All these thoughts passed swiftly through her brain, and then Vasya collected herself and approached the place where the winter-king sat beside the lord’s sister. She held the wineskin before her like a shield.

The frost-demon bent again to the woman, breathing more words into her ear.

A sudden movement drew Vasya’s eye. Another man was watching the pair from the other side of the fire-pit. His embroidery and his ornaments indicated rank; his eyes were great and dark with pain. The sudden movement had been the involuntary dart of his hand to his sword-hilt. As Vasya watched, he let it go again, finger by finger.

Vasya did not know what to make of it.

Her feet carried her nearer the winter-king and the tawny woman beside him. She supposed that she was meant to drop her eyes, fill the cups, and scurry away. But instead she walked forward without affectation, her eyes on the eyes of the frost-demon.

He glanced up, and then, looking amused, watched her come forward.

At the last second, Vasya lowered her gaze and tipped her skin to fill the cups.

A thin, cold, familiar hand closed on her wrist. Vasya jerked back, splashing mead over them all.

Yelena managed to turn, keeping the wine from her gown. Then she recognized Vasya. “Go back,” she said to Vasya. “It is not your task to serve us, girl.” It seemed to Vasya that she was conveying a warning behind the words: Morozko, proud, young, death in his long hands, was dangerous.

He had not tried to retain her wrist when she jerked away from him. She was sure now that he did not know her. Whatever bond they’d shared—hunger, reluctant passion—that was gone.

“Forgive me,” Vasya said to the woman. “I only wished to repay your hospitality.”

Her eyes did not leave the eyes of the frost-demon. His glance, without hurry and without admiration, traced her cropped hair, her thin face, her body. She felt her color rise.

“I do not know you,” Morozko said.

“I know that you don’t,” said Vasya. Yelena stiffened, either at Vasya’s words or the tone of them. Morozko glanced at Vasya’s arm. She looked too, saw the skin marked white where he’d touched her. “Have you come to ask a favor of me?” he asked.

“Do you mean to grant me one?” asked Vasya.

Yelena said sharply, “Little fool, go away.”

Still no flicker of recognition in the frost-demon’s eyes, but he put out a single finger and touched the inner part of her wrist. Vasya felt her heartbeat quicken under his fingers, though only a little. The tread of her heart had looked upon life and death and things in between without yet faltering.

Morozko’s glance was quite cold. “Ask,” he said.

“Come away with me,” said Vasya. “My people have need of you.”

Horror, shock, on Yelena’s face.

He only laughed. “My people are here.”

“Yes,” she said. “And elsewhere too. You have forgotten.”

The cold fingers released her abruptly. “I forget nothing.”