Vasya turned to face him. He shut his lips tight, as though he’d said more than he wished.

“And now?” she asked.

“We are here,” he said simply.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know how else to bring you back.”

“There was no other way. Why do you think my brother had such faith in his prison? He knew of no tie strong enough to draw me back to myself. Nor did I.”

Morozko didn’t sound happy about it. It occurred to Vasya that he might feel just as she did: raw. She put out a hand. He did not look at her, but his fingers closed about hers.

“I am still afraid,” he said. It was a truth, baldly offered. “I am glad you are alive. I am glad to see you again, against all hope. But I do not know what to do.”

“I am afraid too,” she said.

His fingertips found her wrist, where the blood surged against her skin. “Are you cold?”

She was. But…

“I think,” he said wryly, “all things considered, we should be able to share the same blankets a few hours more.”

“We must go,” said Vasya. “There is too much to do; there is not time.”

“An hour or three won’t make a great difference, in this country of Midnight,” said Morozko. “You are all worn to shadows, Vasya.”

“It will make a difference,” she said. “I can’t fall asleep, here.”

“You can now,” he said. “I will keep you in Midnight.”

To sleep—to really sleep…Mother of God, she was weary. She was already beneath the blankets; after a moment, he slid beneath them too. Her breath came short; she clenched her fists on an impulse to touch him.

They watched each other, warily. He moved first. His hand stole up to her face, traced the sharp line of her jaw, brushed the thick line of the scab from the stone. She shut her eyes.

“I can heal this for you,” he said.

She nodded once, vain enough to be glad that at least there would be only a white scar instead of a scarlet one. He cupped his hand, trickled water onto her cheek, while she set her teeth against the flare of agony.

“Tell me,” he said, after.

“It is a long story.”

“I assure you,” he said. “I will not grow old in the telling of it.”

She told him. She started with the moment he’d left her in the snowstorm in Moscow and finished with Pozhar, Vladimir, her journey into Midnight. She was wrung out at the end, but calmer too. As though she’d laid the skeins of her life out neatly, and there was less of a tangle in her soul.

When she fell silent, he sighed. “I am sorry,” he said. “For Solovey. I could only watch.”

“And send me your mad brother,” she pointed out. “And a token. I could have done without your brother, but the carving—comforted me.”

“Did you keep it?”