“None,” said Vasya with a surge of gratitude, and bowed.

The midnight-demon stalked into the firelight behind her horse, looking sour. Vasya knew that look. She had worn it herself, when Solovey badgered her into something. She almost laughed.

“Pozhar,” said Midnight. “I have business far from here, and I cannot be—”

“Delayed because your horse is ignoring you?” interrupted Vasya.

Midnight gave her a venomous look.

“Well, then help me now,” said Vasya. “And you can go about your business the sooner.” The black horse twitched his heavy ears. Pozhar looked impatient. Come on, she said. It was amusing at first, but I am tired of this darkness.

A little reluctant humor came into Midnight’s face. “What do you hope to do, Vasilisa Petrovna? He is trapped beyond recall, trapped in memory, in place, and in time: all three.”

Vasya was frankly incredulous. “Am I so vain as to think that the winter-king would let himself be imprisoned for eternity for my sake? He is not a half-witted fairy-tale prince, and heaven knows I am not Yelena the Beautiful. So he must have had a reason, known there was a way out. Which means I can free him.”

Midnight put her head to one side. “I thought you besotted, and that was why you were risking the depths of my realm for his sake. But it’s not that, is it?”

“No,” said Vasya.

Now the midnight-demon looked resigned. “Better put your boots on.” She eyed Vasya’s half-dry clothes critically. “You are going to be cold.”

IT DID GROW COLD. The first Vasya felt of it was frost-crystals breaking under her boots, as she stepped between midnights. The green smell of summer took on a wilder, earthy note; the stars grew sharp as sword-points, where they were not caught fast in racing clouds. The soft rustling of summer leaves became a dry rattle, and then nothing: only bare trees against the sky. And then between one midnight and another, Vasya’s feet broke through a crust of wet snow. Ded Grib halted abruptly. “I cannot go on; I will wither.” He eyed the white stuff with terror.

Vasya knelt before the little mushroom-spirit. “Can you go back to the lake alone? I have to go on.”

He looked miserable. His sickly green glow wavered. “I can always go back to the lake. But I promised.”

“You kept your promise. You found me food, you found me after the flood.” She touched his head, gave him another piece of bread from her basket. She said, on sudden inspiration, “Perhaps you could talk to the other chyerti for me. Tell them that I—that I—”

Ded Grib brightened. “I know what I will tell them,” he said.

That was somewhat worrying. She opened her mouth, thought better of it. “All right,” she said. “But—”

“Are you sure you won’t go back to the lake?” asked Ded Grib. He gave the snow a look of loathing. “It is dark and cold and the ground is hard.”