“I will carry them myself,” she said to the steward. On the road, her saddlebags were life itself, and she found now that she could not relinquish them to a stranger in this beautiful, frightening city.
A little mournfully, Solovey said, Be careful, Vasya.
Vasya stroked the horse’s neck. “Don’t jump out,” she whispered.
I won’t, said the horse. A pause. If they bring me oats.
She turned to say as much to the steward. “I’ll come back to see you,” she said to Solovey. “Soon.”
He blew his warm breath into her face.
Then they left the paddock, Vasya trotting in her brother’s wake. She looked back once, before the curve of the stable quite obscured her view. The horse watched her go, stark against the white snow. All wrong, that Solovey would stand there behind a fence, like an ordinary horse…
Then he disappeared, behind the curve of a wooden wall. Vasya shook away her misgivings and followed her brother.
15.
Liar
Olga had heard Dmitrii’s cavalcade return. She could hardly help hearing it; the bells rang until her floor shook, and in the wake of the pealing came the cries of “Dmitrii Ivanovich! Aleksandr Peresvet!”
A tight, reluctant ache once again eased about Olga’s heart when she heard her brother’s name. But of her relief she gave no sign. Her pride wouldn’t allow it, and there was no time. Maslenitsa was upon them now, and preparations for the festival took all her attention.
Maslenitsa was the three-day sun-feast, one of the oldest holidays in Muscovy. Older by far than the bells and crosses that marked its passing, though it had been given the trappings of religion to mask its pagan soul. This—the last day before the festival began—was the last day they could eat meat until Easter. Vladimir, Olga’s husband, was still in Serpukhov, but Olga had arranged a feast for his household—wild boar and stewed rabbit and cock-pheasants, and fish.
For a few more days, the people could still eat butter and lard and cheese and other rich things, and so in the kitchen they were making butter-cakes by the score, by the hundred, cakes enough for days of gluttony.
Women filled Olga’s workroom, talking and eating. They had all come with their veils and their over-robes to do their mending in the pleasant crowd of warm bodies and chatter. The excitement in the streets seemed to have risen and invaded the very air of the sedate tower.
Marya sprang about, shouting. Busy or no, Olga still worried about her daughter. Since the night of the ghost-story, Marya had often woken her nurse with screaming.
Olga paused in her hurrying to sit a moment beside the oven, exchange pleasantries with her neighbors, call Marya and look her over. On the other side of the stove, Darinka simply would not stop talking. Olga wished her head ached less.
“I went to Father Konstantin for confession,” Darinka was saying loudly. Her voice made a shrill counterpoint to the murmur of the crowded room. “Before he went into seclusion in the monastery. Father Konstantin—the fair-haired priest. Because he seemed such a holy man. And indeed he instructed me in righteousness. He told me all about witches.”
No one looked up. The women’s sewing had a new urgency. In the mad revel of festival-week, Moscow would glitter like a bride, and the women must all go to church—not once, but many times—bundled magnificently, and be seen to peer out from around their veils. Besides, this was not the first time Darinka had regaled them with tales of this holy man.
Marya, who had heard Darinka’s tale before and was weary of her mother’s fussing, pulled herself loose and scampered out.
“He said they walk among us, these witches born,” Darinka continued, not much troubled by her lack of audience. “You never know who they are until it is too late. He said they curse good Christian men—curse them—so that they see things that are not there, or hear strange voices—the voices of demons—”
Olga had heard rumors of this priest’s hatred for witches. They made her uneasy. He alone knew that Vasya…
Enough, Olga told herself. Vasya is dead, and Father Konstantin has gone to the monastery; let it pass. But Olga was glad of the tumult of festival-week, which would turn the women’s attention away from the ravings of a handsome priest.
Varvara slipped into the workroom, with Marya returned, panting, at her heels. Before the slave could speak, the girl burst out, “Uncle Sasha is here! Brother Aleksandr,” she corrected, seeing her mother frown. Then she added, irrepressibly, “He has a boy with him. They both want to see you.”
Olga frowned. The child’s silk cap lay askew, and she had torn her sarafan. It was high time to replace her nurse. “Very well,” Olga said. “Send them up at once. Sit down, Masha.”
Marya’s nurse came wheezing belatedly into the room. Marya gave her a wicked look, and the nurse shrank back. “I want to see my uncle,” the girl said to her mother.
“There is a boy with him, Masha,” said Olga wearily. “You are a great girl now; better not.”
Marya scowled.
Olga’s jaded glance took in the crowd about her oven. “Varvara, bring our visitors to my chamber. See that there is hot wine. No, Masha; listen to your nurse. You will see your uncle later.”
DURING THE DAY, OLGA’S OWN ROOM was not so warm as the crowded workroom, but it had the advantage of peace. The bed was curtained off, and visiting there was quite usual. Olga seated herself just in time to hear the footsteps, and then her brother, fresh from the road, stood in the doorway.
Olga got heavily to her feet. “Sasha,” she said. “Have you killed your bandits?”
“Yes,” he said. “There will be no more burning villages.”
“By God’s grace,” Olga said. She crossed herself and they embraced.
Then Sasha said, with unaccountable grimness, “Olya,” and stepped aside.
Behind him, in the doorway, lurked a slender, green-eyed boy, hooded and cloaked, wearing supple leather and wolfskin, two saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The boy at once paled. The saddlebags thumped to the floor.
“Who is this?” Olga asked reflexively. Then a shocked breath hissed out between her teeth.
The boy’s mouth worked; his great eyes were bright. “Olya,” she whispered. “It is Vasya.”
Vasya? No, Vasya is dead. This is not Vasya. This is a boy. In any case, Vasya was only a snub-nosed child. And yet, and yet…Olga looked again. Those green eyes…“Vasya?” Olga gasped. Her knees went weak.
Her brother helped her to her chair, and Olga leaned forward, hands on knees. The boy hovered uncertainly at the doorway. “Come here,” Olga said, recovering. “Vasya. I can’t believe it.”
The erstwhile boy shut the door, and with her back to them, raised trembling fingers and fumbled with the ties of her hood.
A heavy plait of shining black slithered out, and she turned once more to face the oven. With the cap gone, now Olga could see her little sister grown: that strange, impossible child become a strange, impossible woman. Not dead—alive—here…Olga struggled for breath.
“Olya,” Vasya said. “Olya, I’m sorry. You are so pale. Olya, are you well? Oh!” The green eyes lit; the hands clasped. “You are going to have a baby. When—?”
“Vasya!” Olga broke in, finding her voice. “Vasya, you’re alive. How came you here? And dressed so…Brother, sit down. You, too, Vasya. Come into the light. I want to look at you.”
Sasha, meek for once, did as he was told.
“Sit down, too,” Olga said to Vasya. “No, there.”
The girl, looking eager and frightened, sank onto the indicated stool with a loose-limbed grace.
Olga took the girl by the chin and turned her face into the light. Could this really be Vasya? Her sister had been an ugly child. This woman was not ugly—though she had features too stark for beauty: wide mouth, vast eyes, long fingers. She looked far too like the witch-girl Konstantin described.
Her green eyes spilled over with sorrow and courage and terrible fragility. Olga had never forgotten her little sister’s eyes.
Vasya said, tentatively, “Olya?”
Olga Vladimirova found herself smiling. “It is good to see you, Vasya.”