“Grief makes us mad.”

“I see. Where did you say you were from again?”

“Vesnino.”

“A strange accent for a city like that.” His fingertips traced along her forehead, gently tucking an errant strand of soot-black hair behind her ear. She flinched at his touch. “You know, the heretics have a most unusual custom. They believe that if the dead are not interred whole, the soul will reach the afterlife as it is—fragmented, burnt, blinded. So, when one of theirs dies, they do not purify it through fire or division. They just sit there and wait for it to rot. You can’t help but wonder if most of the monsters come from their own stock.”

My mother didn’t answer, and when he took a step deeper into the room, she remained where she was, only shifting to brush her hand over my back. “I can assure you, Oleg Sergeyevich, what you heard of, it was nothing more than a brief madness. A hysteria, if you will, as we women are prone to.”

“Certainly. And please, there’s no need for such formalities. Call me Olezhka.” Still smiling, he turned to me. “Hello, little blackbird. I have something for you. A gift from my wife. The last time you visited, she caught you admiring it.”

He squatted down and took a small rock-crystal dog from his pocket. It had been part of a carved stone menagerie displayed in a little gilded cage atop the fireplace mantel. I took it from his hand, and as I began to pull away, his fingers locked around my wrist.

“Say thank you,” he reminded with a solemn nod.

“Thank you,” I mumbled. The moment he let go, I retreated behind my mother.

The magistrate straightened to his full height. “Your daughter is lovely, but you are even lovelier.”

“Your wife is very pretty too, sir.”

“My wife is a vapid fool. Perhaps you should send your daughter to bed.”

“She’s been having nightmares since her father’s death. We sleep together now.”

“That’s a shame. The nightmares, that is.” He rubbed the faint shadow of stubble darkening his chin. “I should be going then, to leave you to your dinner. But before I forget, the pants you altered are unraveling at the inseam. For what I paid you, it is unacceptable. You will need to correct them.”

“I can pick them up, sir, or you can have one of your attendants drop them off if you please.”

He didn’t answer, just smiled at her, and after a moment she drew in a shallow breath and nodded.

“When would be a good time for me to come by?”

“Tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.” Turning away, he opened the front door. “And don’t bring your daughter this time.”

That was the beginning of the end. I knew it in my heart. Because the moment the door had shut behind him, she had bolted it. We’d eaten leftover gruel for supper that night as she sat at the kitchen table in just her bloomers and shift, immersed in the act of embroidering her mourning dress. Black thread upon black wool, a candle held to the fabric to track her progress. And when she’d gone to visit him the next evening, she had been wearing my rushnyk.