II

I'd had no time to think what it meant, spending six months away from my family. When the Staryk lord held his hand out and told me I wouldn't be able to return until winter, so many fears had been jamming my mind, like ice shards clogging a river when it breaks up in spring, that I hadn't been able to think about what it would be, to miss my mother and father. The only certainty I'd held to was that I had to stop Chernobog. If I didn't, my books would never balance again; my ledger would never be clean. Nothing mattered in comparison with that.

My books are clean now. I picture every number in my mind's eye, see debits and credits scrolling down the page, each one accounting with the other. I have nothing to feel guilty for, no debts to discharge. Now that I have time to feel my loneliness, to miss my parents, or to feel myself cheated or angry that they have been taken from me yet again by forces I am not responsible for nor capable of controlling, I find that I don't. The space where my anger burned in me for so long, like a dry dead tree burning from the inside out in a summer wildfire, has guttered out. There is nothing left inside me to fuel that fury. For the first time in a long time, I am at peace with myself and the world.

A snowball bursts across my face, fine powdery snow flying up my nose. I squeal and sneeze, Rebekah's laughter silvery in my ears, crackling like fine icicles. Flek's laughter is fainter; she is nervous still of me, and turns to scold her daughter. My snowball flies wide, and catches her on the small of the back. Flek gasps, Rebekah shrieks with laughter, and then the battle is truly joined.

Flek knocks loose snow from the branches of the trees above us and scoops it in her long-fingered hands, tossing one snowball to her daughter as they stalk towards me through the grove. I retreat, boots slipping under my running footsteps, finding safety at last behind a row of bushes, their tulip-shaped flowers perfect cups to grab my own snowball from. I cock my arm back and warn them, "Not another step!"

It's strange to hear my voice, so strict and dour lately, break on a giggle at the last word. And then I keep laughing, because Rebekah and Flek are laughing and it feels good to laugh, it feels good to let go after so many weeks of terror and pain and exhaustion. Because we are safe. We are safe, and alive, and happy. We can make each other happy, here, now, with something as simple as a packed handful of snow.

My people's history is full of stories like this, of tiny lights in the darkness, of laughter in the face of fear, in a mouthful of bread keeping hunger at bay. Little things. Insignificant things. Things just enough to light a room, grow a smile, fill a stomach. My family had that, at least, when we had nothing else. And now, I can appreciate what that means, to be a part of making that magic, even when I have nothing else to give.

We tire out quickly, our arms warm and aching, snow powdering lace veils over our hair, embroidering the soft fabric of our tunics. Rebekah's fine skin thins out; I can see the ice melt running through her veins. Flek swoops her up in her arms, her cold leeching into her daughter's skin, and Rebekah smiles at her mother, blinking lazily through frost-rimed lashes. How many times did my own mother hold me so? Warming me through her own skin, with the hot blood running through her heart, blood she'd shared with me when she made me?

I watch them, missing my mother, but it's a perfunctory feeling. My mother's love hasn't disappeared; it warms me still, no matter how far apart we are.

"Do the Staryk do anything for fun?" the question is out of my mouth before I know I even have it. Flek's eyebrows raise, the flat planes of her face disassembling for a moment in her confusion.

"I—I do not know, my lady," she says, "I am still learning the ways of nobility, myself."

"Not nobility," I reply, unsure whether I would still be counted among them myself, anyway. I am no longer married—at least, I don't think I am. "What I mean is," I have to pause to put my thoughts together, as it occurs to me that this, this little snowball fight, has been the closest thing to fun I have experienced yet among the Staryk.

"My people celebrate in many ways. We sing, we dance, we play games, tell stories and jokes. If I were with my family, I would know what to do to celebrate a victory like the one over Chernobog. What do the Staryk do to enjoy themselves?"

"When," Flek pauses, rocking Rebekah gently in her arms, "when my mother lived, we would tell stories too. She and I played shakhmaty, just as I am teaching this little one." Rebekah's smile spreads as her mother presses their foreheads together. "We dance, sometimes. The nobility too, for I have often helped prepare the feast tables for our winter festivals, and seen them dance while changing the plates."

"Do you have any festivals during the summer?"

"Only one to mark its end, my lady."

"Hmm." It seems wrong, not to have anything to look forward to at a difficult time other than its end. What good is hope if it arrives too late? This will be a long, difficult summer. I know what scarcity does to people, how it grinds them down until they are little more than broken animals, plodding forward, unable to lift their heads even when their heavy yoke is gone. I know what the lack of hope did to me. How afraid I was to have any, lest it might be snatched away.

Rebekah has her hope, still. I want her to keep it. I want to keep mine.

"My lady?" Flek hesitates. "May I take my daughter to our rooms? She is tired, and I would put her to sleep. I can return afterwards, if you still have need of me."

I suppress my proud smile. It took so long for Flek to express any wishes of her own that I cannot bear for her to think me mocking. "Thank you, but no. We have both worked hard today. Go home. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you, my lady. Thank my lady, little one," Flek jostles Rebekah lightly in her arms, but the girl is sound asleep and cannot be woken.

"I will send something extra for her, tonight," I promise, knowing there is always more than I can eat in my rooms. As Flek opens her mouth and her brow creases, I raise my hand. "She tired out far too quickly today, and I will need her help. She can teach me how the Staryk dance. I want to learn."

"Very well," Flek's objections go out of her like a breath of winter wind. "Good night, my lady."

"Good night."

It is strange, how quickly I have accommodated to the Staryk way of doing things, now that I am no longer a hostage to them. Their unwillingness to receive without giving, and vice versa, once seemed to me unspeakably cold, a frozen tundra from which no warm feelings or friendships could possibly spring. Yet now that I no longer fear them, I begin to understand them. They value the steadiness of certain ground, of understanding exactly where they stand in relation to each other. For me to give unreservedly, without demanding a return, would be to hold them hostage to mystery, unknowing when and how I would finally require compensation.

By just asking a little given back, a token favor, I remove that uncertainty. Flek will feed her child tonight, and they will both teach me tomorrow, and we will keep exchanging these tokens, these favors, knowing exactly what we are to each other. I don't know if the Staryk define friendships in the way mortals do, but I have never had many friends, anyway. Wanda is the first person outside my family I let approach my high and guarded heart; even then, our friendship started with an exchange of services. Who am I to think the Staryk cold when I have rarely been any warmer?

Are they that different from mortals? Are their needs and desires so far afield from ours? I used to think so. Now I know better.

All these musings help solidify my intentions. The Staryk need hope. They need to know that privation and darkness will end; and that until it ends, we can work together to keep fear at arm's length.

The mountain ushers me back to my chambers, where my servants—two Staryk women I have begun to think of as Mysha and Nos—have prepared a bath for me. They exchanged raised brows as they beat snow from my clothes, but say nothing until I ask them to invite the Staryk lord to my rooms for dinner.

Mysha—as timid and soft as the mouse I named her after—twists a finger into the end of her braid. "Shall I give a reason why my lady asks for his presence?"

"Tell him," I swallow, "tell him I wish to discuss crop yields." I do not like to lie, and did not even before living with the Staryk, but I also don't want my ideas discussed by my servants, especially if they should fail. Trading gossip is an industry here, like everywhere else, and Mysha and Nos have no reason to keep my secrets yet.

Mysha leaves to issue my invitation, while Nos helps me undress and get into the bath. I dismiss her as soon as she will allow me, not wishing to enjoy my bath under her arched and superior nose, and shortly Mysha returns with the Staryk lord's assurance that he will join me later. I nod my thanks, waiting until she leaves to grip the edge of the tub for a moment's stability as my heart seems to lurch in my chest. Have I grown used to the Staryk? A little. Does that familiarity extend to their lord? Not yet. I am not even certain if I wish it to.

Every time I am with him, I both wish to say more and regret what I do say. We have never been closer than we were that moment in the storeroom, when he burst in upon me with a wild look on his face, and took me by the shoulders as if to—I do not even know what he had thought to do. Asking would be impossible. Besides, whatever wild impulse seized him then seems now buried under a snowbank of manners and formalities. He denies me nothing except what I most want and can never, never ask for.

All former bargains between us have been dissolved, our debts to each other too complicated to be resolved to anyone's satisfaction. Yet sometimes I think what three questions I would ask, if he were bound to answer me again.

What was going through his mind, when he saw what I had done?

What did he want to do, as we stood staring at each other in the aftermath of battle?

Would he do it now, if I asked?

My hands ache where they grip the tub.

It occurs to me suddenly that this is the first time since returning—in fact the first time since our wedding—that we will share a private meal. Could I make another bargain, to get my answers? What would I do with them, if I got them? Would I want to demand answers, if he could not refuse me?

I plunge fully beneath the water, its cool touch soothing my suddenly feverish cheeks, and breathe out a plume of frustrated bubbles. Oh, I am no good at this! What is this, anyway? I have never had the luxury of being like my cousins, or the girls in the village, flitting and twittering over whichever boy happened to be tallest, or who sprouted the first patchy beard, or who looked best in a blue woolen jacket. I had always thought them silly, and myself superior, never to be troubled by such thoughts.

But I think of the way the Staryk lord—my Staryk—looked at me, and it is with a mix of shame and pleasure that I find myself capable of being just as ridiculous.

Emerging in a burst, water splattering over the floor, I breathe deeply and try to calm my heartbeat. Once I do, it is my thoughts that start racing. Which of my clothes look best? Should I order the same simple dishes I usually do, or try for something grander? Should I order his favorites? If I do, what will be said about me? Should I call the whole thing off, and make my requests in writing instead?

I stand, water sluicing off my body, huffing at my own foolish nerves. If I believe my idea to be a good one, why should I need to dress it up to make it acceptable? The Staryk will either agree with me, or he won't. I will not let my silly little girl's fears keep me from doing right. I am Miryem Mandelstam, who can turn silver into gold, who rescued the Staryk lord, and who defeated Chernobog.

These truths do make me feel a little better about myself, but they also throw a stark contrast on the fact that I am also Miryem Mandelstam, a girl who has never been loved by anyone who wasn't already bound to love me. I have never been wanted; I have only been needed. I always thought it was safer to be so; to be valued for what I can give and do, not needing to rely on my prickly nature to be thought worthwhile. I am capable, I am clever, I am determined, I am strong.

But am I lovable?

If I am, do I want to be loved?

And if I want to be loved, do I want my Staryk to love me?