“I am Tsar Mikhail Vladimirovich of House Morev, and under the authority of the empire, I am ordering you to stay back!”

His royal authority had the opposite effect on me—instead of backing away, I froze where I stood. Just as I had never heard of a bogatyr of common blood, neither had I heard of a tsar who needed to fight someone off with a musket, not when he might have magic at his disposal. Was Mikhail too injured to use his powers? Did he even have powers?

Recovering from my shock, I lifted a hand to placate him. “I’m not going to hurt you. Please, just put that down.”

“I know what you are.”

“I’m Toma,” I said gently. “Remember?”

“You’re a koldunia.”

I laughed abruptly, taken aback. If the legends were true, the witches of the wilderness lived in chicken-legged cottages surrounded by bone fences. They rode in giant mortars, wielded pestles, and ate children. Whereas I was pretty sure my house did not have scaly feet growing out of its foundation, and the last time I had seen a living child, I had been one myself.

“I’m not a witch,” I assured him. “And that gun doesn’t even work. It’s just a decoration.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

“I promise I’m telling the truth.”

“The Edge is full of kolduny and heretics.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m neither,” I said, and was relieved to see a hint of doubt cloud Mikhail’s features. “I wouldn’t hurt you, not after I saved you.”

Slowly, he set the musket on the mattress, keeping one hand over the wooden stock. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His pale, drawn features relaxed, but his silver eyes never left mine.

“I brought you stout,” I said, taking a cautious step forward. Once I was sure he wouldn’t try clobbering me with the musket, I covered the remaining distance to the bed and held out the tankard.

He stared down at the amber liquid and licked his lips, his eyes burning with thirst. Yet he didn’t reach out. Realizing he was still afraid I was a koldunia, I took a sip.

“See? It’s good.” Maybe a bit on the vinegary side, but not nasty enough to poison him.

Mikhail accepted the tankard and took a hesitant taste. He rolled the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing. His thirst won him over after a few tentative sips, and he finished off the draught in one deep gulp.

While he was distracted, I picked up the musket. Even though its flash pan was empty, I didn’t want to return it to the shelf, where it would remain a hazard.

Angling the gun’s muzzle toward the ceiling, I said, “Some stew is warming in the kitchen. I’ll bring you a bowl once it’s ready.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled. “May I have some more stout?”

“Of course.”

As I retreated to the door, he said my name, softly.

“Yes?” I asked, turning back.

Mikhail drew the blanket against his chest, his fingers worrying at the frayed hem. “Are there others here?”