Morozko frowned, but rather than answer in words, he lifted his cupped hand. Water collected in his palm. “I wondered if you would ask,” he said. “Give me your hand.”

Vasya did. He let the water run lightly over the cuts on her arm and fingers. They healed with that startling spear of agony, there and gone. She jerked her hand back.

“Water of death,” said Morozko, letting the remaining droplets scatter. “That is my power. I can restore flesh, living or dead.”

She’d known he could heal since the first night she met him and he healed her frostbite. But she hadn’t connected it to the fairy tale, hadn’t considered—

“You said you could only heal wounds that you’d inflicted.”

   “I did.”

“Another lie?”

His mouth set hard. “A part of the truth.”

“The Bear wanted you to save Konstantin’s life?”

“Not save it,” he said. “I can mend flesh, but he was already too far gone. Medved wanted me to mend the priest’s flesh, so he could bring him back. Together, my brother and I can restore the dead, for Medved’s gift is the water of life. That is why he said please.”

Frowning, Vasya considered her healed fingers, the scars on palm and wrist.

“But,” Morozko added, “we never act together. Why would we? He is monstrous, he and his power both.”

“The Bear mourned,” said Vasya. “He mourned when Father Konstantin—”

Morozko made a sound of impatience. “The wicked can still mourn, Vasya.”

She didn’t reply. She stood still, while the rain fell all around them, overwhelmed again by all the things she didn’t know. The winter-king was part of the lingering storm; his humanity only a shadow of his true self, his power rising as summer waned. His eyes glittered in the darkness. Yet he had cared for her, schemed for her. Why should she give the Bear or Konstantin a passing thought? They were murderers both, and they were both gone.

Shaking off her unease, she said, “Will you come meet my sister? I promised.”

Morozko looked surprised. “Come to her as your suitor and ask her permission?” he asked. “Will it change anything? It might make it worse.”

“Still,” said Vasya. “Otherwise I—”

“I am not a man, Vasya,” he said. “No sacrament will bind me; I cannot marry you under the laws of your god or your people. If you are looking for honor in your sister’s eyes, you will not find it.”

She had known that was true. But— “I’d like you to meet her anyway,” said Vasya. “At least—perhaps she will not fear for me.”

There was a silence and then she realized that he was shaking with silent laughter. She crossed her arms, offended.

   He looked at her, crystalline-eyed. “I am not likely to reassure anyone’s sister,” he said, when he stopped laughing. “But I will, if you like.”

* * *

OLGA WAS IN MARYA’S CHAMBER, watching over the child’s sleep. The marks of long strain shadowed the girl’s pale, pinched face. She had taken on too great a labor too young, and Olga looked scarcely less weary.

Vasya halted in the doorway, suddenly unsure of her welcome.

The bed was covered in feather-stuffed ticking, with furs and woven wool. For a moment, Vasya wanted to be a child again, to fall into bed beside Marya and go to sleep while her sister stroked her hair. But Olga turned at Vasya’s soft-footed approach, and the wish vanished. One could not go backward.

Vasya crossed the room, touched Marya’s cheek. “Will she be all right?” Vasya asked.

“She is only tired, I think,” said Olga.

“She was very brave,” said Vasya.

Olga smoothed her daughter’s hair and said nothing.

“Olya,” Vasya said awkwardly. All the composure she’d found in Dmitrii’s hall seemed to have deserted her. “I—I told you that you would meet him. If you wish.”

Olga frowned. “Him, Vasya?”

“You asked. He is here. Will you see him?”

Morozko did not wait for an answer, nor did he walk through the door like a person. He simply stepped out of the shadows. The domovoi had been sitting beside the stove; now he shot to his feet, bristling; Marya stirred in her sleep.

“I mean them no harm, little one,” said Morozko, speaking first to the domovoi.

Olga had lurched to her feet too; she was standing in front of Marya’s bed as though to defend her child from evil. Vasya, stiff with apprehension, suddenly saw the frost-demon as her sister did: a cold-eyed shadow. She began to doubt her own course. Morozko turned away from the domovoi, bowed to Olga.

   “I know you,” Olga whispered. “Why have you come here?”

“Not for a life,” Morozko said. His voice was even, but Vasya felt him wary.

Olga said to Vasya, “I remember him. I remember. He took my daughter away.”

“No—he—” began Vasya, clumsily, and Morozko shot her a hard look. She subsided.

His face was unchanged, but his whole body was taut with strain. Vasya understood why. He’d wanted to go near enough to humanity to be remembered, so he could go on existing. But Vasya had pulled him nearer and nearer still, like a moth to a candle-flame. Now he must look at Olga, understand the torment in her eyes, and carry it with him down the long roads of his life.

He didn’t want to. But he didn’t move.

“It is little comfort,” Morozko said carefully. “But your elder daughter has a long life before her. And the younger—I will remember her.”

“You are a devil,” said Olga. “My little girl didn’t even have a name.”

“I will remember her regardless,” said the winter-king.

Olga stared at him a moment and then suddenly broke; her whole body bowed with grief. She put her face in her hands.

Vasya, feeling helpless, went to her sister, wrapped tentative arms about her. “Olya?” she said. “Olya, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Olga made no answer and Morozko stood where he was. He did not speak again.

There was a long silence. Olga took a deep breath. Her eyes were wet. “I never wept,” she said. “Not since the night I lost her.”

Vasya held her sister tightly.

Olga gently put Vasya’s arms aside. “Why my sister?” she asked Morozko. “Why, of all the women in the world?”