I hurriedly put my boots on and stepped outside into the pouring rain. The sky had darkened to a sooty gray, and the downpour was so heavy, it was impossible to see where she had gone. She could be incredibly fast sometimes, and silent too.

“Galechka?” I called, shielding my eyes from the rain. “Please, come back.”

There was no sign of her. Just ripples racing across puddles and the inkblot smudge of the forest. A lightning bolt bayoneted the sky, followed by an explosive crash of thunder so loud I flinched. I called her name twice more, but the howling wind was the only thing to answer.

Sighing, I went back inside. As I put a fresh pot of water atop the stove, I couldn’t help but cast repeated glances through the gaps in the boarded window, waiting for Galina to reappear.

While the water warmed, I added a mixture of preserved vegetables and dried meats to the pot. It was mushroom season, and along with several sacks of dried mushrooms, I also had an entire basketful of fresh ones. I sautéed some of them with the precious amount of deer fat I could spare.

As the meal was cooking, I went down to the cellar, where jars of preserved vegetables and meat sat like dusty offerings on narrow shelves. Sacks contained herbs and spices. A small barrel of salt, gathered from natural deposits at a nearby stream, rested near the door.

As for drinks, there were plenty of barrels to choose from, not just of ale and stout, but also of nonalcoholic kvass. In the summer months, Mama would brew drinks from wild hops, rowanberries, grain, and beets. Using a makeshift still, she made samogon that was so potent, it scalded the throat like fire. I didn’t know why she bothered, considering she rarely drank even well water. Maybe she did it for the same reason Papa carved wooden clock boxes and fiddled with broken clockworks scavenged from surrounding houses—as a reminder of the woman she had once been.

After filling a tankard with stout, I returned to the ground floor. Cool liquid sloshed across my hand as I tried to open the stubborn door to Mikhail’s room. Locking him in had been pointless, considering the frame was so warped that I couldn’t even wrench the door free.

Grunting, I pressed my shoulder against the panel and tried to force it inward. The door shuddered, then creaked open, and I stumbled into the room triumphant.

Blowing stray curls out of my face, I grinned at Mikhail, who sat on the bed. “I’m sorry I took...”

He held Papa’s flintlock musket in his lap, the barrel angled toward me. His fingers frantically struggled to load the flash pan. In the process, his elbow struck the wooden box perched on the mattress beside him. Lead shot spilled across the blanket and tinkled to the floor.

“Get away from me,” he snarled, his voice low and ragged. “Just stay back.”

I took a step away, then hesitated. I had shot the gun enough times to know it was a fickle thing, quick to jam. Did it even have a flint still? I was sure I had removed it a few weeks ago after it had chipped, intending to chisel a replacement.