I came first, and bowed low to her, as to a Tsarina, and addressed her respectfully. “Be welcome to my home, Hozjajka Mednoj Gory, and I beg you to accept hospitality of us.” I spoke in the language of Rossiya, of course, but Sally knew enough of it to bring forward the wooden plate on which our poor offerings rested.

She stared at them, then at Sally, then at me. “And what of your promises, Pavel Lebedev, when last we met?” Storms threatened in her green eyes, but I knew she would punish falsehoods, not truths.

“Oh fairest of creatures, I made you no promises,” I replied. “I said only that I must think upon your most generous offer. It was not by my will that my village was burned to the ground and my people sent away before I could make an answer to you. You are also the patroness of mines and miners, and I am neither of these. I thought you had forgotten me.”

“This is true,” she said grudgingly, her eyes flashing nevertheless. Or perhaps her eyes flashed in memory of what our boyar had done without her leave. Her next words proved my second guess true. “And the boyar has paid for his impertinence.”

I did not ask her what she meant. In truth, I no longer cared, though once I would have been glad to hear all the details of his downfall—for downfall he most certainly would have suffered at her hands. “I did not dare the impertinence of calling upon you,” I continued—which was true—“and I did not think you were still interested in my services”—which was also true. I had been greatly despondent, and saw little value in myself and my poor skills. “So I followed where the boyar sent my people. And then—I just kept going.”

“And so you ended here.” It was, obviously, a statement. Anger faded from her eyes.

“Even so. And on the way, I met one who to me is worth more than all the jewels under the mountain.” I gestured to Sally, who once again offered the platter with a pretty gesture.

“Even more than all the skills I could teach you?” she asked.

This was a trick question. I must somehow answer it without offending her. “I am a different sort of craftsman now, Radiant One,” I said honestly. “And I never was an artist. I know that now, and I am humble enough to admit it. Art without skill—well, that can be remedied. Skill without art is empty, and produces only pretty trinkets. I would not fit properly in your service, and would do you no honor by serving.”

“Hmmm.” She reached across the wall and took the cup of vodka, drinking it in a single swallow. Then she accepted one of the corn-balls, and the bit of honeycomb. I breathed a little easier. She was no longer wroth, and had accepted my hospitality. “But would you enter my service to save your wife?”