“She couldn’t have gone far in this weather,” Papa said, rising to his feet. He set down his knife and unfinished clock box and brushed the splinters from his clothes. It was growing darker by the moment, the storm bearing down. Now, there was only enough light left to reveal the oiled gleam of his skin. His knuckles swelled like pickled walnuts through the layers of deteriorating fur and fabric.

“I’m scared for her,” I whispered. Somehow, it came as an immense relief to give voice to my fears.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Mama murmured, stroking my hair. She smelled faintly of juniper and dried flowers. I sighed and leaned against her, gently, resting my weight on the balls of my feet so I wouldn’t burden her. Her papery skin, her fragrance, the ribbons garlanding her tufts of graying-blond hair. So comforting and familiar.

“Help by staying here,” Papa said. The rusty hinges of his leg splints groaned as he crossed the room. “Watch over the boy and wait for Galina to return. Someone must be here, Toma.”

I followed them to the entrance and stood in the doorway. The thought of being alone in this storm paralyzed me and left my mouth dry with fear. I recalled what it had been like as a child, shivering in the cold and calling for my mother, knowing nobody would respond.

Shoving the memory from my mind, I lingered at the threshold as Mama and Papa trudged through the hail. The downpour was so thick, it concealed them within five paces, first reducing them to snippets of lighter gray against the outer dark, then engulfing them entirely.

As night crawled on, the storm worsened, and my worry became dread. I stood by the window, waiting for a figure to emerge from the darkness. Squandering the precious amount of oil we still had left, I lit a lantern and set it in the upstairs window, whose pane was only cracked instead of shattered. I hoped Galina would be able to discern the wick’s glow through the sleet storm.

When I came downstairs again, I found Mikhail in the hallway, slumped against the wall and panting. A fine dew of sweat shone on his brow, his gray eyes clouded with pain.

“I told you to rest,” I said, reaching for his arm. He flinched away, but when I took another step closer, he allowed me to gently grasp his wrist.

“I need to go,” he croaked.

“You’re hurt.”

“Koschei’s men are going to come for me. As long as I’m here, they’ll never stop searching.”

“There’s a storm and you won’t be able to find your way home,” I said, resting my arm across his lower back to support him. His skin burned hot against my palm. I couldn’t decide if he had a fever or if this was a normal human temperature. Over the years, I’d grown familiar with the chill of the dead. “Please, you’ll be safe here. Just let me take you back to bed.”