Rising to his feet, Vanya cleared his throat and rubbed absently at the scratches, as if thorns remained embedded beneath his skin. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I suppose it adds a rather...rustic charm to it.” Inga sighed, drumming her fingers on the desk. Her gaze remained distant, focused on the wall behind us. “A rather rustic charm indeed. You should know before making such baseless accusations that I did reach out to the general of the Western Provence Volunteer Army, the Otzvuk faction that was stationed here. Whether at the top or by his subordinates in Kupalo and Kraylesa, it appears my request was ignored. I made a choice. I chose to continue to keep my family’s legacy afloat and prevent my workers from starving on the streets.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Vanya muttered, looking at the floor.

“Apology accepted.” A thin smile touched her lips. “I suppose I can expect no less from you. You are foolish and headstrong, just like your father.”

I found myself still fixated on the chair. Its wooden arms weren’t the only thing that Vanya’s magic had affected; sooty cow’s fur had grown in patches atop the leather upholstery, as if, for only a moment, he had bridged the boundary between life and death.

I took a tentative step toward the chair. Sweat beaded on the leather. The tufted upholstery swelled shallowly in inhalation, once, twice, before stilling.

Vanya hadn’t lied to me when he said he could make plants grow, but I suspected that was only half of the truth. This wasn’t just accelerating the growth of something. It was bringing life back. If I cut the cushion open, would there be pulsing guts nestled among the stuffing?

Inga steepled her hands on the desk. “Now, on the topic of travel passes and false papers... I won’t ask why you need them or where you’re going—I am aware of the blood you spilled in Kupalo—but I do know someone who can provide them. Give me the information you need on the forms.”

Vanya stepped up to the desk, took Inga’s fountain pen, and wrote on a notebook page. He glanced over at me. “How tall do you suppose Mikhail is? And how much does he weigh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Right.” Vanya sighed and jotted down a few more symbols. “And you?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated sheepishly.

“I’ll make an estimate.”

“You,” Inga said suddenly, and I turned to her.

“Me?” I asked, only to realize she couldn’t have meant anyone else.

“Yes. Where did you get that rushnyk?”

“It was my mother’s,” I said, surprised. “Why?”

She extended her hand. “Come closer. May I see it?”

As I walked up to the desk, Vanya paused to watch me. I undid the amber brooch’s clasp and unwound the rushnyk from around my waist.

Inga took the cloth from my hands, tracing her fingers over its red embroidery. “These designs...”

“I don’t know what they mean,” I admitted.

“They’re Strannik.”

“What?” Vanya and I said in unison. I was certain I had misheard her, until she repeated herself.