Two figures stood around my bedside. Mama. Papa? No. Mikhail.

“Galina,” I whispered, searching the room. Where was Galina? I had saved her, hadn’t I?

“I’m sorry, Toma,” Mama said, her voice filled with sorrow. “We couldn’t stop them. They took her.”

“No, I need to find her!” As the world swung in dizzying circles around me, I struggled to climb from the mattress. I swung one foot over and lost my balance. Mikhail caught me before I could fall, grunting in pain when I grabbed his shoulder in reflex. He helped me back onto the mattress then took a step away, casting an apprehensive glance in Mama’s direction as he pressed a hand over his healing shoulder.

“There’s nothing left for you to do,” Mama said. “She’s gone.”

Her words hit me like punches. There was such grief in her dry, rattling voice, as if there was no hope. As if she was already mourning Galina.

My vision blurred, my breath quickening into thick, urgent gasps. I pressed my hands against my face. When I touched the swollen area, tears welled to my eyes, half from pain and half from sorrow.

Galina couldn’t be gone.

All I could think about was my mother striding away from me as the wind grew colder and the snowstorm rolled in—Tomochka, whatever you hear, don’t make a sound—and then suddenly I was alone, and I tried to call her name, I screamed for her to find me, but it was so cold, so cold, and nobody answered.

I felt a sudden urge to scream and tear at my clothes. To run into this storm, so much like the blizzard that had led me to the upyri all those years ago. Instead, I curled on the bed and pressed my face into the pillow, wrapping my arms around my waist as I began to sob.

The rising sun crested the peaks, lighting up a hazy blue sky that seemed as insubstantial as a skin of ice. Looking up at the horizon, I traced the throbbing knot on my temple. Mama had applied a poultice to the swelling, and it had helped somewhat, but not enough. A shame I couldn’t embroider my own scalp.

“Toma?”

I flinched, spinning around.

Mikhail stood in the doorway, blinking drowsily. While he had slept in my bedroom, I had tossed and turned on the small storage nook atop the stove. Even the gentle warmth radiating from the masonry had failed to lull me into peaceful sleep, instead singeing my nerves until I found solace outside.

“What are you doing out here?” His gaze lowered to my bare feet, and he frowned. “You must be cold. Let’s go inside.”

Mutely, I followed him into the main room, where I had left an oil lamp burning. He surveyed the supplies strewn across the table and bench: strips of dried venison; sacks of grain and salt; bandages and tins of herbal poultices; neatly-tied wire to build snares; my musket, already cleaned, oiled, and fitted with a new flint.