“What choice does a little peasant girl have?” Arina asked, with a shrug. “Master Jacob didn’t ask me—not when he pulled my skirt up, and not when he shoved me into the Twilight. And once I’d become a witch, I had to live as a witch—there’s no way that can be fixed by praying.”

“No way?” I protested. “It seems to me that you underestimate the mercy of God.”

Arina shrugged again.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she agreed with surprising readiness. “Only I’ve done more than just work magic. There have been times when I’ve tormented people to death—starting with Jacob, my teacher. And that’s really bad—to kill teachers . . .”

“But he raped you!” I cried indignantly. “An underage girl!”

“Phooey,” said Arina, with a wave of her hand. “Big deal. He didn’t rape me, anyway, he seduced me. He gave me a sugarplum, as it happens. He hardly beat me at all. And as for me still being a little girl—times were different then, they didn’t check your passport, just looked to see if you had any boobs or not. If it hadn’t been Jacob the sorcerer, it would have been Vanka the shepherd or Yevgraf Matveevich the master who deflowered me . . .”

She thought for a second and added: “Most likely Vanka, I wasn’t really comely enough for the lord to summon me.”

“And I was sure you killed your teacher for the rape,” I said. “Remember what you wrote in your statement? ‘Lascivious brute’—I think that was it.”