“I have been mad for years,” said the old woman. When she laughed, every hair on Vasya’s body rose. “But at midnight, this is still my realm.”

“The girl won’t stay with you,” said the Bear, with a jerk of his chin at Vasya. “She won’t stay, however you try to persuade her. She’ll leave you just like the others. When she does, I’ll be waiting.” To Vasya, he added, “Your choice still stands. You are going to be my ally one way or the other. The chyerti will not have it otherwise.”

“Go away,” snapped the woman.

And, unbelievably, the Bear bowed to them both, and slunk away through the dark. His servants, shambling, the hell-light gone from their eyes, followed him.

13.

Baba Yaga

THE SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT resumed. Vasya’s feet were numb in the water. The golden mare’s head hung low. The old woman pursed her lips, inspecting girl and horse.

“Babushka,” said Vasya cautiously. “Thank you for our lives.”

“If you want to stand in the lake until you grow fins, that is your affair,” the old woman replied. “Otherwise come to the fire.”

She stumped away, added sticks to the blaze. Vasya waded out of the lake. But the mare did not move. “You are bleeding,” Vasya said to her, trying to get a look at the gash on her foreleg.

The mare’s ears were still pinned to her head. Finally, she said, I ran, while the others flew, to lead the upyry away. But they were too fast, and then my leg was torn and I could not fly.

“I can help you,” Vasya volunteered.

The mare made no answer. But suddenly Vasya understood her stillness, the golden head sunk low. “Do you fear being bound again? Because you are wounded? Do not be afraid. I killed the sorcerer. Tamara is dead too.” She could feel the old woman at her back, listening. “I have no rope here, let alone a golden bridle. I will not touch you without your leave; come to the fire.”

Vasya suited action to word, making her own way to the fire. The mare stood still, the set of her ears uncertain. The old woman was standing on the other side of the flames, waiting for Vasya. Her hair was white. But her face was a distorted mirror of the girl’s own.

Vasya stared, with shock, hunger, recognition.

The forest still seemed thick with eyes, watching. There was an instant of perfect silence. Then the woman said, “What is your name?”

“Vasilisa Petrovna,” said Vasya.

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Marina Ivanovna,” said Vasya. “Her mother was called Tamara, the girl who put a bridle on the firebird.”

The woman’s eyes roved over Vasya’s torn and bruised face, her cropped hair, her clothes, and perhaps more than anything the expression in the girl’s eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t frighten the Bear off,” said the old woman, drily. “With your face so frightful. Or perhaps he liked it. Hard to know, with that one.” Her hands were trembling.