Vasya nodded, staring still at her hand. When she looked up again, he had disappeared.

“Find her!” Konstantin snapped. “Bring her back!”

But the men would not go into the forest. They followed Vasya to the brink and balked, muttering of wolves and demons. Of the bitter cold.

“God will judge her now, Batyushka,” said Timofei’s father, and Oleg nodded in agreement. Konstantin hesitated, caught. The darkness beneath the trees seemed absolute.

“As you say, my children,” he said heavily. “God will judge her. God be with you.” He made the sign of the cross.

The men tramped away through the village muttering with their heads together. Konstantin went to his cold, bare cell. His dinner porridge lay heavy in his stomach. He lit a candle before the Mother of God, and a hundred shadows sprang furiously to life along the walls.

“Wicked servant,” snarled the voice. “Why is the witch-girl free in the forest? When I told you she must be contained? That she must go to a convent? I am displeased, my servant. I am most displeased.”

Konstantin fell to his knees, cowering. “We tried our best,” he pleaded. “She is a demon.”

“That demon is with my brother, and if he has the wit to see her strength…”

The candle guttered. The priest, huddled on the floor, went very still. “Your brother?” Konstantin whispered. “But you…” Then the candle went out, and there was only the breathing darkness. “Who are you?”

A long, slow silence, and then the voice laughed. Konstantin wasn’t sure he heard it; he might only have seen it, in the quiver of the shadows on the wall.

“The bringer of storms,” murmured the voice with a certain satisfaction. “For once you so summoned me. But long ago men called me the Bear—Medved.”

“You are a devil!” whispered Konstantin, clenching his hands.

All the shadows laughed. “As you like. But what difference is there between me and the one you call God? I too revel in deeds done in my name. I can give you glory, if you will do my bidding.”

“You,” whispered Konstantin. “But I thought…” He had thought himself exalted, set apart. But he was only a poor dupe, and he had done a demon’s bidding. Vasya…His throat closed. Somewhere in his soul, there was a proud girl riding a horse in the summer daylight. Laughing with her brother on her stool by the oven. “She will die.” He pressed his fists to his eyes. “I did it in your service.” Even as he spoke, he was thinking, they must never know.

“She ought to have gone to a convent. Or come to me,” said the voice matter-of-factly, with just a faint seething undercurrent of anger. “But now she is with my brother. With Death, but not dead.”

“With Death?” whispered Konstantin. “Not dead?” He wanted her to be dead. He wanted her alive. He wished he were dead himself. He would go mad if the voice kept speaking.

The silence stretched out, and when he could not stand it anymore, the voice came again. “What do you want above all, Konstantin Nikonovich?”

“Nothing,” Konstantin said. “I want nothing. Go away.”

“You are like a maid with the vapors,” said the voice sourly. And then it softened. “No matter; I know what you want.” And then, laughing, “would you have your soul cleansed, man of God? Would you have the innocent girl back? Well, know that I can take her from the hands of Death himself.”

“Better she die and leave this world,” croaked Konstantin.

“She will live in torment before she dies. I can save her, I alone.”

“Prove it, then,” said Konstantin. “Bring her back.”

The shadow snorted. “So hasty, man of God.”

“What do you want?” Konstantin choked on the words.

The shadow’s voice ripened. “Oh, Konstantin Nikonovich, it is such a fine thing, when the children of men ask me what I want.”

“Then what is it?” snapped Konstantin. How can I be righteous with that voice in my ears? If he brings her back, I will be clean again.

“A little thing,” said the voice. “Only a little thing. Life must pay for life. You want the little witch returned; I must have a witch for myself. Bring me one, and I give you yours. And then I will leave you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bring a witch to the forest, to the border, to the oak-tree at dawn. You will know the place when you see it.”

“And what will happen,” said Konstantin—little more than a breath—“to this—witch that I bring you?”

“Well, she will not die,” said the voice, and laughed. “What good is a death to me? Death is my brother, whom I hate.”

“But there are no witches save Vasya.”

“Witches must see, man of God. Is it only the little maiden who sees?”

Konstantin was silent. In his mind’s eye, he saw a plump, shapeless figure kneeling at the foot of the icon-screen, seizing his hand in her moist one. Her voice sounded in his ears. Batyushka, I see demons. Everywhere. All the time.

“Think on it, Konstantin Nikonovich,” said the voice. “But I must have her before sunrise.”

“And how will I find you?” The words were softer than snowfall; a mortal man would not have heard them. But the shadow heard.

“Go into the woods,” hissed the shadow. “Look for snowdrops. Then you will know. Give me a witch and take yours; give me a witch and be free.”

Vasya awoke to the touch of sunlight on her face. She opened her eyes on a ceiling of thin blue—no, on a vault of open sky. Her senses blurred, and she could not remember—then she did. I am in the house in the fir-grove. A whiskery chin bumped hers. She opened her eyes, and found, once again, that she was nose to nose with the bay stallion.

You sleep too much, said the horse.

“I thought you were a dream,” said Vasya in some wonder. She had forgotten how big the dream-horse was, and the fiery look in his dark eyes. She pushed his nose away and sat up.

I am not, usually, replied the horse.

The previous night came back to Vasya in a rush. Snowdrops at midwinter, bread and apples, mead heavy on her tongue. Long white fingers on her face. Pain. She yanked her hand free of the blanket. There was a pale mark in the center of her palm. “That was not a dream, either,” she murmured.

The horse was looking at her in some concern. Better to believe that everything is real, he said, as if to a lunatic. And I will tell you if you are dreaming.

Vasya laughed. “Done,” she said. “I am awake now.” She slid out of bed—less painfully than before. Her head was clearing. The house was still as a noonday forest, save the crackle and pop of a good fire. A little pot nestled steaming on the hearth. Suddenly ravenous, Vasya made her way to the fire and found luxury: porridge and milk and honey. She ate while the stallion hovered.

“What is your name?” she said to the horse, when she had done.

The stallion was busy finishing her bowl. He slanted an ear at her before replying. I am called Solovey.

Vasya smiled. “Nightingale. A little name for a great horse. How did you get it?”