Only the temple priestesses and monks who crafted Troika icons had the holiness and knowledge to be capable of resisting the corruption of raw ore and would bless the metal en masse. In the past, gold and silver jewelry had been a luxury restricted to the nobility who could afford temple services. But when the Stranniki had come here, their conflicting beliefs about the uncleanness of ore had cheapened its value so that even peasants could afford a silver ring or dainty chain, if they were willing to buy it from a Strannik.

My father, though not Strannik, had been a miner, and to atone for his transgressions, he would burn wheat at our home altar and every three moons offer a rooster to the middle Sister, Seredina.

Fire purified all. Even the silver ore that had blackened my father’s clothes. Even his body, after his sins had caught up to him far below the earth.

The Stranniki in my town had worn high leather boots and black tunics embroidered with silver mined from the mountains that surrounded us. I had been so enthralled by their hooded tent-cloaks, the grommeted hems decorated with silver hoops and polished malachite buttons, that I had approached a woman at the market and asked to touch hers.

The memory troubled me. It came from the dark like smoke and left an acrid taste in my mouth. Fear had shone in my mother’s eyes when she’d stopped me. She yanked me back by the wrist, as though just touching the Strannik woman might sully me.

“Don’t do that again!” my mother had cried once we were home. “If someone sees you...” The blood drained from her face. “If someone sees you, what will they think, Tomochka?”

That had been one of the last times I had seen a Strannik in our village. After a landslide claimed the lives of ten miners and talk of the Three Sisters’ wrath permeated through the village, they had all left one day, their homes shuttered and ravaged, a long procession of wagons and horses trailing down the road. Banished.

Mikhail sank against the mattress and closed his eyes. Somewhere in the house, a door opened and then creaked shut. Galina must have returned.

“You must be tired,” I said. “I’ll let you sleep. Just call my name if there’s anything you need.”

Silence. I supposed he must’ve drifted off already.

Taking care to be quiet, I left the room and eased the door shut behind me. Mama and Papa had returned from outside, tracking water across the floor before the hearth.

Sitting on the bench by the window, Papa rested a half-finished clock box on his leg and carved it, slivers of wood dropping to the floor. Once he finished the clock and assembled its mechanism from scavenged parts, it would join the rest of the quietly ticking timepieces located in every room of the house. Time meant nothing to him, but it meant so much to me. Each tick was a terrifying reminder that I grew older while my family remained the same, and any day now, that might change.