted an eagle coasting upon the breezes, his broad wings barely moving. Raisa and Isak also talked, but not usually loudly enough for her to hear. When they did speak so she could make out words, she couldn’t understand them as clearly as before.

Absently and slowly, as the cart swayed back and forth, she became aware of her own body for the first time since she could remember. Now that the pain in her feet had eased, she could feel the angular wrongness in the rest of her. Her legs felt thin and brittle, her belly small, her chest narrow. If she laid her hand on her side, she could count, distinctly, each of her ribs on her upper chest beneath her thin blouse. And if she ran her fingers over her face, she felt her cheekbones and brow bones most of all.

She had been lean and meager before, in the whitewashed house. Now, she had become a skeleton.

They traveled until midday, when they stopped by an old stone bridge, and Raisa and Isak washed their faces, necks and hands in the running water beneath. Raisa brought Maria a tin bowl of water, and washed Maria’s face for her with a cloth. When she was finished, Maria managed to smile at her and tell her thank you—which made Raisa beam in reply. Meantime, Isak picked some berries from a bush nearby, and shared them with Maria and Raisa. They burst with sweetness in Maria’s mouth, and she chewed slowly, shutting her eyes as the taste washed through her.

They traveled slowly for the rest of the afternoon, Maria lying down in the cart. Eventually, she fell asleep again, and didn’t wake up until Raisa touched her, urging her to sit up so that Isak could carry her over to the fire again. They had already made camp, much as the evening before, and had pitched the tent. They sat, Raisa brushed out Maria’s hair, and they ate bread and cheese again—as well as more of the berries Isak had picked. Raisa also changed the bandages on Maria’s feet.

However, as the sky darkened, a deep chill washed through Maria’s body. She started shivering. And she couldn’t stop, no matter the warm broth she drank or the blankets they put on her, or how close she sat to the fire. Raisa and Isak bundled her up as best they could, and Raisa laid down next to her by the fire all through the night...

But soon, Maria lost consciousness of the sounds, smells and colors all around her. A hot, chaotic darkness swarmed through her, and images swam nonsensically in her mind. She heard people murmuring, but couldn’t understand them. The crackle of fire, the snort of a mule, the rustle of fabric, the wind through the trees...

Wolves. Wolves howling, their paws pattering rapidly across the pine needles...Their eyes glowing through the darkness, their white teeth dripping...

A witch creeping between the foggy trees, gnashing her broken teeth, hunched and hobbling as her long, gnarled arms stretched downward, her spindly fingers breaking off leaves and poisonous berries to flavor her cauldron, her robes and ragged hair swaying with her movements as she hummed an old lullaby in a voice like a scratchy violin...

Something cold against her forehead. Ice running down her temples and neck...

Tiny rooms, crowded rooms...Rooms with whitewashed windows...Weak, headache-inducing sunlight peering through the panes...

Whispers in the hallways. The clatter of rifles. The tap of boots against wooden floors...

Being lifted up by strong arms. Laid down on rough blankets. Rocking and swaying. Flickering far overhead...

Pain, deep down inside. Pain she couldn’t twist away from, couldn’t writhe away to escape. Pain like a black snake, winding around and around her, biting her legs, her stomach...If only she could grab it and strangle it, tear it off of her...But no matter how she snatched or how tight she squeezed, it slipped between her fingers like mud...

A tall, gaunt man in black robes, his crucifix swaying back and forth as he strode through the trees, his legs hidden by blue mists...One long hand on his black beard as he turned his head back and forth, back and forth, his piercing eyes—eyes like the moon—searching and searching the underbrush, his brow furrowed...

Maria! Maria, where are you? he called—half urgent, half chastising. Mashka, we are all looking for you. Your parents are worried. Where are you?

I’m here! she tried to call. Dear Friend, I am here...! But her voice was swallowed by the fog, and the man turned the other way, the wrong way, and strode away from her, still calling her name. And the darkness swallowed him.

Again being lifted. Laid down by something hot and sparkling. Hot liquid put in her mouth, sliding down her throat. Shivering, shivering...

Voices. Worried, quiet and swift.

The witch, petting the wolves with her thorny hands...All turning their yellow eyes on Maria, watching her silently. Cold and intent and deadly. The witch tilting her head far to the right, like an owl, and licking her lips. Behind her, a house glowed with ethereal flames—fires burning from within human skulls on stakes. Human skulls...did they seem familiar? Did one have a mustache, another an expression of dull and quiet pain...? Did another bear a hollow, boyish grin...And one a fierce glare and a mocking mouth...?

Again rocking and swaying, covered with scratchy blankets. Weight she kept trying and trying and trying to shove off of her...

Seething, gnawing pain and heat—disorientation and confusion. A horse darted through the blinding snow, bearing a sleigh full of people. The horse and sleigh transformed into an Indian elephant bearing a maharaja: an illustration on the page of a children’s book—and then a tiger came and swallowed it whole, and leaped off the page through the air, twisting itself into the form of a servant, with donkey’s ears and leopard’s spots, before he melted all away, leaving only his bones to clatter through the room, spilling his tray and snapping his teeth, smoke billowing from his eyes...

Gunshot. Gunshot, gunshot, gunshot.

Was that real? Did she hear it, or remember it? Or did she invent it?

A hand roughly grabbing her arms. Lips pressed to her left cheek...

"Listen to me, Maria Nikolaevna...! Listen...Please, do as I say..."

A sharp rip as her skirt tore...

An abandoned courtyard, filled with silver moonlight. The patter of several feet across stones...

A door. A white hallway, lit by a single lightbulb.

The rotten stench of death, the icy breath of the witch gusting up from the depths...

A staircase, leading down. Down into total blackness.

Blackness that rose up toward her, clawing for her. She reeled away, trying to scream—a hand stopped her mouth.

The darkness took her. And for an eternity, she fell and fell, floundering, fighting to swim against the suffocating force pulling her down beneath the surface of frozen water, ice rolling by overhead. She was trapped. Trapped, trapped—

Her heart gave a hard, horrified bang.

Her eyes opened.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

And, slowly...

Her vision focused.

She was lying down on her left side. Her face on a white pillow. Covered in sheets and a blanket.

In a bed. Sunk deeply into a soft mattress.

The grey light of very early morning spilled in through a window near her head, to the right of the short headboard. The floor just beside her was plain wood, all smoothed and worn by years and years of foot traffic, and covered by a faded rug.

The wall in front of her was also simple wood, and there stood a short, handmade dressing table with a little, square mirror. And in this pale, early light, she could see the reflection of her shoulder and elbow.

She moved. Her arms, legs, whole body, felt weak as rags. Her heart beat faster with this tiny exertion, but she made herself lift up onto her arms just a little, grunting, and twisted so she could see her face in that little mirror.

She stopped. Her eyes met the reflection of her eyes.

But the disorientation turned her cold.

The person staring back at her wasn’t the person she had always seen before. This person she saw seemed almost like the portraits of her mother as a young woman: features narrow and ghostly, with large eyes as bright and pale as winter. Shadowed, haunted eyes. But this stranger had ragged hair hanging around her face; a deep mark on her forehead that still bore dried blood, and colorless lips. 

Her strength gave way. She sank back down into the bed, coiling away and burying her face into the pillow. She couldn’t do anything else. For if she had the power, the first thing she would do was fly out of this bed and smash that mirror.

Chapter Three

Why should freedom of speech and freedom of press be allowed? Why should a government which is doing what it believes to be right allow itself to be criticized? It would not allow opposition by lethal weapons. Ideas are much more fatal things than guns. Why should any man be allowed to buy a printing press and disseminate pernicious opinions calculated to embarrass the government?

-Vladimir Lenin

Within a few hours , the light strengthened and turned golden as it poured in through the bedroom window. Maria managed to turn over onto her back, and prop herself up enough to see the rest of the room. Now, straight ahead of her, past the footboard, stood the door, which was closed. To the left of it, a tall chest of drawers. Off to the right of the bed was a little mending table and chair beside another window. Between the window and the bed, in the corner, stood a small stone fireplace. All the walls were plain grey wood, the only decoration being the shutters, which had been beautifully carved long ago. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, unlit.

Not long after she managed to sit up, she began hearing noises from somewhere else in the house. Footsteps, voices, clanking. The bark of a dog. Then, at last, the steady thud-thud-thud of someone ascending stairs.

The next moment, the doorknob squeaked, and the door swung open. Raisa stood there, holding a small cloth-covered tray in her left hand as she opened the door. She wore a plain grey dress, white headkerchief, and the sunlight lit up her bright eyes and ruddy face. But not more so than the delighted smile that suddenly came over her when she saw Maria.

Mashka! she cried. You’re awake!

Hello, Maria croaked, and couldn’t make any more sound—but she tried to smile.

Ah, thank You! Raisa exclaimed, lifting one hand and her smiling face toward heaven. We’ve all been praying so hard! Raisa quickly came in and hurried across, carefully setting the tray on the bedside table Maria hadn’t noticed before. You’ve been in a fever for four days. Do you remember anything?

Maria frowned a little, then shook her head.

Just...moving and...being moved sometimes... she answered, still raspy.

You talked in your sleep, Raisa said, retrieving the chair from the window and bringing it to this side of the bed.

Maria bit the inside of her lip, twisting the cuffs of the nightgown she was wearing in her weak fingers. What had she said? Had they heard her moans, her desperate cries for her Friend to find her in the woods...?

I brought you some borscht. Do you feel like eating? Raisa asked.

Borscht? Maria blinked, her thoughts instantly jerking back to the present—and at that moment, she smelled it: rich, meaty broth and beets, with onion and carrots... Yes, yes, yes... she whispered hurriedly. Raisa grinned, then picked up the tray and set it on the edge of the bed. She whipped the rag off of it—

To reveal a wooden bowl steaming with brilliant red borscht, the broth filled with heaps of meat and vegetables. Maria’s mouth instantly started watering. She reached out toward the bowl—but her hands shook violently.

Here, here, sit back, Raisa urged. I’ll feed you for now.

Thank you, Maria whispered, her eyes fixed on the food. Raisa took a wooden spoonful of red broth and blew on it, then lifted it to Maria’s mouth.

The savory, delicious, liquid heat washed over her lips, into her mouth and down her throat. She closed her eyes, goosebumps rising on her arms. She swallowed and licked her lips, then quickly opened her eyes and mouth, trying to lean forward. She was dimly aware of feeling like an infant saying ah-ah for the next bite of food—but she didn’t care. The borscht was delicious, and she wanted more.

Obediently—though smiling faintly—Raisa ladled spoonful after spoonful from the bowl into Maria’s mouth, also feeding her the chunks of meat, carrot, tomato and onion. Maria was certain it was very fatty beef, wonderfully chewy and flavorful. The soup flooded her body with warmth, and she could feel the heat pulsing in her cheeks and lips.

As her stomach filled and she was able to think a little more rationally, Maria caught sight of movement toward the door—movement she recognized.

Cat? she managed as she swallowed, lifting her head—

The next moment, a black cat—sleek as liquid midnight, with bright green eyes—hopped like a ballerina over the footboard and walked toward her over the quilt, sniffing at the borscht.

"This is Nochka—Nochka, no. No, no, no." Raisa pushed the cat back as she tried to stick her nose in the stew bowl. The cat, offended, retreated. She wandered across the bed, swishing her tail back and forth, pretending to no longer be interested. Maria felt herself smiling as she watched her.

We had cats... she murmured.

Yes? Raisa asked, lifting another spoonful. What are their names?

Vaska... Maria said softly. Kot’ka...and Zubrovka... Her voice trailed off, her vision fading out. Fleetingly, she reached out toward Nochka...

The cat immediately responded, putting her head under Maria’s hand and padding forward so Maria’s hand slipped down her soft back. The cat happily raised her tail and arched, tiptoeing and starting to purr.

Maria’s throat thickened, and she felt her lip start to tremble.

I miss my cats... she gasped, her forehead twisting.

Mrrr, Nochka said prettily, glancing drowsily up at her. Mrrr...

Well, Nochka can stay with you as long as you like. She makes friends with everyone, Raisa stated, scooping a new spoonful in a very businesslike manner—

And somehow, that steady frankness calmed Maria’s trembling breathing, and she blinked and opened her mouth again.

Raisa finished feeding her every last bit of the borscht, while Nochka finally curled up beside Maria’s hip and continued to purr, her paws kneading the blanket. When the bowl was empty, Raisa set it down on the tray and closed her eyes.

"Barukh ata," Raisa said. "Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam shehakol niyah bidvaro."

A rough bang issued from downstairs. Masculine voices rang through the lower spaces. Nochka instantly sat up, ears perked, all alertness.

Ah! They’re back! Raisa said, gathering up the tray and cloth and putting them back on the side table. Then, she turned a delighted, almost secretive grin to Maria. We’ve gotten you a surprise.

Maria raised her eyebrows, but before she could ask, Raisa leaped up and hurried out the door. Nochka did not settle—she stayed frozen, listening. Soon, Raisa’s voice joined the exclamations down below, again peppered with words in that language that Maria couldn’t understand. In a few moments, something loud and laborious began happening on the unseen staircase, accompanied by grunts of alarm or instruction...

And then, Isak appeared in the doorway, carrying one end of a large metal tub. Red-faced, he shot a quick smile over at Maria as he backed into the room, drawing with him another person who held the opposite end. This was a tall, lanky man with a greying beard, hooked nose and spectacles, and black hat. He wore a dark suit and old shoes, and had thoughtful wrinkles all across his forehead. He caught a look at Maria for a moment, but then frowned fiercely with effort as he and Isak carried the tub over to the fireplace.

Here, here, you can set it by the rug, Raisa instructed, waving her arms.

Raisa—you need to move, Isak answered back, and his sister jumped out of the way. The two men then set the tub down on the floor with unison grunts, and straightened up. The older man rubbed his back.

Well! That was only half as bad as I thought it would be! But what should it be, after all? It’s not as if I carry tubs up the stairs every day, he admitted. He had a swaying tenor voice—rather pinched, slightly mournful. Still rubbing his back, he turned to face Maria. Well, what do we have here, hm? A stray cat?

Mew, Nochka answered—which made Isak laugh.

"No, not you, the older man waved the cat off, then smiled carefully at Maria. He had dark eyes, like Isak. And how are you feeling, mammele?"

Better, Maria nodded. Thank you.

Mashka, this is our uncle, Reb Aron Kravitsky, Raisa introduced. Uncle, this is Mashka Rogova.

Sure, pleased to meet you. We’ve talked all about you for days and days. We’re amazed you’re still alive, Reb Aron inclined his head, the mournfulness mounting in his voice. ...what with the pogrom and the forest and the river and the wolves and the mosquitos—

We brought you a bath, Isak cut him off—then clearly blushed. I mean—the tub for a bath. To put water in. To... get in and...take a bath. He glanced at his uncle and gulped. Reb Aron rolled his eyes and held out his hands, palms up.

"Isak. Why do you interrupt me? She knows how to take a bath."

I’m sorry. Isak blushed harder, making Maria almost smile.

We borrowed the wash tub from our neighbors, the Portnoy family. Ours isn’t big enough for a person, Raisa said. I thought you’d like to wash the forest and the fever off of you.

Thank you, Maria managed, nodding.

Isak, can you help me with the hot water? Raisa beckoned to him as she started toward the door.

Yes, of course, Isak said quickly, following his sister out the door. Reb Aron watched them go, then turned back to Maria and clasped his hands behind his back, looking at her over the top of his spectacles. He raised his bushy eyebrows.

"And you’re sure you think you’re all right, little one?"

Yes, she said, her voice still weak and hoarse. Thank you.

He heaved a sigh, shook his head, and muttered something in that other language again.

Why there is this trouble between people, I don’t know, I don’t know... he sighed again, then gave her a smile that warmed his features. He wagged his finger at the cat. "Well, Nochka seems to like you. And anybody Nochka likes, I will like."

Maria did smile, now—but she could hardly feel it. Reb Aron gave her a wink, then headed to the door.

Raisa will be back soon.

He left the door open as he departed, and Maria watched him turn right and head down the squeaky stairs.

In a few minutes, Raisa and Isak came back, each of them bearing two large buckets of steaming water. They poured them into the tub, and the steam billowed toward the ceiling, caught in the light from the window, as the water gushed loudly.

All right, thank you, Raisa puffed, handing her clattering buckets to Isak, who awkwardly grabbed them and tried to keep from dropping them all over. Now go on, go on.

Isak stammered something as he battled to get out of the room carrying all four buckets before Raisa shut the door on him.

There! Raisa spun around, grinning. Let’s wash!

Before Maria quite knew what was happening, Raisa had flung the blankets off Maria, helped her out of bed, led her over to the tub and had her lean against it while she tugged off Maria’s nightgown. A chill hit Maria as she stood there naked, and she shivered, wrapping her thin arms around her bony middle. Raisa bent and splashed her hand in the water to test it, then held onto Maria’s arms as she stepped over the high side and into the bath.

Warmth shot up through Maria’s legs, then washed over her entire body as she sank down into the water, neck-deep, and leaned back against the wall of it. She had to bend her knees to fit all the way in, but that was fine—now, she was in no danger of sinking under the water in her weakness.

Efficient and businesslike, Raisa knelt down by the tub, snatched up the soap and a scrubber, and lathered up her hands. She then began to wash Maria’s arms, legs, neck and back with brisk, repetitive strokes. Maria was instantly reminded of being bathed as a very little girl by her mother’s no-nonsense hands...

But before Maria’s thoughts could blacken, Raisa took a wooden cup, scooped up water in it, and poured it over Maria’s head, dousing her hair. Raisa then worked the soap suds all through her hair and all over her head. Maria forgot what she was thinking about as Raisa’s strong, persistent fingers massaged her head and combed through her hair.

"Oi vey, look at this bathwater, Raisa commented. You’ve turned it black!"

Maria drowsily looked down to see that the suds had even turned brown. She snorted. Then, she glanced up at the plain wooden ceiling, and the windows to her right.

Raisa?

Mm?

Where are we?

We’re in Semenov, Raisa answered, taking another cup of hot water and carefully pouring it over Maria’s head. In Uncle Aron’s tavern, the Krasnydom. We all live upstairs, and just downstairs is the tavern, and to one side is our sitting room, kitchen and dining room, and to the other side is his tailor shop. Isak has set up his cobbling in that room, too, and he’s had several people come to him already. The old shoemaker died last year, may he rest in peace. Everyone’s been going around miserably with their toes coming through! Can you imagine walking around this winter with no shoes? Heaven forbid!

Maria blinked slowly, wishing the water could get even hotter so that it would soak all the way down into her bones...

That’s a beautiful bracelet, Raisa noted.

Maria blinked, and suddenly glanced down at her right arm. A simple gold bracelet fitted around her wrist, without a clasp. It glittered in the light, beneath the surface of the water.  She stared at it—and in spite of the warmth, she went cold to the pit of her stomach. She said nothing. But she instantly became aware of the amulet around her neck, the pendant resting on her breastbone. Raisa poured more water over Maria’s head and hair.

I put all your other clothes in the dresser over there, for now, Raisa nodded toward the plain dresser by the door. Your blouse, chemise, corset, drawers, and skirt. In a few days, we can wash them.

Maria didn’t say anything. She just shut her eyes, and let Raisa keep scrubbing her.

AFTER BEING BATHED, dried, and put into a fresh nightgown and bed jacket, Maria sat by the open side window while Raisa combed out her hair, rubbed lanolin through it, and braided it again. Maria couldn’t see anything out the window but the branches of some tree, but the way the light glittered across the leaves mesmerized her. Then, Raisa shouted for Isak, who came back and picked Maria up, and carried her out of the bedroom.

Maria wrapped her arm around Isak’s neck as he bore her out onto a small landing, turned right and headed down a narrow, creaking staircase with a railing on its left. They descended to the lower floor: a large room to their left, all worn-out wood, with a square-shaped counter, the lowest part near the front door ahead of them. The door hung open. Isak turned left and followed the side of the staircase toward the back of the room. Maria glimpsed a liquor cabinet stacked on top of one side of the square counters, all glittering with bottles. Lanterns hung from the low ceiling, but none were lit. Instead, sunlight came in through the broad rear window. The back of the room was lined with long, rectangular tables and benches. It all smelled of vodka.

Raisa hurried around Isak and opened up a heavy, squeaky door, and Isak bore her out into the warm sunlight. Maria blinked, fighting to get her eyes to adjust.

Isak had carried her out into a small garden bordered by a tumble-down, mossy wall. In the near center of the garden grew a tall, straight oak tree, and in the far corner, a rowan tree. Most of the garden was overgrown with weeds and grasses, but at the far end, in the brightest sunlight, stood a vegetable garden that had been recently pruned and organized—no doubt by Raisa. The warm wind rustled through the high leaves of the old oak, and it murmured like a drowsy old man, sending a dappled pattern across the soft, green grasses and broken pathway stones. The air smelled fresh and fragrant—so different from that dark, unholy forest...

Raisa instructed her brother to carry Maria out to a patch of sunlight near the garden, where a very low wooden chair sat, all spread with blankets. Beside it, a little table bore a pot of tea, and a simple cup with sour cherries down inside it. Isak set Maria down in the chair, and Raisa immediately knelt and bundled the blankets around her so she was comfortable, and poured the cup of tea for her. Maria then sat with the cup in her lap, her hands wrapped around it, as the warm sun washed over her, along with the whisper of the leaves. After making certain she was all right, Isak went back into the house. Raisa talked animatedly about the state the garden had been in when they had arrived as she squatted down and set to work weeding the vegetable garden, where beets, turnips, onions, carrots and potatoes were struggling to grow. Sleepy, Maria listened with only half her attention, letting her gaze drift through the garden. She caught sight of some purple-blooming sage, a tiger lily, and some chamomile, all nearly choked out by grasses, but their blooms were so bright in the afternoon light, they almost hurt her eyes...

She managed to lift the cup to her lips and slowly sip the tea, relishing the flavor of the sour cherries. Once she had drained the cup, she managed to tip the cherries into her mouth, and chewed them slowly. She leaned back in the chair, letting her eyes drift shut.

Oi, I need a bucket, Raisa exclaimed, suddenly standing up and dusting her hands off on her apron. I will be right back. And she swept up the stone pathway toward the house and went back inside. Maria closed her eyes again, ready to fall asleep...

But how did you hear about it? How could you possibly know what goes on so far from Semenov?

The quiet voice, just outside the wall, made her frown. It sounded like an older man