Shara moves away. He tests the knob: it’s unlocked. He squats down low, knife in hand, and eases the door open.
Immediately the laughter turns to shrieks of pain. Shara is positioned so she cannot see what’s inside—yet Sigrud can, and he drops any suggestion of threat: he glances at her, concerned, confused, and walks in.
“Wait,” says Shara. “Wait!”
Shara bolts around the open door and inside.
*
Things move so fast that it’s difficult for Shara to see: there is a blaze of light from the candelabras, which are so densely crowded she has to dance around them; a wide circle of white crystals on the floor—salt, probably; and sitting in the center of the ring, dressed in a huge, shining white dress, is a little girl of about four, with dark black locks and bright red lips. She sits in the ring of salt, rubbing at her knee … or Shara thinks she rubs her knee, for almost all of the little girl is hidden below her white dress. Shara cannot even see her hands, only the kneading motion under the white cloth.
“It hurts!” cries the little girl. “It hurts!”
The scent of dust is overwhelming. It seems to coat the back of Shara’s throat.
Sigrud walks forward, uncertain. “Should we … do something?” he asks.
The salt.
“Wait!” says Shara again. She reaches out to grab his sleeve and hold him back; Sigrud is so much larger than she is that he almost knocks her over.
The little girl spasms in pain. “Help me!”
“You don’t want me to do anything?” asks Sigrud.
“No! Stop! And look.” Shara points down. Two feet away is the outer edge of the circle of salt.
“What is that?” asks Sigrud.
“The salt, it’s like a—”
“Please help me!” begs the little girl. “Please! Please, you must!”
Shara looks closer. The dress is far too big for such a small girl, and there is a lump under it, as if her body is swollen and malformed. …
I know this, says Shara.
“Just stop, Sigrud. Let me try and …” She clears her throat. “If you could, please,” she says to the little girl, “show us your feet.”
Sigrud is bewildered. “What?”
“Please!” cries the little girl. “Please, do something!”
“We will help you,” says Shara, “if you show us your feet.”
The little girl groans. “Why do you care? Why do you … ? It hurts so bad!”
“We will help you quite quickly,” says Shara. “We are experienced in medicine. Just, please—show us your feet!”
The little girl starts rocking back and forth on the ground. “I’m dying!” she howls. “I’m bleeding! Please, help me!”
“Show them to us. Now!”
“I take it,” says Sigrud, “that you do not think that’s a little girl.”
The girl lets out of a long, tortured shriek. Shara grimly shakes her head. “Look. Think. The salt on the ground, ringing her in … Torskeny’s clothes, which look to have been dropped on the ground just where she crossed the salt …” The little girl, still shrieking in pain, tries to crawl over to them. Yet her movements are so odd: she doesn’t use her hands or arms at all (Shara thinks, Does she even have any?), but the girl appears to kick over to them, crawling on her knees. It’s like she’s a cloth puppet with a hard little head on top, yet her cheeks and her tears and her hair all look so real. …
But she never shows her feet. Not once throughout this strange rolling motion.
The taste of dust thickens: Shara’s throat is clay; her eyes, sand.
There is something under the dress. Not a little girl’s body—something much larger …
Oh, by the seas, thinks Shara. It couldn’t be …
“Help me, please!” cries the girl. “I’m in so much pain!”
“Step back, Sigrud. Don’t let it get close to you.”
Sigrud does so. “No!” shouts the girl. Worm-like, the girl crawls to the very edge of the salt ring, mere inches away from them. “No! Please … Please don’t leave me!”
“You’re not real,” Shara says to the little girl. “You’re bait.”
“Bait?” says Sigrud. “For what?”
“For you and me.”
The little girl bursts into tears and huddles at the edge. “Please,” she says. “Please just pick me up. I haven’t been held in so long. …”
“Drop the act,” says Shara angrily. “I know what you are.”
The little girl shrieks; the sound is razors on their ears.
“Stop!” shouts Shara. “Stop your nonsense! We’re no fools!”
The screams stop immediately. The abrupt cessation of sound is startling.
The girl does not look up: she sits bent in half, frozen and lifelessly still.
“I don’t know how you’re still alive,” says Shara. “I thought all of you died in the Great Purge. …”
The thick locks quiver as the girl’s head twitches to one side.
“You’re a mhovost, aren’t you? One of Jukov’s pets.”