Culture. Customs. Expectations. Those things had ceased to exist in the wilderness. Death had stripped away even the most rigid societal restraints, leaving my family desperately grasping for the things they’d cared about in their former lives. It was why Papa never scolded me, but why he still carved clock boxes and assembled mechanisms from salvaged parts. Why Mama still brewed drinks she likely couldn’t even taste. Why I was always Toma now, and never Tamar Dmitrievna Volkova. That girl had perished in the forest.

Civilization had driven my birth family into the wilderness and had been the death of them. What I had witnessed so far only confirmed my deep-rooted certainty that the outside world’s beauty was only exceeded by its venom and cruelty.

“No matronym or patronym?” Vanya raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have a mother or a father? Are you sure you’re not a witch?”

“Just call me Toma,” I said sharply.

“Okay, okay, don’t spoil me. Since we’re past formalities, I suppose you can call me Vanya like everyone else. Better to die as friends than as strangers, right?”

“Speak for yourself.” I stood up. “I don’t intend to die anytime soon.”

“I like your optimism, Toma-short-for-nothing,” he said, and rose to his feet. “Let’s hope it lasts.”

I followed Vanya to the center of the room. As he climbed onto the idol’s pedestal, faces turned toward him. A man shouted something at him in Strannitsky, and Vanya responded in a tone just as sharp.

Whatever Vanya said, his words charged the crowd. Whispers rippled through the room, and in a far corner, a child began wailing.

“What did you say?” I whispered.

“That if they stay here, they’re all going to die. And that I’m the only one who can save them.” Vanya exhaled slowly. “But I think I’ll have to be a little more convincing. You might want to step back for this, just in case they decide to stone me.”

He selected a branch from the offering basket at the idol’s feet and raised it like a torch. Every eye in the room was on him now, staring transfixed as the bough spilled forth in a flood of new leaves and twigs. White flower heads bloomed amid the autumnal berries, as though the seasons had been reversed.

The child’s sobs were joined by cries of alarm and anger.

“Koldun!” bellowed the man who had shouted at Vanya before. Now, that I understood.

Others echoed the accusation, emboldening the man to advance forward. Before he could reach us, a regal black-haired woman stepped from the crowd.

Her spun-silver wreath was as ornate as the silverwork covering her black robe. I didn’t need Vanya to tell me she was a priestess. He made that clear when he stepped down from the pedestal and sank to one knee before her, laying the bough at her feet like an offering.

She listened in silence as he spoke. When he gestured toward the door, she nodded. He rose to his feet, his relief evident in the faint smile he gave me.