“You said you could only heal wounds that you’d inflicted.”

“I did.”

“Another lie?”

His mouth set hard. “A part of the truth.”

“The Bear wanted you to save Konstantin’s life?”

“Not save it,” he said. “I can mend flesh, but he was already too far gone. Medved wanted me to mend the priest’s flesh, so he could bring him back. Together, my brother and I can restore the dead, for Medved’s gift is the water of life. That is why he said please.”

Frowning, Vasya considered her healed fingers, the scars on palm and wrist.

“But,” Morozko added, “we never act together. Why would we? He is monstrous, he and his power both.”

“The Bear mourned,” said Vasya. “He mourned when Father Konstantin—”

Morozko made a sound of impatience. “The wicked can still mourn, Vasya.”

She didn’t reply. She stood still, while the rain fell all around them, overwhelmed again by all the things she didn’t know. The winter-king was part of the lingering storm; his humanity only a shadow of his true self, his power rising as summer waned. His eyes glittered in the darkness. Yet he had cared for her, schemed for her. Why should she give the Bear or Konstantin a passing thought? They were murderers both, and they were both gone.

Shaking off her unease, she said, “Will you come meet my sister? I promised.”

Morozko looked surprised. “Come to her as your suitor and ask her permission?” he asked. “Will it change anything? It might make it worse.”

“Still,” said Vasya. “Otherwise I—”

“I am not a man, Vasya,” he said. “No sacrament will bind me; I cannot marry you under the laws of your god or your people. If you are looking for honor in your sister’s eyes, you will not find it.”

She had known that was true. But— “I’d like you to meet her anyway,” said Vasya. “At least—perhaps she will not fear for me.”

There was a silence and then she realized that he was shaking with silent laughter. She crossed her arms, offended.

He looked at her, crystalline-eyed. “I am not likely to reassure anyone’s sister,” he said, when he stopped laughing. “But I will, if you like.”

OLGA WAS IN MARYA’S CHAMBER, watching over the child’s sleep. The marks of long strain shadowed the girl’s pale, pinched face. She had taken on too great a labor too young, and Olga looked scarcely less weary.

Vasya halted in the doorway, suddenly unsure of her welcome.

The bed was covered in feather-stuffed ticking, with furs and woven wool. For a moment, Vasya wanted to be a child again, to fall into bed beside Marya and go to sleep while her sister stroked her hair. But Olga turned at Vasya’s soft-footed approach, and the wish vanished. One could not go backward.

Vasya crossed the room, touched Marya’s cheek. “Will she be all right?” Vasya asked.

“She is only tired, I think,” said Olga.