Back home, I would’ve been comfortable setting up camp in the forest, but here it was different—this land felt hostile to me, and not just because of the encounter with the vodyanoy. I was an outsider. This was not my home, not my conflict, not my country.

It was decided that we would sleep in three-hour shifts, one awake at all times to stoke the fire and pace the outskirts. We drew twigs to see who would go first, and when Mikhail got the short one, I snapped mine in my hand. Out of all of us, he needed the most rest, and I could tell by the way he glanced warily into the woods and traced the bruises the vodyanoy had raised on his wrists that he wouldn’t escape from the memory of the water spirit anytime soon.

“I can stay up with you,” Vanya offered, but I shook my head.

“You need your rest, too,” I said.

“Oh.” He turned away, sounding almost disappointed. As he settled onto his bedroll, I felt a pang of regret.

During my watch, the only thing I encountered was an owl who alit upon a branch and regarded me for a long moment with its lantern-bright eyes before scarfing down the rat snared in its beak. The bald coil of a tail snaked down its throat; droplets of blood plopped to the forest floor. Even after the owl had vanished into the night, I thought I could hear its wings cutting through the air overhead, slowly circling through the outer darkness.

When it came my turn to rest, I tossed and turned atop my bedroll, grimacing each time stones prodded me through the oilcloth. I drifted off then jolted awake again, drifted off once more. After a disorienting tumble through a dream of snow-burdened trees and a flaming beast that pursued me relentlessly, sometimes on two feet and sometimes on all fours, I awoke to find the other bedrolls empty.

Groggily, I hoisted myself onto one elbow, blinking until my wobbly vision steadied. Across the clearing, Vanya squatted by the fire, poking at the embers with a stick while Mikhail paced the tree line.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, what you felt for Aleksey,” Vanya said, feeding the stick to the flames. “Nor is it disgraceful, like you say.”

“You just think that because of how you were raised.” Mikhail’s voice was tight with frustration and—what was that? Was that anger?

“How I was raised?” Vanya laughed. “Let’s see. I was raised to speak my mind.”

“Regurgitate all your thoughts, more like it.”

“I was raised to be proud of my identity, even if it means being hated for it. I was raised to love all aspects of myself, irrevocably. Can you say the same, Tsarushka?”

Slowly, I sank back against my bedroll. I wanted to join in their conversation, even though I knew that I’d have nothing to say. I’d just sit back in silence, wishing desperately to have a part to add. To be a part of their world. Even now, I could only vaguely grasp at what Vanya was implying.