Yvgenie (9 page)

She tried to say she was. She stammered something like that, and tried to protest,
‘
He never hurt me—
’
but no one was listening to her. Her father let her go and she ran up the shore
—

Stopped, then, because her mother
wanted
her to stop, but her uncle said,
‘
She's all right, she's just going to the house. Let her go.
’

Then she
could
run, up the slope and up through the hole in the hedge and across the yard to the rail of the walk-up before she ever stopped to catch her breath.

There was magic going on behind her. She felt it strangling her, her mother and her uncle were wishing, oh, god,
wishing her friend back into his grave—and wishing Owl to the place he had died, somewhere far separate from him.

‘
Stop it!
’
she cried.
‘
Stop it, stop it,
stop
it
!
’
There was silence after that, and a heaviness in the air. It was her they wished at now, wanting her quiet, and wanting her to know
—

She wanted
not
to know. She wanted them to leave her alone. She shoved herself away from the rail, walking she
had
no notion where until she saw the stableyard fence ahead of her, and all the horses standing with their heads up and I heir nostrils working, staring toward the river.

They were afraid. So was she. Babi was in the yard with
t
hem, growling as she ducked through the rails—but not at her; Babi would never hurt her. She came up to her filly, pat
te
d a rock-hard shoulder, put her arms about a rigid neck, and Patches tossed her head and snorted, beginning to shiver. She was shivering, too, now. This yard was the only safe place in the world, the only place she could keep danger out of, the only place with creatures she trusted and hearts she knew were honest.

She did not want to face her parents right now, she did not want to see uncle Sasha with anger on his face, or meet her lather's look when he had hurt her: she could still feel the strength of his fingers when he had stared right into her eyes,
a
s if—

As if she had done something horrible and wicked and it would show in her face forever, that she had let her friend kiss her and put his hands on her and make her feel
—

So dizzy, so terribly dizzy and cold and warm and magical she wanted to hold on to that feeling. She wanted that moment back, if
only
to find out what it was. She wished—

—wished he were alive and they could have run away together into the woods so this never would have happened: her mother would not have called his name, her
mother
would not have said:

Wasn’t
I enough
?...

She buried her face against Patches' mane and leaned on her solid shoulder, wanting to stay there against that warmth and not to think, but the thought kept coming back.

Wasn't I enough?

He
was the mistake mother made, he was what father was talking about—mother knew him. Mother was in love with him, mother was with him before—

Before
she met my father.

Eveshka, he had called her mother, in the tone only her father ever used. Sasha had come to this house with her father, and
Sasha
had known her friend on sight.

Worse and worse. Oh, god, all she ever wanted was someone to love and take care of the way her mother had someone, and for a handful of moments she had had that someone, until it turned out everyone in the world knew him, and her own mother had been with him when he was alive.

Now she understood her father being angry, and why he had bruised her face—but, but, god, they need not have sent Owl apart from him: that was somehow the worst thing they could do to him.

She did not cry often, but she cried now, mopping tears with Patches' mane, while Patches made those strange soft sounds that meant there was something going on that Patches did not like. Babi was in a shape that seemed all shoulders and teeth, growling, facing the yard or the river where her parents and Sasha were. She was not sure whether they could feel the anger she felt
—

But it was over now; they were coming back up from the river. She looked past Patches' jaw and saw them pass the hedge and cross the yard to the walk-up,
felt
her mother catch sight of her and turn her way with angry intent, but Sasha caught her arm and stopped her. Her father was still carrying the axe when he went behind them up the walk-up, and she had no idea what he was going to do with it inside the house, but Babi went on growling and the horses kept smelling the wind and making nervous sudden shifts.

Looking at the river, she thought. They were definitely
looking toward the river, which might mean they had done
something
down there that t
he horses and Babi had somehow fe
It, some truly dreadful magic.

She wanted her mother not to be angry at her, she wanted her father not to be, wanted uncle Sasha—

Her uncle's magic spoke to her heart, then, saying, It's not your fault, mouse. Don't wish at your father. Please. He's
rea
lly upset, but he's all right, if you just don't wish at him
r
ight now.

She tried, oh, god, she tried not to. She did not blame him
f
or being mad, she did not blame her mother, not truly, please.

She felt her uncle's presence like a comforting touch on
the
shoulder, heard her uncle whisper all the way from the house, Your mother loves you. No one's angry now. Your mother's just awfully upset and trying not to be, if you'll just be calm right now, can you do that, mousekin?

Yes, she promised him the way she had promised for her
uncle before, when she was l
ittle and had tantrums.

Only this one was not her fault. It was not fair for them to be mad at her, it was not fair for them to have taken Owl away, it was not fair of them to think that what they were thinking had happened between them—

Even if it was true what they had been doing together, and even if it was true that she had felt dizzy and that he could have killed her. But he wouldn't have, she wanted them all to know that. We didn't—he wouldn't—

Her uncle said, I believe you, mousekin. He wasn't all bad when he was alive. And what you were doing—

She refused to hear him. Usually she could not shut uncle out. But this time she could. This time she made him shut up and leave her alone, and told him he would have to come after her and talk out loud,
the way her father insisted rea
sonable people ought to do with each other, not wish thoughts into each other's heads or meddle in other people's embarrassment.

Oh, god, mother did
that
with him, too, when he wasn't dead. And father knows it.

***

The storm inside the house was ebbing. The one outside might be, but Ilyana had built a defense like a wall, and shut herself inside it.
‘
I'd better talk to her,'' Sasha said, not sure Pyetr and Eveshka even heard him—Eveshka was sitting on the bench in front of the fire, Pyetr holding her hands tightly in his. But Pyetr, with more spare concentration than a wizard could afford, glanced over his shoulder and said,
‘
God, do. She's scared, she's just scared, Sasha, she had no idea.
’
Whether Pyetr believed that or whether he was saying it to placate Eveshka, the god only knew: Sasha hoped it was the case. And beyond a doubt Pyetr would be out there himself, except he was the only one of them who could reason with Eveshka, the only one Eveshka might listen to, the way she was listening to Pyetr now, Pyetr, trusting
them
to protect her daughter—

Which might be Eveshka's distracted urging to him, for all he knew. If it was, her breach of attention was dangerous, and he was going, now, anything to keep the peace.

So he slipped quickly out the door and soft-footed it down the walk-up and around the corner toward the stable. Ilyana was still standing with her arms about the filly's neck and Ilyana did not wish him to stop. That was a hopeful sign. But he felt
—

Felt exposed to a presence at his back, something—

—familiarly dangerous. Babi had bristled up into his most fearsome shape, the horses clearly smelled something disturbing, and of a sudden he knew what it was.

Snake. Vodyanoi.

He spun about to face the river and said aloud,
‘
Hwiuur, you damnable sneak, go back to sleep! There's nothing here for you. Go away!
’

The feeling immediately slid away like a serpent into water.

But another presence slipped up behind him.
Ilyana
's magic came
around
him. He had felt her tantrums, he had stilled her wild panics, but this was not anger, or fear, or
with
him—it
encompassed
him, it aimed
his
wishes at the
linger—

It scared him more than the presence in the river did: he w
a
nted her to know that on no uncertain terms.

She stopped at once, tha
nk the god. He turned, saw her fa
ce and felt as if he had slapped her—

‘
No, mouse,'' he called out loudly enough for her to hear
acr
oss the yard.
’
You're no more mouse—not when you wish like that. But be careful! You don't know everything yet!
’

''
I
know more than I wanted to know!'' she shouted, with
tea
rs in her voice, and that strength was there again, like a wall excluding him.
‘
My mother was in love with him! Whose daughter
am
I, anyway?
’

God.
‘
You're Pyetr's!
’
he shouted back.
‘
You're most undeniably Pyetr's, I swear to you that's so! Chernevog was
in
no condition to father a child when
you
began, and there
was
never any doubt whose you are.
’

‘
Could there have been? Why should I believe you?
Ev
eryone’s
lied to me!
’

‘
Not so!
’
He walked as far as the stableyard gate and
set
his arms on the topmost rail, at comfortable speaking
dist
ance.
‘
Ilyana, love, maybe we didn't tell you everything,
but
no one lied to you. We just kept the truth back too long.
’

‘
What truth?
’

Wary young fish—suspecting a hook in what he offered.
He
had taught her that caution. They all had. So he used no words. He handed her his heart without warning, prepared
for
pain.

There was. She seemed confused, and let go the filly's n
am
e and looked him in the eyes, something that was his looking right back at him, defensive and waiting.

She surely realized then what he had done. She had no
not
ion yet what she could do with it, but she knew the moment he thought of it, that she could do him terrible harm,
and
he wanted her to know, with that, how implicitly he
tru
sted her.

‘
That's what you should
do,
’
he told her, quietly,
‘
be
fore you ever contemplate certain kinds of magic: put your heart somewhere absolutely safe before you make any sudden decision, mousekin. I have very little feeling now, except my own interest. You have all of that. All I have left is a heartless, self-interested reason for standing
here;
I
want you well for my own sake. The part that can think of others— you have at the moment. You know me now, don't you? You know I wouldn't lie to you.
’

She did. And she wanted his heart back in him, because she was afraid of it—which was enough: it came back with pain, with anger, with a dread of grown-up hearts holding grown-up secrets. And very much of loneliness. That one chord rang through them both, that the loneliness was too long, and too much.

‘
Oh, mouse,
’
he said, ducked through the rails and caught her in his arms, fever-warm and soggy as the much smaller girl who had cried on his shoulder for far smaller tragedies.

No truth for a while, not until she wanted it. Right now she only wanted both of them not to hurt, which was as kind and as dangerous a wish as a wizard had ever made for him.
‘
Hush, stop,
’
he said against her ear.
‘
You know you shouldn't wish changes on us. Not hurting can equally well mean dead.
’
‘
I wish—
’

‘
Hush! I wish you good things, and life, mousekin, and, yes, it's very hard. I know.
’

‘
It's not fair!
’

‘
Maybe it isn't. But the stronger you are, and you're very strong, mousekin, the more it's true. You can hurt someone so easily, with the best and kindest intentions. I've never been as lucky as your mother is, to have found someone like your father is for her—I don't know if there
is
anyone else in the world like him. There can't be many ordinary folk who could put up with us.
’

‘
It
hurts,
uncle.
’

‘
I know it does. Which is why, mousekin, other wizards
give up their hearts—bestow them somewhere they can't be
hurt
, because caring and power together eventually will hurt you: and most of all corrupt your judgment. You see someone suffering and you want so much to do something about it that you might forget your good sense, and do something
aw
ful to innocent people you simply forgot to include in your idea. It's the rule about rainstorms. There's only so much rain to go around.
’

‘
So maybe they're drowning, elsewhere! Maybe watering our garden would help them— You don't know! You can't ever know! So we should never wish anything? Is that it?
’

‘
You don't know the what of things unless you use your
head,
mouseling, and you don't know the true why of things unless you also use your heart. Try to keep both, even if it hurts right now, even if things seem too hard for you.
’

‘
They are!
’

‘
No. No, you're stronger than that. And you'd better be
str
ong today, mouse. It's time for me to tell you some things.
’

‘
What, that I'm going to be alone all my life?
’

‘
The way I am? Yes. Possibly you will be. But you don't know what will happen next month, certainly not next year. No one I know can foretell that, and I come as close to doing it us anyone. We're deeply sorry we scared you. We're sorry w
e
didn't warn you—but we never foresaw this, we abso
lutely
didn't foresee it—though maybe we should have. Our wizardry failed us. If it's not our fault, certainly it's not yours.
’

A series of little breaths, a quiet sob, and she leaned her haul against him.
‘
Uncle, I think I love him. I don't even know.
’

‘
I
know, I know. I wouldn't doubt—he was an extraordinary man.
’

'' Man?'' She pushed back against his chest. Tear-wet eyes looked up at him, wide and shocked.

‘
He's well over a hundred. So's your mother, mousekin. Your father's less than half that. And I'm the youngest, except
for
you. Your mother died when she was sixteen—
’

‘
My mother's not my
mothe
r
?
’

‘
Oh, 'Veshka's ver
y much your mother, mouse. But
did die. And Chernevog had something to do with that, killed her.
’

The mouse opened her mouth and looked suddenly as she might pass out. Quick as thinking, he grabbed her a
nd
made her sit down on the bottom rail of the gate, right whe
re
she was, and he knelt in the stableyard dust, pressing
her c
hilled hands in his.

‘
It might be romantic to say what you're feeling right
now
is shock, mousekin, but the fact is, it's also what comes dealing with rusalki. He's very dangerous. Very attract
ive.
The way Babi guards stableyards and vodyaniye live in
wa
ter—attraction is a rusalka's nature. And they
feel
very goo
d.
—Are you going to faint?''

She made a little gasp, getting her breath, and shook
her
head bravely.

‘
That's my girl. You'll be
all right.
’
His heart said stop
now, stop telling the child what had to hurt her. But cold good sense said keep going as long as he had her whole attention: it might not come again, not in her whole life,
or
his.
‘
Your mother drowne
d on that shore. A vodyanoi car
ried her body to a cave north of here—yes,
that
vodyanoi, the one I chastised a moment ago—stay with me, now, mousekin! Chernevog murdered her and her bones lay in
that
cave under an old willow's roots a hundred years before
your
father found them. Do you know why the trees in the yard are the oldest trees about? Why all this woods is, as forests go, quite young? Your mother killed this woods, your
mother
damned near killed your father—not mentioning a number of innocent people she did kill, men, women, and children she drew the life right out of them. Ask your mother
about
rusalki, little mouse. No one knows more than she does
about
that
kind of ghost. She
was
one.''

She looked at him as if she were sleepwalking, eyes wide tear-tracks drying on her cheeks. Her hands were like ice unresponsive to his.

'She's not dead,
’
she said, hardly a sound at all.
‘
My
m
other's not dead—
’

‘
Your grandfather is.
That
was what it cost to get her
back.
’

E
yes blinked. Like a wince.
Be felt
that: it had not been
her
mother she had been thinking of when she had whispered
an
instant ago, Not dead
…
And that: What it cost
… had
killed her last hope. Dead. Dead beyond recovery.

‘
Yes, he is, mouse. Don't even imagine that kind of ex
chan
ge. Wizards are hard to kill. We're very hard to kill and
by
what I've seen, we're very hard to convince we're dead.
B
ut I saw him die. There's no doubt of it.
’