The next village was just one verst away, and it had no name. Or it was also Seletskoe. Either way, it was across the bridge. Hugo pulled his sled along, sighing to himself about une fausse idée claire. Once, he had danced with princesses. Once, he had been in Detroit.

He walked among the spruce trees, around which the local women had wrapped long silk scarves to appease the rusalka, a beautiful, friendly, naked girl who tended to entice young men to chase her, then beat them to death. This was said to happen mostly in summer, but the entire winter had passed without such incidents, so the scarves were obviously successful even now.

He shuffled along the road, absently brushing at his face, where the local cooties were bothering his mustache and beard. There was a solitary figure standing on the hilltop. Short and bulky in layers of sealskin, but also wearing just a simple felt cap and scarf: it was a girl.

Hugo stopped. He felt for his rifle, and then for his crossbow.

She was in silhouette. A little wind coughed fresh snow into the air, then across the path, where it was sent prismatic by the cold lunar light.

“Zdravstvuite,” he said carefully. And then, “Hello.”

He pulled his sled with him, up the hill. The moonlight cast strong shadows across the divots it left in the snowpack. The girl watched him, her hands buried in her pockets, her face absent of any expression, as if she were waiting for her portrait to be taken.

When he was closer, he saw she had black pigtails and dark eyes that blinked slowly. Her skin was a brilliant white, with a luminous quality, as if light were actually shining through it.

“Dobry,” Hugo said, unable to remember what time it was. It seemed it was always the same time, but he remembered: it was night. “Dobry vyecher.”

Her little village was behind her. Smaller than the actual Seletskoe, it still looked almost identical, with a few houses flanking the river, and smoke curled against each roof. There was a church. Near it, stables.

“Kak vashi dela, tovarishch,” he said casually. He guessed she was fifteen years old. She was looking at him now as if taking an inventory of his qualities, and he stood a little straighter, thanked God he had washed recently. Her eyes flicked over the ruins of his uniform and alit upon the sled and the canvas sack upon it. Then she returned to looking openly at his face. He smiled, showing off teeth. He wanted to ask her if she’d heard about the revolution. But it was late, and it was so difficult to string up all those unfamiliar sounds. The flask was in his hands.