“Kill him!” the fire spat. “She is mine, they gave her to me! Kill them all if they’ve helped her to flee!”
Mirnatius made an impatient gesture. “Don’t be foolish! He was delighted to hand her over in the first place; he won’t have squirreled her away himself. She’s run for it on her own. To the next kingdom by now, most likely. Or a nunnery: that would be marvelous, wouldn’t it.”
The fire made a noise like water splashing on hot coals. “The old woman,” it hissed, and horror caught in my throat. “The old woman, you didn’t want her to see. Fetch her! She knows! She will tell me!”
Mirnatius grimaced, as if in distaste, but he only said, “Yes, yes. It’ll take a day to send for her. Meanwhile I suppose you’ll leave it to me to persuade everyone to believe a story about my darling new wife running away in the middle of the night? And what about this incredible ruin? You’re going to have to give me a month’s worth of power to fix it all, and I don’t care how parched you are.”
The flames roared up so high they filled the fireplace and climbed up into the chimney, orange light leaping over the tsar’s face, but he crossed his arms and glared back at them, and after a moment a grudging tendril of flame broke off from the fire and stretched out towards him. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head, parting his lips, and with a sudden whiplash the tendril plunged down into his throat, a glowing heat illuminating all his body from within, so that for a moment I saw strange shapes lit from inside him and a tracework of lines shining beneath his skin.
He stood tense and shivering beneath the flow of flame, until at last it was severed from the fire and the last trailing end vanished down his throat and the light faded slowly away. He opened his eyes, swaying in a helpless, drunken ecstasy, flushed and beautiful. “Ahh,” he breathed out.
The fire was dying down from that roaring height. “Find her, find her,” it still crackled, but low, like embers crumbling. “I hunger, I thirst…” and then it crumbled in on itself and died out into silence, the flames going out and leaving only hot coals in the hearth.
Mirnatius turned back to the room, still smiling a little, heavy-lidded. He raised his arm and lazily swept it in a wide gesture, and everywhere splinters leapt back into smashed furniture and frayed threads began to weave themselves back into whole cloth, all of it dancing and graceful beneath his hand. He was smiling as he watched it all, the way he’d smiled as he prodded the small dead squirrels in the dirt.
When he finally let his hand languidly sink to his side, as smoothly as if he’d been on a stage performing, the room might never have been touched, except by an artist’s hand: the carvings on the bed had grown more intricate, and the mended coverlet had a pattern embroidered in silver and green and gold that the curtains echoed. He looked round with satisfaction and then nodded and went out of the room again, singing softly to himself beneath his breath and rubbing the fingers of his hand lightly against each other, as though he still felt the power coursing there within them.
The room stood empty and silent with him gone. The raging fire had died; there was nothing left but ordinary coals, their warm glow irresistible, even while terror lingered around them. I didn’t want to go back there—how could I be sure that demon-thing wasn’t still lurking in the coals? But my feet were numb in my boots, and only my thumb, with the silver ring upon it, had any feeling. I was shivering, but I wouldn’t be for much longer, and there was nowhere I might go. I had to go back to warm myself for a moment, at least.
I had to, but my hand was trembling as I forced myself to kneel and reach for the smooth glass of the frozen river. My hand dipped through the surface as easily as into the water of a bath, and I saw it coming into the room on the other side. I stopped with just my fingers there, waiting, my eyes on the fire; but I couldn’t wait for long. My hand was warm, so warm that it made the rest of me feel a thousand times more cold, and when no flame at once leapt up and came towards me, I took a breath and tipped myself forward into the water.
I stumbled out of the mirror and down onto the floor into lovely, lovely warmth. I sprang up at once with my hand on the mirror, ready to jump back through, but the fire didn’t crackle or hiss. Whatever that thing had been, it was gone. I crept towards the hearth, and after another wary moment, I took my icy furs off, my hands clumsy and shivering, to let the warmth come back into me. But I did not take off my jewels, my silver, even through the worst of the wracking shivers that worked through me, driven by fear and not just cold. I’d known he meant me nothing good, but I hadn’t imagined this; I hadn’t feared Baba Yaga planning to put me in the oven and eat me up and pick my very bones out of the world. And I had only a cold place to hide.
When at last my body quieted, and then grew even a little too hot in my fine gown, I pressed my still-cool palms to my cheeks and forced myself to be steady, to think. I got up and turned to the room and the horror of its tidy perfection: another lie Mirnatius and his demon were telling the world, covering up the truth of ruined furniture and the torn and scorched hangings beneath this veneer of beauty. He’d taken the key, but I put a chair beneath the doorknob, so I’d at least have a moment’s warning if someone tried to come inside. Then I went back to the mirror.
I took the crown off and put it carefully down on the floor. I could still see the place where I’d just been, the cold riverbank now with a small dented drift of snow where I’d been standing, already being smoothed away with more drifting snow. When I touched the glass, I felt as though I were pushing through heavy curtains, but when I leaned hard into it, at last my hands dipped through, even with only necklace and ring. So the ring and the necklace together were enough. Then I took off the necklace, and tried once more. But this time, my hands stopped at the glass, though I still saw the snow, and felt the cold seeping into the world all round my fingers. The mirror’s surface had a kind of yielding softness instead of a smooth impenetrability, but it wouldn’t let me through. I tried them all, and none of them would let me through alone; I needed two together to cross over. And I could keep a ring on my hand every hour of the day and wear it to bed, too, and no one would wonder, but necklaces and crowns would be odd enough to draw attention. And if Mirnatius guessed how I’d escaped him, he’d make sure I didn’t have another chance.
I went and looked back into the mirror, at the snowy riverbank. I’d warmed myself through again. I could put on all my petticoats, my three new dresses one over another, all my stockings and the thick woolen ones over my boots. I could step through the mirror and be gone again. If I walked along the river, perhaps I would find some shelter. There were a handful of trinkets in my jewel-box, more wedding gifts; I could put them in my pockets, and try to buy help or shelter, if anyone lived in those woods. I didn’t know how the magic would work, but I was ready to risk dying frozen in the snow to be away from that thing in the fire.
But in the morning the tsar would send for Magreta. She would come without hesitating. She’d be so happy, all the way here; her hopeful heart would think that I had persuaded my husband to let me have her for company, and that he must not be very wicked after all, and surely he had fallen in love with me already, and was ready to be kind. And then he would give her to his demon to torture knowledge out of her that she didn’t have, to find out where I had gone.
* * *