Gradually, Yehuda Leib was wrapped up in creeping darkness; quietly, almost furtively, the snow began to swallow up his tracks.

Everyone in Tupik had heard stories of the demons among the forest trees, and Yehuda Leib did his best not to think of them now. As long as he could find the path to Zubinsk before he lost the light entirely, he thought, he would be all right.

But nightfall is a terrible trick in the forest: just when you think the darkness is complete, it finds a way to grow thicker.

The ground was completely covered in snow, and the path might’ve been nothing more than a gap between the trees.

Had he missed it?

Like a nearing drum, Yehuda Leib began to hear the beating of his heart growing heavy in his chest.

He had to find the path.

But now he was unsure where he had been facing just a moment ago. From which direction had he come?

The long fingers of the darkness had begun to work their way into his mind.

And then, all of a sudden, the jangle of a bridle. Hoofbeats in the snow.

A horse meant a person.

A person meant a path.

Without thinking, Yehuda Leib charged forward.

It was only once he could see the equine silhouette looming up between the trees ahead that he remembered the threat of Avimelekh.

—

“Who’s there?”

Warm lantern light shone out like a rupture in the darkness.

“Hello?”

Yehuda Leib’s heart fell. The face that swam into view in the flickering light of the lantern was not Avimelekh’s, but possibly it was worse.

“I know you’re out there,” Issur Frumkin called into the trees.

Swallowing his pride, Yehuda Leib stepped forward into the light.

“Oh,” said Frumkin. “You.”

What Yehuda Leib had taken for a horse in the dim was nothing more than the Frumkins’ stocky little donkey. Issur was seated behind her in a battered two-wheel cart, reins in hand.

“What are you doing out here?” said Yehuda Leib.

“I’m going to Zubinsk. For the wedding.”

“Your father agreed?” This was surprising to Yehuda Leib.

Issur scoffed. “I don’t need my father’s permission.”

Yehuda Leib cocked his head to the side. “But you do need his donkey.”

Issur grimaced as if this notion were so stupid that it had a physical odor. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. What about you? What are you doing out here so late?”

“Someone’s after me,” said Yehuda Leib.

Issur laughed. “Who’d want anything to do with you?”

Yehuda Leib shrugged past the insult. “Someone called Avimelekh.”

Now Issur’s face fell. “Avimelekh?”

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “Do you know something about him?”

Issur shook his head. “No,” he said, both too quickly and too loudly.

“Are you sure?” said Yehuda Leib.

“I’m not supposed to say,” said Issur. He was suddenly very uneasy. “What are you going to do?”