She must have seen the doubt in Vasya’s eyes, for she burst out, “I am not like you, with your immortal eyes, your mad courage. I am only a woman, unworthy of my bloodlines, who has done what I could to care for my own.”

Vasya said nothing to that but put out a hand, and took Varvara’s in hers, and neither of them spoke a moment. Then Vasya said, with effort, “Will you tell my sister?”

Varvara had her mouth open on what was obviously a sharp reply—and then she hesitated. “I never dared before,” said Varvara grudgingly. There was a thread of doubt now in her voice. “Why would she believe me? I do not appear old enough to be anyone’s great-aunt.”

“I think Olga has seen enough wonders lately to believe you,” said Vasya. “I think you should tell her; it would give her joy. Although I see your point.” Vasya looked at Varvara with new eyes. Her body was strong, her hair yellow, barely touched with white. “How old are you?”

Varvara shrugged. “I don’t know. Older than I look. Our mother never told me who sired us. But I always assumed my long life was some gift of his. Whoever he was. I am happy here, truly, Vasilisa Petrovna. I never wanted power, only folk to care for. Save Moscow for them, and take my wild Marya somewhere she can breathe, and I will be content.”

Vasya smiled. “I will do that—Aunt.”

VARVARA LEFT, AND VASYA finished her bath and dressed. Clean, she stepped out into the covered walkway that connected the bathhouse to the terem. The rain was still falling, but more gently. The lightning was sparser now as the storm moved on.

It took Vasya a moment to pick out the shadow. She stilled, the bathhouse door rough at her back.

Thin-voiced, she spoke. “Is it done?”

“It is done,” Morozko returned. “He is bound by my power, by his own votary’s sacrifice, and by Kaschei’s golden bridle: all three together. He will never win free again.” The rain fell cold now, beating down summer’s dust.

Vasya let go the door. The rain whispered on the roof. She crossed the walkway, until she could see his face, until she could ask a question that troubled her. “What did the Bear mean,” she asked, “when he said please?”

Morozko frowned, but rather than answer in words, he lifted his cupped hand. Water collected in his palm. “I wondered if you would ask,” he said. “Give me your hand.”

Vasya did. He let the water run lightly over the cuts on her arm and fingers. They healed with that startling spear of agony, there and gone. She jerked her hand back.

“Water of death,” said Morozko, letting the remaining droplets scatter. “That is my power. I can restore flesh, living or dead.”

She’d known he could heal since the first night she met him and he healed her frostbite. But she hadn’t connected it to the fairy tale, hadn’t considered—