The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3) - Katherine Arden Page 0,35

scribed on her skin.

The domovaya was not sympathetic. “Where is your courage? You do not want to die of a poisoned wound.”

That at least was true; a slow and horrible death. Before she could lose her nerve, Vasya, wordless, peeled the shirt over her head, stood up shivering in the light from the crumbling roof and looked down at her body.

Bruises of every color: red and black, purple and blue. Cuts latticed her torso; she was glad she could not see her own face. Two teeth were loose; her lips were split and sore. One eye was still half swollen shut. When she raised her hand to her face, she was met with a clotted gash on her cheek.

The domovaya had produced dusty-smelling herbs, honey for bandaging, lengths of clean linen from the chest in the corner. Vasya, staring, said, “Who leaves such things in a locked box in a ruin?”

“I hardly know,” said the domovaya shortly. “They were here, that’s all.”

“Surely you remember something.”

“I don’t!” The domovaya looked suddenly angry. “Why are you asking? Isn’t it enough that it was here, that it saved your life? Sit down. No, there.”

Vasya sat. “I am sorry,” she said. “I was only curious.”

“The more one knows, the sooner one grows old,” snapped the domovaya. “Hold still.”

Vasya tried. But it hurt. A few cuts had closed in their own blood; the domovaya left them alone. But many had been pulled open under the stresses of the night, and she had not got all of the soot and splinters, working by firelight.

But all were bound up and salved at last. “Thank you,” Vasya said, hearing her voice shake. Hurriedly she put on her shirt to shut away the sight of herself, and then rubbed a bit of her charred hair between two fingers. Foul. Tangled, fire-smelling; it would never be clean again.

“Will you cut my hair off? As short as you can,” said Vasya. “I have had enough of Vasilisa Petrovna.”

The domovaya had only a knife to cut with, but she took it up without a word. Hanks of black hair tumbled down, soundless as snow, to be swept out and flung away for the nesting birds. When it was done, the air seemed to whistle strangely past Vasya’s ears and down her neck. Not long ago, Vasya would have wept to lose her black hair. Now she was glad to have it gone. Her long, glossy plait belonged to another girl, in another life.

The domovaya, a little subdued, returned to the iron-bound chest. This time, boy’s clothes appeared: loose trousers and sash, kaftan, even boots—good leather sapogi. They were badly creased, yellowed with time, but unworn. Vasya frowned. Bits of herbs were one thing, but this? Sturdy garments, sewn with a competent hand, out of close-woven linen and thick wool?

They even fit.

“Did—” Vasya could scarce credit it. She peered down at herself. She was warm, clean, rested, alive, clothed. “Did someone know I was coming?” The question was ridiculous; the clothes were older than she was. And yet…

The domovaya shrugged.

“Who was your mistress?” Vasya asked. “Who had this house before?”

The domovaya only looked at her blankly. “Are you sure it’s not you? I almost remember you.”

“I’ve never been here before,” said Vasya. “Can’t you remember?”

“I remember existing,” returned the domovaya, a little affronted. “I remember these walls, my key. I remember names and shadows in the fire. Nothing more.” She looked distressed; Vasya, in courtesy, let the subject drop. With gritted teeth, she concentrated on getting woolen stockings and sapogi onto her torn and burned feet. Gingerly, she put her feet to the floor, then stood and winced. “Now if only I could float along like the devil that cannot touch the earth,” she said, trying a few limping steps.

The domovaya thrust an old reed basket into Vasya’s hands. “If you want supper, you will have to find it,” she said. There was a strange note in her voice. She pointed at the woods.

Vasya could hardly bear the thought of going gathering in her current state. But she knew it would only be worse the next day, as her bruises stiffened.

“Very well,” she said.

The domovaya looked suddenly anxious. “Beware the forest,” she added, following Vasya to the door. “It does not take kindly to strangers. Safer to come back by nightfall.”

“What happens at nightfall?” asked Vasya.

“The—the season will turn,” said the domovaya, twisting her hands together.

“What does that mean?”

“You cannot get back, if the season turns. Or you can, but by