“I have agreed,” Vasya said only. “My thoughts are my own.” She was on her feet. “I am going now.”
He did not stir from his chair. “Not so fast. You belong to me now, and I do not give you leave to go.”
She stood still. “You have not bought me yet. I named a price and you have not met it.”
“That is true,” he said, leaning back in his chair and putting together his fingertips. “And yet, if you are disobedient, I can still toss you back.”
She stayed where she was.
“Come here,” he said, very softly.
Her feet carried her to a spot beside his bench, though she was scarcely aware of it, so angry was she. Yesterday a lord’s son, and nobody’s dog, today she was meat for this schemer. She fought to keep her thoughts from her face.
He must have seen her inward struggle, for he said, “Good, that is good. I like a little fight. Now kneel.” She stilled and he said, “Here—between my feet.”
She did so, brusquely, stiff-limbed as a doll. The bewildering, scathing sweetness of a frost-demon in the moonlight had in no wise prepared her for the dusty, animal smell of this man’s perfumed skin, his half-choked laughter. He cupped her jaw, traced the bones of her face with his fingers. “Just alike,” he murmured, voice gone rough. “Just like the other. You’ll do.”
“Who?” asked Vasya.
Kasyan didn’t answer. He pulled something from a pouch. It gleamed between his heavy fingers. She looked and saw it was a necklace, made of thick gold, hung with a red stone.
“A bride-gift,” he murmured, almost laughing, breathing into her mouth. “Kiss me.”
“No.”
He lifted a languid brow and pinched her earlobe so that her eyes watered. “I will not tolerate a third disobedience, Vasochka.” The childish nickname lay ugly on his tongue. “There are biddable maidens in Moscow who would be happy to be my bride.” He leaned forward again and murmured, “Perhaps if I ask, the Grand Prince will have you all three burned together—so cozy, the children of Pyotr Vladimirovich—while your niece and nephew look on.”
Her stomach roiled, but she leaned forward. He was smiling. With her kneeling, their faces were on a level.
She put her mouth to his.
His hand shot up, seizing her behind her head, at the base of her plait. She jerked back instinctively, breath coming short in disgust, but he only tightened his grip and, leisurely, put his tongue in her mouth. She controlled herself, barely; she did not bite it off. The necklace sparkled in his other hand. He was going to drop it over her head. Vasya jerked away a second time, full of a new fear that she didn’t understand. The golden thing swung heavily from his fist. He wrenched her head back—
But then Kasyan swore, and the jewel in his hand clattered to the floor. Breathing fast, he dragged out Vasya’s sapphire talisman. The stone was glowing faintly; it threw blue light between them.
Kasyan hissed, dropped her charm, and cuffed her across the face. Her vision filled with red sparks and she tumbled back onto the floor. “Bitch!” he snarled, on his feet. “Idiot! You of all people—”
Vasya scrambled upright, shaking her head. Kasyan’s would-be gift lay like a snake on the ground. Kasyan gathered it up tenderly, frowning, and stood. “I suppose you let him do it,” he said. His eyes were bright with malice now, though somewhere, lurking deep down, she thought she saw fear. “I suppose he persuaded you to wear it, with his blue eyes. I’m surprised, girl, truly, that you would allow that monster to enslave you.”
“I am no one’s slave,” Vasya snapped. “That jewel was a gift from my father.”
Kasyan laughed. “Who told you that?” he asked. “Him?” The laughter disappeared from his face. “Ask him, fool. Ask him why a death-god befriends a country girl. See what he answers.”
Vasya was afraid in ways she could not understand. “The death-god told me you have another name,” she said. “What is your true name, Kasyan Lutovich?”
Kasyan smiled a little, but he made no answer. His eyes were quick and dark with thought. Abruptly he strode forward, caught her by the shoulder, crowded her against the wall, and kissed her again. His open mouth ate at her leisurely and one hand closed painfully on her breast.
She endured it, standing rigid. He did not try to put the necklace on her again.
Just as suddenly he stepped aside and flung her away from him, back into the room.
She kept her feet but without grace, breathing fast, her stomach heaving.
He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Enough,” he said. “You’ll do. Tell your sister you have accepted the match, and that you are to be confined until the wedding.” He paused, and his voice hardened. “Which will be tomorrow. By then, you will have taken that charm—that abomination—off and destroyed it. Any disobedience, and I will see your family punished, Vasya. Brother and sister and little children alike. Now go.”
She stumbled for the door, routed, sick, the taste of him sour in her mouth. His soft, satisfied laughter chased her into the hall when she fled the room.
Vasya cannoned into Varvara the instant she was away, then bent over in the hall, retching.
Varvara’s lip curled. “A handsome lord means to save you from ruin,” she said, the sarcasm sharp. “Where is your gratitude, Vasilisa Petrovna? Or did he have your virtue there beside the oven?”
“No,” Vasya retorted, straightening with a supreme effort. “He—he wants me to be afraid of him. I think he succeeded.” She scrubbed a hand across her mouth and was almost sick again. The hall was full of a beating, eager darkness, only a little repelled by the lamp in Varvara’s hand—although that was perhaps the darkness in her own head. Vasya wanted to press her knees together, and she wanted to weep.
Varvara’s lip curled the more, but she only said, “Come, poor thing, your sister wants you.”
OLGA WAS ALONE IN the workroom. She held her distaff in her hands, turning it over and over, but she was not working. Her back pained her; she felt old and worn. She looked up at once when Varvara led Vasya in.
“Well?” she said, without preamble.
“He asked me to marry him,” said Vasya. She did not come properly into the room, but stood off, in the shadows near the door, her head tilted proudly. “I agreed. He says that if I marry him, he will intervene with the Grand Prince. Have Sasha spared, and you absolved of blame.”
Olga considered her sister. There were dozens of prettier girls in Moscow, better born. Kasyan could not want her for her virtue. Yet he wanted Vasya enough to marry her. Why?
He desires her, Olga thought. Why else would he behave so? And I left her alone with him…
Well, and so? She’s been roaming the streets in his company, dressed as a boy.
“Come in, then, Vasya,” Olga said, irritable with vague guilt. “Don’t hang about the door. Tell me, what did he say to you?” She laid her distaff aside. “Varvara, build up the fire.”
The slave went about it, soft-footed, while Vasya came forward. The fierce color in her face from that morning was quite gone; her eyes were big and dark. Olga’s limbs ached; she wished she felt less old, less angry, and less sorry for her sister. “It is better than you deserve,” she said. “An honorable marriage. You were a breath away from the convent, or worse, Vasya.”
Vasya nodded once, her lids veiled with a sweep of black lashes. “I know, Olya.”
Just then, a roar, as though in agreement, came from outside the prince of Serpukhov’s gates. They had just flung the effigy of Lady Maslenitsa onto the fire; her hair streamed away in torrents of fire and her eyes shone, as though alive, as she burned.
Olga fought her irritation down, trying to keep both the anger and the pity from her face. A sharp pain stabbed through her back. “Come, then,” she said, as kindly as she could. “Eat with me. We will call for cakes and honey-wine, and we will celebrate your marriage.”
The cakes came, and the sisters ate together. Neither could swallow much. The silence stretched out.