Let go, she thought. Enough; let go. At least here there will be no mob laughing when I go to God.

The black, sucking mud of the bog seemed to agree, gurgling. There were wicked eyes, like green lamps, watching her from beneath the water. They belonged to a bolotnik, swamp-dweller, breathing out stinking plumes of marsh-gas. He could kill her quickly, if she let him. He could pull her down into the frigid dark and she wouldn’t have to walk again on her torn feet, or breathe against her broken ribs, or remember the last two days.

But Marya, Vasya thought dimly. Marya is in Moscow, and my brother and sister, defenseless against the Bear.

And so? What could she do? Sasha and the Grand Prince could…

Could they? They could not see. They did not understand.

My brother has traded his freedom for your life, the Bear had said. The carved nightingale was in the sleeve of her shift. Her filthy, groping hand closed tight around the wooden creature and it seemed a little warmth crept into her chilled limbs.

Winter-king, why would you do such a terrible thing?

He had a reason. Morozko was no fool. Shouldn’t she find out why, rather than allow his bargain to go for nothing? But she was so tired.

Solovey would have said she was being foolish; he would have made her get on his back and carried her along steadily to wherever they were going, ears flicking cheerfully back and forth.

Hot tears spilled from her eyes. On a surge of rage she yanked herself from the mud, scrambled up the bank. In desperation she put a hand into the water, and spoke in her choked, smoke-damaged voice. “Grandfather,” she said to the lurking swamp-demon, “I am looking for a lake, with an oak-tree growing on the shore. Can you tell me where it is?”

The bolotnik’s eyes had just breached the water; she could make out his scaly limbs churning below the surface. He looked almost surprised. “Alive still?” he whispered. His voice was the sucking sound of the swamp, his breath the smell of decay.

“Please,” said Vasya. With her fingers, she split one of the clotted cuts on her arm, and let her blood fall on the water.

The bolotnik’s tongue flicked, tasting, and his eyes glowed suddenly bright. “Well, you are a courteous maiden,” he said, licking his chops. “Look then.”

She followed the turn of his marsh-light eyes. A reddish flicker showed between the black trees. Not daylight. Perhaps fire? A rush of fear sent her to her feet, cloak heavy with mud.

But it was not fire. It was a living creature.

A tall mare, limned with light, stood hock-deep in the marsh. Sparks like fireflies tumbled from her mane and tail, molten white against the silver-gold of her coat. Head up, she watched Vasya, motionless except for her tail, which lashed her sides with arcs of light.

Vasya took an involuntary, stumbling step toward the mare, caught between wonder and rage. “I remember you,” she said to the horse. “In Moscow, I set you free.”