Yvgenie (6 page)

‘
God.
’

‘
Don't put on a face like that. I'm very serious. Your wishes—if you can think of it that way—have as much power now with the mouseling as mine or Eveshka's will hereafter. She's had our teaching. She's had every
piece of advice from us she can
stand or understand. She's had two very
diff
erent teachers, in magic. But more and more now our mouse is going to choose her own way, test her own ideas, put her fingers into the fire to see if it's hot. Didn't we both?
’

That rang true. But he had never stopped at burned fingers.

‘
She's your daughter,
’
Sasha said.
‘
In that much you already
know
the things she might do.
’

‘
God, no wonder Eveshka's worried.''

Her friend had not been there in the morning, when it had been easy to slip away. She had waited and she had waited by the river shore, and finally given up and walked the long way around, up the bank and into the woods the long circuit behind uncle's cottage, all so her mother would not see her coming from the riverside.

In the afternoon she wrote in her book, in which every wizard, her mother swore, had to keep faithfully all his wishes, all his reasons, and all the possible things those
—
wishes could touch.

Never lie to the book, her mother had told her: I'll never read it without your leave. That's a promise, Ilyana.

She did not trust that promise. Her mother might have told her so, but her mother might just as easily change her mind, when her mother was so unsettled as she had been lately— and while she had never caught her mother sneaking a look at her book, her mother was not that easy to catch. That her mother seemed to work magic very seldom might only mean that she very rarely let anyone know she was doing it.

So Ilyana wrote small stupid things in the book, like: I should help mother more; I shouldn't upset her—instead of the thoughts that were really on her mind, such as: What if he's harmful? What if he came and hurt my family? Could I possibly be mistaken about him?

But then she thought—I've known him all my life. Surely I'd have understood by now whether he's good or bad, and he's never hurt anything. If he's a rusalka or anything of the kind, it can't be true that all of them kill things. The leshys haven't been here for years—but uncle sees them. He walks with them in the woods. They would surely have warned us. Babi at least would have objected.

She filled a desultory quarter of a page with dull, dutiful considerations of why her mother had to be strict with her.

She thought that that would placate her mother if her mother was secretly reading her book.

Her mother was grinding herbs today, making the medicines for downriver, and when Ilyana finished her notes, she ground and measured and mixed until her arms ached, while her mother lectured her on why one should never use magic for housework, and told her how a wizard had to lead a thoroughly disciplined life. Her mother was very much on discipline, and Ilyana earnestly tried to listen, hoping for something new that wo
uld make the other things make
sense—or only to hear something in a new way, as her uncle was wont to say, if her growing up were truly getting somewhere of a sudden.

But there was nothing but the same old lecture. Her mother said, for the hundredth time at least,
‘
You don't want to fall into careless habits. Magic can't be a substitute for good work. Or ingenuity. Or caution. You can't want everything perfect. You
make
it perfect. Patience and discipline.
’

It did not seem to her that her mother's patience was all that long; and as for discipline, it all seemed to be hers in
th
is house.

Hut she most earnestly tried not to think that.

In the late afternoon her father came riding in with uncle S
a
sha, and she felt cheated, because being out on the trail
all day
on Patches would have been ever so much nicer than grinding herbs. And she had not found her friend in the illuming—about which she was
not
thinking, so she went
bac
k in the house and pounded herbs with a mallet until her mother came inside and complained about the racket.

'' Honestly,'' her mother said,
‘
if you wanted to ride you
should
have gone riding. Temper is not what I want to see from you. Not under this roof, not elsewhere. God, Ilyana,
w
hat ever is the matter with you lately?
’

'' Nothing,'' she said. And avoided looking at her mother.

‘
Ilyana,
’
her mother said,
‘
all your father has to do is
love
you. And I'm always the one who has to scold you. It's my responsibility. I have t
o talk to you in ways you under
stand. I'm trying to do better with you than I had when I was a child. Don't sulk. It's not becoming.
’

‘
I'm not sulking.
’

‘
I know a sulk, young woman. Don't lie, either.
’

‘
Yes, mother.
’
She wanted to pound the board to splinters. But she would never get out of the house today if she did that.
‘
I try.'' Dammit, she was going to cry. She wanted not to do that, and that helped, and it stopped.
‘
I'm tired. My arms ache.
’

Her mother came over to her, patted her on the shoulder and said,
‘
Ilyana, listen to me. Be wise. Be sensible. That's all I want you to do.
’

‘
Yes, mother.
’

Her mother sighed and brought ajar for the spice
to go in.
‘
Let's clean this up,
’
she said.
‘
Time we started supper. There'll be yesterday's bread. Running a house doesn't happen while you walk in the woods, Ilyana. There's wood to be cut, there's a garden to be weeded, there's bread to be baked—the god knows your uncle Sasha is a dear, but he doesn't
run
a house, he lives in one. He lets the clutter pile up because
he
knows where everything is—but with three of us in this one
I
assure you we rapidly wouldn't. There's always work, if you're at loose ends. You're getting to be a young woman, and this house being as much yours as ours, I'd think you'd start showing some initiative in taking care of it—dear,
don't
let that get on the floor.''

‘
I'm sorry!
’

‘
You have your father's temper. You sound exactly like him.
’

‘
Well, at least my father yells about
things,
he doesn't yell
at
people
!
I wish you'd—
’

‘
Think what you're doing, dammit! God!
’

They were yelling. And her mother was right, she
had
wished at her mother, like a fool.

‘
I'm sorry,
’
she said.
‘
I'm
sorry,
mother—god, you're driving me crazy!
’

‘
Maybe you'd better listen to advice! And don't swear, young miss! It's dangerous!
’

‘
I listen! I listen! But nobody ever listens to me!
’

‘
Just—
’
Her mother put
a
hand to her brow and shook her head.
‘
Just go outdoors for a while.''

Her mother wanted her quiet, her mother
wanted
her to do as she was told before they got to wishing back and forth ill each other, and most of all her mother wanted her to be h
a
ppier than she had been in her life—surely her mother had nut meant her to hear that last. Her mother wanted her out of the kitchen now, this moment, her mother was trying not
to
think things that scared her—

‘
Get out!
’

I
lyana threw down the towel and fled the house as fast as her feet could carry her, not thinking, no, of anything but netting down the walk-up to the yard
—

She stopped against the garden fence and caught her breath.

‘
Ilyana
?
’
her father called out to her, from the stable.

She did not want to talk to her father right now, she did not want to talk to anyone:
she was still trembling from that exchange inside, even if her mother had not wanted it to happen—

Only her mother thought it perfectly all right to wish at her and did not at all like it coming back, the same as her mother would cuff her ears when she had been too little to
reason
with and wish her No! so strongly she still felt the
terr
or
of
it.

‘
Ilyana
?
’
Her father had ducked through the stableyard
f
ence. He was going to ask her what had happened; and hug
her
and make her safe again, but she had no desire to draw him into the quarrel or start a fight between her parents.
—
Mustn't wish at your father, no,
Ilyana
, it's not nice, it's not fair, he doesn't know you're
doing it, and he can't wish I b
ack,
Ilyana
—

Her father's arms came around her. Her father said,
‘
What's the matter, mouseling? God, you're shaking.
’

‘
I'm all right,
’
she said,
‘
I'm all right. It's just mother.
’

‘
What happened?
’

It was impossible to talk about it. She waved an ineffectual hand and shook her head. Her father hugged her tighter, smoothed her hair, told her her mother loved her—and that made her heart ache. Probably it was true, only they hurt each other all the time, because her mother wanted her to do everything
she
wanted, and never wanted to listen to anyone else's reasons, refusing to regard anything she had to say as important, or in the least sensible.

‘
Poor mouseling.
’
Her father lifted her chin and wiped her eyes with his thumb.
‘
I'll talk to her. All right?
’

‘
She thinks I have no sense at all. She thinks I'm lazy. She thinks I don't try.''

More tears, which a wish stopped. She did not want to upset her father. Nothing was
his
fault, and he had argued with her mother last night as much as he could. Her mother ran everyone's lives, except uncle Sasha's. Uncle Sasha had had the good sense to move out and build a house up on the hill while she was still a baby.

And when her mother had had enough of her she had used to march her up the hill. Stay with your uncle, her mother would say. See if he puts up with you.

Her mother might make her sweets and show her cooking and teach her the names of flowers: those were the good things. But her mother did not like her off by herself, her mother did not want her doing anything exciting like clambering around on the boat down at the old ferry landing, or imagining she was sailing to Kiev, or doing anything, it seemed, but kitchen work and cleaning and writing in her book.

Which she was
sure
her mother read.

Her father
said,
‘
I
really think you should have gone with us today. Baby mouse, your mother's not a bad woman. But she's a very serious woman. She takes responsibility for so very much—
’

‘
I wish she'd just have fun sometimes.
’

‘
So do I, baby mouse. So do I.
’

‘
It's not fair.
’

‘
A lot of things happened to your mother, things she wouldn't want for you—things that have made her afraid all her life, and she tries too hard to make sure you're safe from
t
hem. You know that Sasha's not really your uncle...
’