The Bear and the Nightingale (Winternight Trilogy 1)

Don’t be a fool, Pyotr Vladimirovich. It is the lot of women. Pyotr remembered Marina warm and pliant in his arms. But he also remembered her slipping away into the forest, light as a ghost, that same wild look in her eyes.

“Who am I to marry, Father?”

My son was right, Pyotr thought. Vasya was indeed angry. Her pupils had swelled and her head was flung back like a filly that will not take the bit. He rubbed his face. Girls were happy to be married. Olga had glowed when her husband put a jewel on her finger and took her away. Maybe Vasya was jealous of her elder sister. But this daughter would never find a husband in Moscow. Might as well put a hawk in a dovecote.

“Kyril Artamonovich,” said Pyotr. “My friend Artamon was rich, and his only son inherited. They are great breeders of horses.”

Her eyes took up half her face. Pyotr scowled. It was a good match; she had no business looking stricken. “Where?” she whispered. “When?”

“A week to the east, on a good horse,” said Pyotr. “He will come after the harvest.”

Vasya’s face stilled and set; she turned away. Pyotr added, coaxing, “He is coming here himself. I have sent Kolya to him. He will make you a good husband and give you children.”

“Why such haste?” Vasya snapped.

The bitterness in her voice struck him raw. “Enough, Vasya,” he said coldly. “You are a woman and he is a rich man. If you wanted a prince like Olga, well, they like their women fatter and less insolent.”

He saw the quick stab of hurt before she masked it. “Olya promised she would send for me when I was grown,” she said. “She said we would live in a palace together.”

“Better you are married now, Vasya,” said Pyotr at once. “You can go to your sister after your first son is born.”

Vasya bit her lip and stalked away. Pyotr found himself wondering uneasily what Kyril Artamonovich would make of his daughter.

“He is not old, Vasya,” said Dunya, when Vasya flung herself down by the hearth. “He is renowned for his skill in the chase. He will give you strong children.”

“What is Father not telling me?” retorted Vasya. “It is too sudden. I could have waited a year. Olya promised to send for me.”

“Nonsense, Vasya,” said Dunya, perhaps over-briskly. “You are a woman; you are better off with a husband. I am sure Kyril Artamonovich will allow you to go visit your sister.”

The green eyes flew up, narrowed. “You know Father’s reason. Why this haste?”

“I—I cannot say, Vasya,” said Dunya. She looked suddenly small and shrunken.

Vasya said nothing. “It is for the best,” said her nurse. “Try to understand.” She sank onto the oven-bench as though her strength deserted her, and Vasya felt a pang of remorse.

“Yes,” she said. “I am sorry, Dunyashka.” She laid a hand on her nurse’s arm. But she did not speak again. When she had swallowed her porridge, she slipped away like a ghost through the door and out into the night.

THE MOON WAS LITTLE thicker than a crescent, the light a glitter of blue. Vasya ran, with a panic she could not understand. The life she led made her strong. She bolted and let the cool wind wash the taste of fear from her mouth. But she had not gone far; the firelight of her family’s hearth still beat upon her back when she heard someone call her name.

“Vasilisa Petrovna.”

She almost ran on and let the night swallow her. But where was there to go? She halted. The priest stood in the shadow of the church. It was dark; she would not have known him by his face. But she could not mistake the voice. She did not say anything. She tasted salt and realized there were tears drying on her lips.

Konstantin was just leaving the church. He had not seen Vasya leave the house, but he could not mistake her flying shadow. He called before he knew, and cursed himself when she stopped. But the sight of her face shook him. “What is it?” he said roughly. “Why are you crying?”

If his voice had been cool and commanding, Vasya would not have answered. But as it was, she said wearily, “I am going to be married.”

Konstantin frowned. He saw all at once, as Pyotr had seen, the wild thing brought indoors, busy and breathless, a woman like other women. Like Pyotr, he felt a strange sorrow and shook it away. He stepped closer without thinking, so that he might read her face, and saw with astonishment that she was afraid.

“And so?” he said. “Is he a cruel man?”

“No,” Vasya said. “No, I don’t think so.”

It is for the best was on the tip of the priest’s tongue. But he thought again of years, of childbearing and exhaustion. The wildness gone, the hawk’s grace chained up…He swallowed. It is for the best. The wildness was sinful.

But even though he knew the answer, he found himself asking, “Why are you frightened, Vasilisa Petrovna?”

“Do not you know, Batyushka?” she said. Her laugh was soft and desperate. “You were frightened when they sent you here. You felt the forest closing about you like a fist; I could see it in your eyes. But you may leave if you will. There is a whole wide world waiting for a man of God, and already you have drunk the water of Tsargrad and seen the sun on the sea. While I…” He could see the panic rising in her again, and so he strode forward and seized her arm.

“Hush,” he said. “Do not be a fool; you are making yourself frightened.”

She laughed again. “You are right,” she said. “I am foolish. I was born for a cage, after all: convent or house, what else is there?”

“You are a woman,” said Konstantin. He was still holding her arm; she stepped back and he let her go. “You will accept it in time,” he said. “You will be happy.” She could barely see his face, but there was a note in his voice that she did not understand. It sounded as though he was trying to convince himself.

“No,” Vasya said hoarsely. “Pray for me if you will, Batyushka, but I must…” And then she was running again, between the houses. Konstantin was left swallowing the urge to call her back. His palm burned where he had touched her.

It is for the best, he thought. It is for the best.

It was an autumn of gray skies and yellow leaves, of sudden rain and unexpected shafts of livid sunlight. The boyar’s son came with Kolya after their harvest had been put away safe, in cellars and lofts. Kolya sent a messenger ahead of them on the muddy track, and on the day of the lord’s coming, Vasya and Irina spent the morning in the bathhouse. The bannik, the bathhouse-spirit, was a potbellied creature with eyes like two currants. He leered good-naturedly at the girls. “Can’t you hide under a bench?” said Vasya, low, when Irina was in the outer room. “My stepmother will see you; she’ll scream.”

The bannik grinned. Steam drifted between his teeth. He was barely taller than her knee. “As you like. But do not forget me this winter, Vasilisa Petrovna. Every season I am less. I do not want to disappear. The old eater is waking; this would not be a good winter to lose your old bannik.”

Vasya hesitated, caught. But I am going to be married. I am going away. Beware the dead. Her lips firmed. “I will not forget.”