The gates of the palace of Serpukhov had been reinforced and reinforced again; spikes of wood lined the top, and there were guards on the gate. She paused, still fighting that stomach-clenching dread, wondering how she was going to—

A voice spoke from the wall-top. She had to look three times before she saw the speaker. It was Olga’s dvorovoi. He reached his two hands down to her. “Come,” he whispered. “Hurry, hurry.”

When she caught the outstretched hands of the dvorovoi, she found them strangely solid. Olga’s house-spirits had been little more than mist, before. But now the chyert’s hands pulled strongly. Vasya scrabbled for purchase, got a hand up to the top of the wall and pulled herself over.

She dropped to the ground on the other side and found a brassy, silent dooryard, with only a few servants moving slowly. She breathed, groped for the forgetfulness that kept them from seeing her. She could barely manage it. Just there, Solovey had…

“I must speak to Varvara,” Vasya said to the dvorovoi, between clenched teeth.

But the dvorovoi had her by the hand, and was hustling her in the direction of the bathhouse. “You must see our lady,” he said.

SHE WAS LYING CURLED like a puppy in the bathhouse. It was not too hot inside. The bannik must be doing what he could for her, Vasya thought. All the house chyerti must be doing what they could for her. Because she…

Marya sat up and Vasya was shocked when she saw the child’s face; her eyes set about with rings like bruising.

“Aunt!” Marya cried. “Aunt Vasya!” And she hurled herself sobbing into Vasya’s arms.

Vasya caught the child and held her. “Masha, love, tell me what has happened.”

Muffled explanations sounded from somewhere around Vasya’s breastbone. “You were gone. And Solovey was gone and the man in the oven said the Eater would send dead people into our houses if he could. So I talked to the chyerti and I gave them bread and I cut my hand and gave them blood like you said, and Mother kept us all home from church—”

“Yes,” Vasya said with pride, cutting into the flow of words. “You did so well, my brave girl.”

Marya straightened abruptly. “I am going to get Mother and Varvara.”

“That is a good idea,” said Vasya, mindful of the waning day. She didn’t like the idea of skulking in the bathhouse while Marya played messenger. But she dared not allow the servants to see her, and she was not enough in control of herself to rely on half-understood magic. Terror was still waiting to snatch her by the throat.

“The chyerti said you’d come back,” Marya said happily. “They said you’d come and we’d go to a place by the lake where it’s not hot and there are horses.”

“I hope so,” said Vasya fervently. “Now hurry, Masha.”

Marya ran off. When she had gone, Vasya took a few deep breaths, fighting to compose herself. She turned her head to the bannik. “I have wept for a nightingale,” she said. “But Marya—”