When we had passed through villages, the train’s resounding whistle echoed against the walls of buildings, distorted into a bestial screech. Now, it curled like a corpse upon the tracks, deathly silent, the fog seeping down its windows.

Ahead, a pillar of dark smoke cut through the fog bank. I couldn’t make out the source of the obstruction, but several of the trees in the distance were engulfed with flames, and as I watched, one collapsed onto the tracks in a wave of sparks.

This wasn’t the work of a lightning strike or forest fire, not when the fog enveloped me like a wet blanket and overhead sifted only more mist. It had to be bogatyri.

I unwrapped my rushnyk from around my hair and tented it over myself, protecting my head and vitals as I rushed toward the front of the train. Wary of being spotted, I kept close to the tracks, ducking my head low.

I counted the cars under my breath, envisioning my place on the maps that had been pinned up by each door. Car five! This had to be it. Slamming to a stop beside the windowless car, I climbed onto the metal step and eased open the sliding door.

Warily, I wrapped the rushnyk into a hood and stepped inside. Wisps of vapor trailed from grates at either end of the car, filling the compartment with a damp, frigid fog. Bodies were stacked in open shelves, their ankles chained together. Some had already developed a film of hoarfrost upon their boots and pant legs.

Against the farther wall sat a wooden crate, the sort used to transport animals. Holes had been drilled into its side, and its hasp was fitted with a padlock. Fingers peeped from one of those holes—small, fragile fingers that were more bone than flesh, swaddled in layer after layer of decayed lace and silk. Around the pinky finger, I caught a glimpse of the same delicate embroidery I had sewn just days before.

I stepped forward. “Galina—”

I froze. Resting in the shadows across the room, Stanislav leaned against the wall, his eyes fidgeting restlessly beneath his closed lids. He cradled a rifle as though it were a child, with the bayonet angled upward and his cheek resting against the barrel.

He mumbled in his sleep, the words slurred into incoherence. His tongue darted out to lick at his lips, as though to catch a trace of something sweet.

“Toma?” Galina rasped, her faint voice nearly bringing tears to my eyes. Her fingers grasped through the holes, searching for me. It took all I had not to rush to her side.

I edged closer, sinking into a crouch and keeping to the shadows. Kneeling before the crate, I pressed my lips against a hole and whispered, “It’s me. Don’t make a sound. I’m going to get you out of here.”

“I’m so scared.” Her voice trembled. “I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’m here now. Just hold on and be quiet. We’re not alone.”