Eveshka did not understand that place. But she knew fighting for what she wanted, and she knew fighting to stay alive.
“What’s a rusalka,” he asked her, in that one point of understanding, “but a wish so strong it drinks the life out of anything it wants? How close will you hold Ilyana? Or me? If it’s that again, ‘Veshka—then, dammit, stay to me. Don’t do it to our daughter!”
There was anger in front of him, then, terrible anger inside him. And fear. Her heart wanted free of obligations. It wanted—
But her heart had no magic to fight with. Neither did he.
The anger in front of him did. The anger could do anything it wanted. It would be a fool to do any of those things to a man who had her heart, and they both knew that—but that heart began to go this way and that in panic at the thought of it.
He said, “ ‘Veshka, is the word ‘wrong’ so damned difficult? Take it back, ‘Veshka, I know it hurts, dammit—but I don’t like what I’m seeing.”
She looked at him coldly. She walked away and picked up a basket from the stack in the corner, and put it on the table.
Packing, then.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means you can do what you like with her. Maybe you can do better.”
Her heart was saying something else. It was feeling betrayal and terror and wanting fools it loved to do exactly what it thought safe.
She wanted him to do what she said, wanted not to hurt him any further, and wanted out of here before she killed him—because she was drowning in confusion—
And when she could not breathe, she would grab anything and anyone that could give that next breath to her—she would do it again and again, the way she had done, to live, her way—
He held on, he shut his eyes to shut it out, but the panic was not coming from the outside, it was inside him, a panic that must not get to his daughter—he could not let it get to her—
She said, a living voice, “I’m taking the boat. It’s stocked isn’t it?”
He nodded, in the moment’s sanity her cold voice made. He left the fireside, managed to reach the kitchen table and sit down, with the sudden thought that there had been no sound from Ilyana or Sasha. Sasha must be taking care her, Sasha must be trying to get hold of the situation—
He leaned his head on his hands, tasted blood and realized he had bitten his lip. He did it then deliberately, pain to stop him thinking, pain like sunlight to distract a man’s eyes from ghosts.
He heard her steps echo in the bedroom and eventually come back again; he heard her pass behind him to the door, getting her cloak. It was not like the first years of their marriage, when she would bolt and run—heart and all. He did not know now if she meant to take her heart back when she left or whether she might leave him like this, because what she was now was safe, and clearheaded, and cared for nothing more than itself. Perhaps she had no choice. Or she found no reason now to suffer with ordinary folk.
She said, the part of her that had no heart: “I’ll call for it—when I can.”
“Sasha?” he murmured, hoping Sasha could hear him— wondering if Sasha was all right. If Ilyana was. If Eveshka was not about to kill all of them along with her heart, a coldly reasoned self-murder—against the nightmare she had feared all these years—
“No,” she said aloud. He heard the door open, felt a gust of cool night air against his left side.
He thought, he could not help himself: Chernevog wasn’t worse than this. God, what has she become?
“Too strong,” his wife’s voice said from the door. “Too powerful to deal with magic.”
Pain surpassed pain. He slumped onto his folded arms, wanting her to go, put distance between them; but he heard her walk back, while the whole house groaned in pain, felt her shadow against the wind as she bent over him. Her lips brushed his temple and he began to fall then, a long helpless slide into dark.
He thought she said, while he was spinning and falling: “I have to do this, Pyetr. I have to. Or we’ll all of us die.”
“I don’t know what the hell she meant.” His hands were still shaking at breakfast, but the heart next to his was quiet, thank the god. Thank the god Ilyana was still sleeping—or thank Sasha, he thought, who was responsible for the breakfast and maybe for his sanity. “I’m not even sure she said it. It’s what I remember.”
Sasha sank slowly onto the other bench and stared at him.
“Have some tea.” Pyetr picked up the pot. It was the cracked teacup Sasha had this morning; and the magical patch from Uulamets’ time still held. So not everything had fallen apart, though his pouring splashed tea on the tabletop and the pot rattled as he set it down.
“She’s on the river somewhere south of here,” Sasha said, “she’s taken the boat. I think the vodyanoi’s gone after her.”
“Oh, god, fine! What more?”
“Worry about the vodyanoi. It’s even possible she’s called it. I can’t tell.”
“Good god, Sasha—”
“She’s very well this morning. She’s watching the sun rise, listening to the water—she’s improved a great deal since last night.”
A memory came back, with a brief shortness of breath. “I was scared to death she had gone at you. I couldn’t hear you.”
“She told me held Ilyana asleep and not to interfere.” Sasha was a little pale himself this morning, and unshaven as yet—razors did not seem a good idea, considering the amount of tea on the table. “I couldn’t, was the plain fact: I had to trust her. If we’d gone at it—”
Sasha did not need to finish. He had felt it. He did not want to remember that this morning. Sasha must have hauled him off to bed last night. And had breakfast on the table when he waked.
“Are you all right?” he asked Sasha.
“Considering. How are you feeling?”
“Better for the tea and the breakfast. What in hell are we I going to do?” That question unsettled Eveshka’s quiescent presence. He wondered if she had meant last night that she was not going to get better and she was not coming back, and that scared him.
Sasha said, “I don’t know, to both questions.”
“Don’t listen to me like that. She doesn’t like it.”
“She can be patient under the circumstances.” Sasha did something: he felt calmer of a sudden, numb in a certain spot. “She’s right, I think, about how long she can keep this up.”
“Keep what up, for the god’s sake?”
“Easy, easy. —Using magic. Using magic is what she can’t keep doing, considering her state of mind. I’m terribly afraid something’s loose.”
“What do you mean, “loose?” “
“The vodyanoi, maybe, but he’s not an instigator. He likes to think he is.”
‘Veshka’s heart struggled to express itself, then calmed again, angry, now.
“She doesn’t like that idea,” he said.
“I think she knows it, though. The business with Chernevog—there are no coincidences in magic. No great ones, at least. Chernevog’s condition certainly isn’t coincidence. Anything that’s ever been associated is always associated.”
“What are you saying, he’s linked to her? Is—” The heart in him disturbed his own. —Is she fading? he wondered. Is that what’s going on —that she’s going back to—
“—rusalka-form?” Sasha caught up his thought. “I don’t I think that’s it. I certainly hope not. Calm. Easy. We’ll solve this.”
“I’d like to know how!” He was not sure now whose panic it was. He fought a shiver, bit an already bitten spot on his lip. “Sasha, she’s not doing well.”
“She’s doing very well indeed.” Sasha’s voice laid calm down like a blanket. “She knows exactly what she’s doing and she’s asking us to keep the mouse from foolishness. It’s what we knew could happen. I just never thought—never thought of Chernevog himself as an unsettled matter. But of course he was. It’s the things you don’t think about—and there may be a reason you’re not thinking
about them—that make a way to you. Silences can be the most dangerous spots.”
“ Something made us forget him? He made us forget him?”
“He was very strong; he was very—cheated of his life. His appearance in that place certainly isn’t all that unreasonable.”
“You think he’s the cause? Or is something behind him?”
“I’m not sure,” Sasha said, and Eveshka’s heart shuddered in him, wanting—
“Certainly it’s not Eveshka at fault,” Sasha added in that same deathly hush. “If anything, this business came at her first—not a hundred years ago: I mean now, maybe with the mouse’s birth, maybe in something that happened when she was with her mother.”
Another shiver. Yes, he thought. And the shiver came through him, a twitch of his arms. “It might have been.”
“She believes in magic as a thing with intent. She believes there’s some—power behind the Yard-things and the Forest-things that doesn’t like us, or at least, isn’t like us. I don’t think so, not—truly. I think it’s something else, something far less alive, certainly less aware. Maybe she recognized some danger I didn’t, maybe she sensed some gap in our defenses I didn’t—I don’t know. But I do think she’s been fighting this back for longer than we know, without consciously knowing she was fighting anything specific, if you want my guess.”
“This—what “this?” “
“This slippage. This sliding into magic. I don’t know whether she’s fighting the danger or whether she is the danger.”
Cold silence lay next his heart. He could not tell whether it was agreement: he tried not to think about it. He leaned his chin on his hand and listened to Sasha saying:
“—If she did any one thing wrong, it was sealing herself off alone with the problem and not explaining—if it was actually awareness. If it was going on, I didn’t feel it going on. Or I didn’t feel what was going on. But maybe Ilyana did: she used to have a bad habit of eavesdropping; I suppose all children must, before they understand it’s wrong—but if the mouse got too close to her mother, I understand now why ‘Veshka would have shut her out. Ilyana wouldn’t. Ilyana wouldn’t have any way to understand it: Ilyana started fighting her, and Ilyana still doesn’t understand. That’s our greatest danger. Our mouseling’s been hurt, very badly hurt, and she’s so young—”
Fear and hurt. Pyetr studiously found the teacup of overwhelming interest, picked it up and took a sip. The tea was cold. “What you’re saying is that ‘Veshka’s the chink in our armor.”
“In many senses, yes. ‘Veshka’s standoffishness from her daughter—she sees it as protective, holding questions off till the mouse is old enough. I feel she’s not chosen the best way—but ‘Veshka—Honestly, ‘Veshka can’t feel at ease with the child; can’t let go. Perhaps it’s a limit she’s decided for herself; but if it is—it’s still real; and I can’t answer the mouse’s questions, not the deep ones that ‘Veshka’s rebuffs have created. I can say it—but the hurt’s still there. Which may mean it’s all on you. You’re the one point—the one person in this world who can possibly hold all our hearts.”
He shuddered, so badly his hand overset the cup and banged into the plate. He got a breath, rescued the cup before it reached the edge. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing so well this morning.”
“You’re doing very well. Steady. In one sense you already hold them. There’s not one of us would see you come to harm. In that sense you’re the most protected man in all the Russias. In another you know very well that you’re another vulnerable point.”
“A fool with a sword—”
“At close range, before any of us could protect you, yes—some fool with a sword could put it in our hearts. Literally.”
“He’d truly be a fool. I don’t think I’d want to see what would happen to him.”
Sasha moved back from the table, sudden scrape of wood on wood. He said: “Abandon that thought. Please.”
Sasha was not one to panic. Equally frightening, the rise of panic he felt inside.
“Nice weather,” he said, with a break in his voice. It was often good to discuss the weather, when wizards were upset. “Looks like the sun’s shining.”
“The sun’s in danger,” Sasha said.
God, craziness. It was enough to make his skin crawl.
Sasha said, “That’s better.” A deep breath. “I think we’d better wake Ilyana.”
“I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure you’re doing that well, friend. And what in hell’s going on with my wife?”
“She’s wished—” Sasha stopped for another breath, and there was such fear in Sasha’s expression his heart went cold. “She’s left me to make the decision with Ilyana. She says I’m the only one—and she’s the unstable point—I don’t know how she knows that. —Eveshka, dammit—”
She was gone. She wanted him to know in parting—he heard her speaking clear as clear—
I love you, Pyetr. I can’t come home till things are changed.
Come to me if there’s no other hope. But Sasha will be gone then, and your life and your soul will be in danger.
Most of all, don’t rely on Ilyana. Don’t. You don’t imagine what she can do to you.
Warn Sasha—
What? he wanted to ask her. Warn Sasha of what?
But her heart had left him by then.
Waking up was like any morning at first, with the birds under the eaves, and all, but that was only for a breath or two.
Then Ilyana realized that something was weighing down her bed on one side and she remembered—
Her father was sitting on the edge of her bed. Her father looked tired and sad, and he brushed her hair away from her face and asked:
“How are you, Ilyana?”
He almost never called her name unless she was in trouble; no one did, except her mother; but she was in trouble with her mother so often she could never tell what her mother meant.
She was certainly in trouble with her mother now. Mother and father had had a terrible fight, so bad uncle had had to hold her—
She did not even remember going to sleep. But her father was all right this morning. That was the important thing. She was glad he was all right.
She could not tell about her mother. Her mother was being very quiet this morning. That probably meant she was mad.
And her friend was gone. Her mother had banished him. Maybe forever.
A tear rolled down her face, just spilt, without her even thinking about it.
Damn.
She wanted not to cry. That stopped the tears, but it did not cure the feeling that lay cold as a stone in the middle of her chest.
“Ilyana?”
“Mother’s mad, isn’t she? I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad you’re sorry, mouse.” He touched her under her chin. “Fact is—I want you to be very calm now and don’t wish anything—”
That always meant something terrible. She wanted him to say it—fast and plain.
“Your mother’s left, mouse. She’s gone out on the river.”
“There’s a vodyanoi!”
“I know it. She knows it. But the greater danger’s here.”
“Me.” Things were her fault, they were always her fault, dammit!
“Mouse, I want you to think as kindly toward her as you can. And be very honest with me—please be honest. Do you promise?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Her father patted her hand. “It’s all right.”
“What are you saying, that I made her leave?” Her father was mad at her. Her father was treating her the way her mother did when no one cared what was right, her father had his opinion, and that was her mother’s doing, dammit, no telling what her mother had told him except it was Ilyana’s fault, everything was always Ilyana’s fault—her mother arranged it that way.
Another tear spilled, plop, down her cheek.
“Don’t cry,” her father wished her. But her wishing had to stop it. He gathered her up, covers and all, and held
her und rocked her, while she laid her head on his shoulder dry-eyed and thought how she wanted—
No. She mustn’t think bad thoughts. Mustn’t want people hurt.
Even her mother, for trying to take her father away from her for good, and for pulling a tantrum and making him blame her, when it was all her mother’s fault.
Her mother never wanted anybody to like her, her mother never, ever wanted her to have anybody, and if she had not fought back and if it were not for uncle Sasha, her mother would have made her father mad at her forever and driven him away. As it was, she was just miserable, and upset, and she wanted—
—wanted her friend back.
Mouse, her uncle reprimanded her. No!
Uncle Sasha believed she was wrong. Everyone did. All the time.
Even when she loved them. Her mother took everything she ever wanted away from her and nobody was ever on her side. She had no idea why her mother wanted her to be alone or why everyone thought she was a fool or why they always protected her mother.
Her uncle said, inside her head, Mousekin, don’t think like that. Absolutely we’re listening to you. But you have been wrong a couple of times in your life. Haven’t you?
She had to admit yes, but she still refused to believe it tin time. She told her uncle: I’ve been seeing my friend every spring, every spring since I was little. And he’s never hurt me. I don’t know why he would now.
She embarrassed her uncle. She caught something about her being grown-up now and grown-up girls being an entirely different question with a rusalka.
If men can be rusalki: that thought came through the confusion, too. Her uncle was not entirely sure that was possible.
So maybe you’re wrong about what he is. So there, uncle. Who’s not listening, now?
That was impertinent, her mother would say. That would get her sent to her room if her mother were here. Which her mother was not, this morning. And she was already in her room, with her father stroking her hair and saying:
“Dear mouse, don’t give me trouble, please don’t give me trouble today. Your mother’s gone away so you’ll have some rest and quiet. And we’ll talk about it, if you like—”