It was the icy touch on the back of her neck, cold, invisible fingers, that drew her back to herself. You are not alone, he said, in a voice no one but she could hear. Remember.

She sat up, grim-faced, and wiped her mouth. “I’m all right, Father,” she said to Sergei.

The boat ground against a dock. Vasya took hold of the pack-horse’s halter, led him ashore. The rope slid against her sweating hands. People were pushing to get into the city before the gates were shut for the night. It was not difficult to fall a little behind the three monks. Morozko’s cold presence paced invisibly beside her. Waiting.

Would anyone recognize her—the witch they thought they’d burned? There were people in front and behind; people all around. She was afraid. The air smelled of dust and rotten fish, and sickness. Sweat trickled between her breasts.

She kept her head down, trying to look insignificant, trying to control her racing heart. The stink of the city was calling up memories faster than she could push them back: of fire, of terror, of hands tearing at her clothes. She prayed no one would wonder why she wore a thick shirt and jacket in the heat. She had never in her life felt so hideously vulnerable.

The three monks were stopped at the gate. The gate-guards held sachets of dried herbs to mouth and nose as they prodded carts and asked questions of travelers. The river darted points of light into their eyes.

“Say your name and your business, strangers,” said the captain of the guard.

“I am no stranger. I am Brother Aleksandr,” said Sasha. “I have returned to Dmitrii Ivanovich, accompanying the holy father Sergei Radonezhsky.”

The captain scowled. “The Grand Prince ordered you brought to him when you arrived.”

Vasya bit her lip. Smoothly, Sasha said, “I will go to the Grand Prince, in due course. But the holy father must go first to the monastery, to rest and say prayers of thanks for his safe arrival.” Vasya’s hands were slippery on the lead-rope of the horse.

“The holy father may go where he chooses,” said the captain flatly. “But to the Grand Prince you will go, according to orders. I will have men escort you. The Grand Prince has taken advice, and he does not trust you.”

“Who has advised him?” Sasha demanded.

“The wonder-worker,” said the gate-guard, and a little emotion entered his flat voice. “Father Konstantin Nikonovich.”

The Bear knows we are coming now, Morozko had said to Sergei and Sasha, as they made their way along the Moskva toward the city in the sweltering afternoon. It is possible you will be delayed at the gate. If so—

Vasya could scarcely breathe around the panic in her throat. But she managed to mutter to the pack-horse at her side: “Rear!”

The creature broke into a frenzy of heavy-limbed bucking. Next moment, Sasha’s battle-trained Tuman reared up as well, lashing out with her fore-hooves. Rodion’s horse too began capering heavily, right at the gate, and then Sergei raised his voice, rich and full despite his age, to say, “Come, Brother, let us all pray—” just as Tuman kicked one of the guards. When the confusion was at its height, Vasya slipped through the gate, Morozko in her wake.