The Bear and the Nightingale (Winternight Trilogy 1)

“You know best, Batyushka,” said Anna peevishly. Such care, she thought. And all for that green-eyed demon’s spawn. But he is wise; he knows she cannot stay, corrupting good Christians. “You are merciful. But I will see the girl dead before my Irina is put in danger.”

IT WAS ALL ARRANGED. Oleg, rough and old, would drive the sledge, and Timofei’s parents, their hearths empty without their dead son, would be Vasya’s servants and guards.

“Of course we will do it, Batyushka,” said Yasna, Timofei’s mother. “God has turned his face from us, and that demon-child is the reason. If she had been sent away sooner, I would never have lost my child.”

“Here is rope,” said Konstantin. “Bind her hands lest she forget herself.”

In his mind he saw the hart brought down in the hunt, feet tied, the eye bewildered, trailing blood in the snow. He knew a twist of lust and shame and satisfied pride. Tomorrow. On the morrow she would go, half a moon’s turning before midwinter.

That night Anna Ivanovna called Vasya to her.

“Vasochka!” Anna shrilled, making the girl jump. “Vasochka, come here!”

Vasya glanced up, haggard in the firelight. She and Alyosha had gone to the cemetery at sunrise. But when they dug flinchingly into Dunya’s grave, they found it empty. They had stared at each other across the bare cold earth, Alyosha shocked, Vasya grimly unsurprised.

“This cannot be,” said Alyosha.

Vasya had taken a deep breath. “But it is,” she said. “Come. We must protect the house.”

Cold and exhausted, they smoothed the snow, and came home. The women cut up the colt to stew his flesh in their ovens and eat it with withered carrots, and Vasya hid herself, vomiting until there was nothing left in her stomach. Now it was the cusp of night, and Dunya would come again to torment them with sobbing. Father was still gone, and Vasya was sick with dread.

She went reluctantly to where Anna sat. A small wooden chest bound with strips of bronze sat beside her. “Open it,” Anna urged.

Vasya looked a question at her brother. Alyosha shrugged. She knelt before the chest and lifted the lid. Inside lay—fabric. A great folded length of handsome undyed linen.

“Linen,” said Vasya, bewildered. “Linen enough for a dozen shirts. Do you intend for me to sew all winter, Anna Ivanovna?”

Anna smiled despite herself. “Of course not. It is an altar cloth; you will hem it and present it to your abbess.” Seeing Vasya still puzzled, she added, smiling more widely still, “You are going south to a convent in the morning.”

For a moment Vasya was light-headed, and blackness darted before her eyes. She stumbled to her feet. “Does Father know?”

“Oh, yes,” said Anna. “You were to be sent away with the tribute-goods. But we have had enough of you summoning devils. You will go at dawn. The men are ready, and a woman to see to your virtue.” Anna smirked. “Pyotr Vladimirovich would have it so. Perhaps the holy sisters can make you obey where I could not.”

Irina looked troubled and said nothing.

Vasya was trembling all over. “Stepmother, no.”

Anna’s smile slipped. “Defy me? It is done, and you will be bound with ropes if you do not care to walk.”

“Come,” Alyosha broke in. “What madness is this? Father is from home and he would never countenance—”

“Would he not?” said Konstantin. Now, as ever, his soft, deep voice caught and held the room. It filled the walls and the dark space near the rafters. Everyone fell silent. Vasya saw the domovoi cowering, deep in the oven. “He has given it his countenance. A life among holy sisters might save her soul. She is not safe in this village where she has wronged so many. They call you witch, Vasilisa Petrovna, don’t you know? They call you demon. You will be stoned before this evil winter ends, if you do not go.”

Even Alyosha was silent.

But Vasya spoke, hoarse as a raven. “No,” she said. “Not now and not ever. I have wronged no one. I will never set foot in a convent. Not if I have to live in the forest, and beg work from Baba Yaga.”

“This is not a fairy tale, Vasya,” Anna broke in, shrilly. “No one is asking your opinion. It is for your own good.”

Vasya thought of the wavering domovoi, of the dead things creeping about the house, of disaster narrowly averted. “But what have I done?” she demanded. She was horrified to find tears in her eyes. “I have hurt no one. I have tried to save you! Father—” she turned to Konstantin “—I saved you from the rusalka, when she would have had you by the lake. I drove off the dead, or I tried…” She stopped, choking, fighting for air.

“You?” breathed Anna. “Drive them off? You invited your demon cohort in! You have brought all our misfortunes upon us. You think I haven’t seen?”

Alyosha opened his mouth, but Vasya was before him: “If I am sent away this winter, you will all die.”

Anna drew in a gasping breath. “How dare you threaten us?”

“I do not threaten,” said Vasya desperately. “It is the truth.”

“Truth? Truth, you little liar, there is no truth in you!”

“I will not go,” said Vasya, and so fierce was her voice that even the crackling fire seemed to waver.

“Will you not?” said Anna. Her eyes were wild, but something in her bearing reminded Vasya that her father was a Grand Prince. “Very well, Vasilisa Petrovna. I will give you a choice.” Her eyes darted around the room and fastened on the white flowers adorning Irina’s kerchief. “My daughter, my true, fair, and obedient daughter, is weary in all this snow for the sight of green things. You, ugly witch of a girl, will do her a service. Go out into the woods and bring her back a basket of snowdrops. If you do, you will be free to do as you like hereafter.”

Irina gaped. Konstantin had his mouth open in alarmed protest.

Vasya stared blankly at her stepmother. “Anna Ivanovna, it is midwinter.”

“Go!” screeched Anna, laughing wildly. “Out of my sight! Bring me flowers or go to the convent! Now get you gone!”

Vasya looked from face to face: Anna triumphant, Irina frightened, Alyosha furious, Konstantin inscrutable. The walls seemed to shrink again; the fire burned up all the air, so that no matter how her lungs heaved, she could not draw breath. Terror overtook her, the terror of the wild thing in the trap. She turned and ran from the kitchen.

Alyosha caught her at the outer door. She had yanked on her boots and mittens, wrapped a cloak about her and a shawl about her head. He seized her with both hands, turned her around.

“Have you gone mad, Vasya?”

“Let me go! You heard Anna Ivanovna. I’d rather take my chances in the forest than be locked up forever.” She was shaking, wild-eyed.

“All that is nonsense. Wait for Father to return.”

“Father has agreed to it!” Vasya swallowed back the tears, but still they crept down her cheeks. “Anna would not have dared otherwise. People say our misfortunes are my fault. Do you think I have not heard? I will be stoned as a witch if I stay. Perhaps Father is trying to protect me. But I’d rather die in the forest than in a convent.” Her voice broke. “I will never be a nun—do you hear me? Never!” She yanked away from him, but Alyosha held her tightly.