But she didn’t need to. Her opponent had predicted her caution and had taken the liberty of charming the envelope for her. It opened, and a heavy sheet of cream paper slipped out from within. It unfolded itself in the air.
The handwriting was neat, the angles of the letters precisely aligned. The loops in the cursive were modest but still bold. The tail of each word ended in a flourish.
My thanks for your mercy
from the lightning storm.
Please accept this Imagination Box
as a token of my appreciation.
—Nikolai
“A token of appreciation. Right. It’s probably full of snakes.” Vika collapsed her hand into a fist, and the note followed suit and crumpled itself.
But wait. He’d signed his name. She opened her hand, and the sheet of paper smoothed itself out again.
“Nikolai,” she whispered.
The combination of her voice and his name together for the first time whipped the wind outside. “His name is Nikolai.”
She reached out toward the armoire. Through her shields, she could feel his magic, strong yet airy. Carefully, she touched her fingertips to the wood, and words began to carve themselves into the wardrobe’s doors. It was the same script as on Nikolai’s note.
Imagine, and it shall be.
There are no limits.
Imagine?
Nikolai’s words faded from the doors, and in their place, the question Imagine? etched into the wood as if straight from Vika’s thoughts.
“Are you reading my mind?” she said aloud.
The armoire changed again, and Are you reading my mind? appeared on its face.
Vika jumped back.
But snakes did not leap out of the armoire. Her fingers did not fall off her hand. Nikolai did not take over her brain.
She took one step, then two, back to the so-called Imagination Box. But she didn’t touch it.
She did, however, begin to imagine something else: her dresser at home, the one her father had built with the carving of a snow-capped volcano on it. Vika’s mother had studied volcanoes; in fact, that was how she’d died—she’d perished during an unexpected eruption while researching lava flows. When Vika was young, she liked to pretend that her mother had somehow survived and was living inside the volcano, just waiting for her daughter to be old enough and strong enough to visit. Which was why Vika had always been fond of that dresser.
But now, nothing happened. Are you reading my mind? remained on the wardrobe.
Huh. She must have to physically touch the door. The question was, was it wise to do so?
But Vika had never been the overly cautious sort, much to her father’s chagrin, and now curiosity got the best of her. She reached for the armoire again, and as soon as she made contact, the doors wiped themselves clean and began to replicate the image she had in her head. It was a perfect copy, down to the way Sergei had gouged the curlicues of smoke deeper into the wood than the rest of the volcano.
Vika traced the lines of smoke, touching the smooth edges of the carving and the natural knots in the wood. If she closed her eyes, she could, for a second, imagine she was home in their cozy cottage, where Sergei tromped outside in the garden and she made buckwheat porridge at the stove.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that the scene on the armoire had changed yet again, this time to an etching of her kitchen, with a pot of steaming kasha on the burner and a bottle of milk and a bowl of raisins set to the side. Vika’s mouth watered.
But then she forced her mind to go blank, and the doors to the Imagination Box followed suit. She tore her hands away from the wood.
As soon as she lost contact, her fingers stretched for the armoire again. Nikolai’s magic. She wanted to be closer to it. Needed to be closer.
“Stop,” she said aloud to herself. “He’s the enemy, remember?” And she conjured a wall of ice in front of the Imagination Box so she couldn’t touch it, no matter how much she yearned to.
The Game was not about friendship. After all, Nikolai had tried to kill her. Twice.
No, this Imagination Box—this “token of appreciation”—was not to be trusted. Nothing was. Vika couldn’t even trust herself.
As soon as Vika walked in the front door, Ludmila pounced on her.
“Veee-kahhh! Where have you been? Oh my word, I have so much to tell you! The armoire, it won’t fit! The prince, he says you must come! The pumpkin, oh, the lines! He was looking for you, on the island, I forgot to mention. . . .”
Vika hung her coat on a hook. “Slow down. I cannot keep up.”
Ludmila waved a spatula, still dripping with whatever she’d been stirring in the kitchen a few seconds ago. “Oh, where to begin?”
“At the beginning?”
“Of time?”
“How about the beginning of today?”
“Oh, yes, today, that’s a good place to start.” Ludmila sniffed at the air. “But do you mind if we talk in the kitchen? I don’t want the caramel to burn.”