“What do you mean?”

He hesitated, moistening his lips. “Like...your sister. Others like her.”

“Oh, yes.” I smiled. “I’ll introduce you to them later once they return. Mama and Papa are searching for the people who hurt you, but they should be home soon.”

I supposed the drink must have begun to disagree with him, because his face paled and his mouth pressed into a puckering line.

“You shouldn’t have drunk it so fast.” I studied him. “Are you going to be sick?”

“I’m dead,” he said tonelessly.

“Not yet,” I reassured him, and then left to find a safer place for the musket.

3

After hiding the musket in the cellar, I checked on the stew. The broth had darkened to a rich brown, with succulent chunks of rehydrated venison floating in it. I filled a bowl then fetched another mug of stout.

On my way back to Mikhail’s room, a stone jabbed me in the foot. I winced and looked down, but it wasn’t a pebble at all. It was one of Galina’s blue beads. Balancing the tray in one hand, I picked up the bead and slipped it in my pocket.

Even if it snowed tomorrow, we’d go hunting for treasures. I’d spend all day crawling through the ruins, digging up broken keys and loose beads, if she wanted me to. We wouldn’t come home until our pockets were crammed to the seams. I owed her that much.

When I returned to the room, Mikhail had gathered the spilled lead shot and put it in the box, along with the powder flask and other tools. He sat up as I shut the door behind me.

“Venison and mushrooms.” I set the tray at the foot of his bed. “And more stout.”

“Thank you, Toma,” he said, taking the mug from my hand. He didn’t waste time sampling the stew, much less using the spoon I had provided. After guzzling the stout, he cupped the bowl in both hands and drank from it deeply.

Was he really a tsar? He hardly seemed noble. Then again, the emperors in Galina’s storybooks never ended up facedown in the wreckage of a ruined airship.

Once Mikhail was done, he returned the bowl to its tray and leaned back against the pillow, closing his eyes.

“How’s your wound?”

He placed a hand over his bandaged shoulder. “It barely hurts at all.”

“Good.”

“What did you do to me?”

“I just sewed it up,” I said, deciding that it would be best to not mention I had essentially embroidered him like a rushnyk. “I couldn’t get the bullet out, but I think you’ll survive.”

“Are you sure you’re not a witch?”

“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m a bogatyr?” I retorted.

He looked around at the hewn-log walls, the cobwebs in the corners, the boarded-up windows. A blush colored his cheeks. “Uh... Are you?”

“No, but I’m not a koldunia either.” I took the musket box and placed it on the fireplace mantel, then moved his meal tray over to the dresser. Settling into the chair by his bedside, I fiddled with the bead in my pocket, tracing its worn facets. “When we first met, you said that someone was coming. Do you mean the people in that other airship?”