“You never told me your name.”

“Mik—” His mouth snapped shut. The sudden look of mortification that crossed over his face might have confused Vanya, if Vanya wasn’t in the process of walking upstairs and blissfully oblivious to it.

“Nikolai?” Vanya asked, glancing back.

“Yes. Nikolai Ruslanovich.”

A hint of a smile touched Vanya’s lips. “Ah, so you have a father.”

I blushed, realizing that Vanya was referring to our conversation in the temple.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mikhail asked, mystified.

“Because she has neither a patronym nor a matronym.” Vanya looked at me. “How is it that a city boy—”

Mikhail flushed. “I told you not to call me that.”

“—and a witch from the wilds ended up traveling together?”

“First of all, I’m not a witch,” I huffed. “Secondly, it’s a long story.”

“Good. You can tell me all about it over tea.”

As Vanya climbed the stairs, Mikhail leaned close to me.

“Let me do the talking, Toma,” he whispered. “We need to keep our story consistent.”

I gave it some thought. Wasn’t the best way to keep a story consistent simply to say it exactly how it happened?

In the small sitting room upstairs, Vanya took off his shoes and hung his coat on the rack. After we removed our shoes, he gave us felt slippers that were well-worn, but so soft and cozy that I curled my toes in satisfaction. A tabby cat ran into the room the moment Vanya shut the door. The feline sauntered up to him, meowing.

“Ah, Liliya,” Vanya cooed, scooping up the cat. He kissed her head. “All this time, you were hiding up here? Why didn’t you defend our home, you little coward?”

Cradled in his arms, Liliya studied me with dull yellow eyes. When I reached out to touch the cat, she hissed.

“Don’t be unfriendly now.” Vanya set the cat down. “Sometimes, I think she is a koldunia in disguise.”

After Mikhail and I had taken off our coats, Vanya led us into a cramped kitchen. A bathtub was shoved up next to the cast-iron water heater and sink. An oven occupied the other corner. There was only enough room left for a small table and an ironing board.

“I’m sorry, it’s not very clean.” Vanya eased his rifle’s sling from over his shoulder and leaned the weapon against the wall. He washed his hands at the basin, working the iron pump until clean water flushed from the spigot. “The domovoi ignores me, even when I leave him offerings. You’d think he’d at least do a little dusting for all I give him, but he’s never shown himself.”

“They rarely do,” I said, smiling a bit. If my family’s izba had once hosted a household spirit, he had abandoned the home long before I came there. Occasionally, when entering an abandoned cottage, I would hear a domovoi whisper or croon plaintively, as if mourning his masters, only I had never seen one’s true form. They were supposed to be little bearded men with dusty fingers and the nubs of horns, but I liked to imagine they were as majestic and imposing as the rusalki.