a mouthful of dust. Then she began to climb through the wreckage. No doubt they'd burn the place, and she'd rather not remain inside.
Everything lost. Everything broken. And that princess - who could have guessed the power that she'd have? No more head-to-head competitions for Baba Yaga. She had met her match, more than her match. In a way, the falling of the house had saved her life. It was only a matter of time before that little bitch would have destroyed her.
So let her have the kingdom. What good was a kingdom anyway? Whining people to govern, rents and taxes to collect, which everyone tried to steal from her at every step in the process. What good had any of it done her? She'd played at it, but the game wasn't worth the cost.
She was still Baba Yaga, though, wasn't she? Her books might be buried and soon burned, her spells might have been broken, but she could still do magic.
That house-that-flies, for instance. She could make another one like that. Maybe smaller, so it didn't take so much strength to get it off the ground. And come to think of it, it wasn't the flying that was so important, it was the mobility. In the forest here, a huge building that wouldn't fit between the trees was useless - of course it had to fly, and then where would it come to land? No, what was needed was a tiny building, a simple hut, but with legs on it, like those chicken legs, which would pick up and move where she wanted it to go.
That way no one would ever be certain where she was. She might stay in a place for years, harvesting pleasures large and small from the surrounding countryside, then give the command and let her house carry her away to another place. And, come to think of it, the house could stand up on its legs whenever she was gone, and spin around so its door would face away from any intruder. No one could get inside. That way her possessions would be safe. No more nasty little princesses undoing centuries of work.
It was a good thing she had never relied on Bear's power to sustain her life. She never trusted her life itself to anyone. No, the spells that held her body together were paid for in long-shed blood. But she would need more, soon.
More blood, but none from Taina. She didn't want that princess looking for her. She'd move eastward, deeper into the forest, where they'd never heard of her, where she could take the occasional child gathering berries in the wood, and then move on. And someday she might run into Bear again. He'd be more careful, of course. But wasn't it just possible that he'd miss her, just a little bit, and want her back? Trade a little power for the gift of speech? She'd been using him, of course, but she also enjoyed his company. It was good to have someone to talk to now and then. Even if it was a gruff old bear who probably betrayed her.
How did that Ivan break the spells of binding?
Oh well. There'd be many centuries to ponder that.
The bonfire lit up the sky behind her. Ahead of her, small nocturnal animals fled from her approach. Inside her, the flame of malice burned as bright as ever. As bright, but smaller. Her reach was smaller, too. But so were her needs. She was retiring from public life. Simplicity was what she wanted now. Simplicity and someone's skull to crack between her hands.
Ivan! Katerina! She thought of them and almost choked on rage. To think of the happiness that lay ahead of them, after all the harm they'd done to her! Was there no justice in this miserable universe?
Chapter 20
Summer Vacation
The school year was over in Tantalus. Children threw papers out of bus windows and ran shouting over the lawns and meadows. But none of them was happier than Matt, Steven, Luke, and Little Esther Smetski, who knew that something more than mere summer vacation awaited them.
Father and Mother already had their bags packed - but there weren't many, only a few days' worth of clothes, just enough for the visit they always had with Uncle Marek and Aunt Sophia. Father always spent some time in Kiev, because he was the hero of the literary community there, having discovered the most amazing trove of ancient writings in Saint Kirill's own hand, on parchment