As I turned toward the fortress, the boys burst out behind me, jubilant beneath their mockery. Just once I looked behind me on the scene I’d left: Aleksei was smirking, but Hermódr and Bragi slapped Torden on the back and jabbed earnest fingers at his chest, arms slung around his shoulders. Torden was triumphant, face brighter than the sky overhead.

I bit my lip, thrilled. Stupid. Happier than anyone had a right to be.

Anya wasn’t in her room when I got back.

Nerves surging, I unearthed Godmother Althea’s book from my trunk and turned to lock the door. Except it didn’t have a lock.

“This place,” I groaned. I flung the book on Anya’s bed.

My godmother’s voice filled the empty room.

Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.

I froze, choking back a laugh or a tiny sob. How many times had we said prayers together? I scrabbled for my rosary, fumbling past the book’s pages as if my godmother herself were trapped in its binding.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

Free of its hiding place, I let the radio carry her voice to me from an ocean away, carry the prayers that were my roots and bones, wishing she could hear my voice join with hers. One by one, the beads slid across my fingers.

With the book flopped open before me, the little rows of hash marks on the endpaper caught my eye. I’d forgotten to keep count the last couple of days. Guilt soured in my stomach as my godmother continued to pray.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.

Yggdrasil began to rustle in a stiff breeze outside Anya’s window, and I hurried to turn up the radio over its noise. But instead of growing louder, suddenly, my godmother’s voice disappeared.

“No,” I blurted, almost a whimper. I lunged for the radio and found I’d adjusted the frequency, not the volume. “No, no, no.” I fiddled with the knob, trying to find Althea again, but only a hissing sound came from its mouth.

I gave the dial one more frustrated twist, and the scratching stopped. But my godmother wasn’t speaking.

“Gretel,” said a man’s voice. “Gretel, this is Hansel. Can you hear me?” His accent was square-sounding, somehow, sheared of its end rs, as if he were English, but he pronounced his ths like zs.

There was silence.

“Gretel?”

“Hansel,” said a woman. “We’re here. We’ve considered your invitation, and we accept.”

“Burg Cats?” asked the man—Hansel, I supposed. “Or Burg Rhein—”

“Hansel, stoy! Ty s uma soshol? Are you crazy?” Gretel demanded. Her voice was sweet and high-pitched, all soft consonants and swelling vowels, but her words were sharp. “Anyone could be listening.”

“Fine. The witch’s cottage, or the woodcutter’s?” Hansel snapped. I noticed he pronounced his ws like vs. “Tell me quickly.”