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The first thing Vasya did was bathe. The dirt, sweat, and blood clouded the water in a thick film which she did not bother to push away. Some stuck like a second skin after she left the bath- a stray swipe of ash here, a stray sheen of sweat there. Morozko said nothing when she exited, merely looked up from the fireplace which burned low and motioned for her to sit. She did without complaint, boneless in a weary way. She’d taken the road through Midnight, fought an immortal sorcerer, dealt with both the winter-king and Bear but none left her so tired. She sank further down, aware in a hazy way she did not sit properly.
She did not think she’d ever get the ash and blood off. It festered beneath her fingernails, red and black in turn. Idly, with a frown she gazed at them. The fire cast a shadow across the room, throwing itself across the rug and up towards the bed. A pale hand enclosed her own, scoured clean. For a moment Vasya wanted to pull away, but instead squeezed, grateful.
“Go to sleep, Vasya.”
And she did. In a bed of soft linen and warm comforters she drifted into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the cackling of a fire and the soft movements of Morozko, but, mostly due to her weariness.
The second thing Vasya did was go back to the little house by the lake. When she left it’d been hastily cleaned, floors mostly free of dead things and scattered leaves. Now, dust and grime covered every inch from the windowsill and oven to the door that’d finally rotted off. It lay in a heap against the equally destroyed steps. The blackened windows watched her as she stumbled up them, still weary from the war days before.
Morozko told her she could stay longer, but Vasya knew she had more to do then lounge about in his home and sleep in his bed. She didn’t leave empty handed, coming back with a tool set to rival the most devout servant. Brooms and mops and rags and more. She set the door against the wall on the outside and stepped into the familiar, but foreign house. Her home. The smell of rot did little to welcome her back. It soured and settled in the air. Her great-grandmother might not mind the smell, but Vasya certainly did.
She cleaned the house one day at a time. Swept the floors clumsily and beat the walls with the broom’s bristles until it became too dusty to breathe. She gathered buckets of water from the lake, stopped to watch the horses that still grazed and drank before fleeing at her footsteps, and returned to the rooms. It was almost cathartic to clean instead of destroy. Build up something and be proud of it. The water rushed about the room like a clear river. Bucket after bucket. Swish after swish.
The second day the domovaya helped her. The base work and lintels appeared polished, carvings of horses and suns and moons wiped to a shine. The dirt Vasya missed the day before vanished. It’d be a nice home, Vasya smiled, when she was done with it. A place to tend horses and welcome chyerti and men who wandered in.
For all the cleaning she did, bringing forth the charm that slanted by the roof and rested by the stove, there were things Vasya could not do. She could not mend the broken door nor fix the shattered windows. A cold breeze cut through with a whistle, carrying the smell of water. The chill of a spring’s night often left her shivering when she slept, wrapped in blankets that snagged on the broken edge of the bed.
While going down the steps to gather that day’s lunch her foot punched a hole through the last step. The wood creaked and moaned as if in pain, then settled when she gingerly pulled her foot out. The boot, provided by Morozko before she’d left, was covered in wood splinters.
Perhaps he can help, Vasya thought picking strawberries. Solovey stuck his muzzle into her basket, rooting for a mushroom or two before she pushed him away. She fed him a nut she found instead to which he snorted and walked away from. “Picky,” she called after him. He slapped her with his tail.
“Do you think Morozko can help?” She asked. She’d seen his carvings, the careful way he held ice or wood and chipped away until revealing the picture he’d only imagined beforehand. Carpentering and carving isn’t so different, she told herself. It both dealt with wood.
You want the winter-king to build you stairs? The soft patter of hooves circled her. Behind, Vasya felt the warmth of Solovey’s body against her own, the strong muscles of his legs resting only a breath away. She offered up a strawberry blindly, rewarded with the soft whiskers brushing her skin and the dribble of juice down her fingers.
“Why not? He said he’d help me before.” She stood, making sure to keep the basket away from wandering horse noses, and continued down the path. Ded Grib was somewhere around, probably under a log or running around the undergrowth spreading the tales of Vasilisa Petovna to the one or two chyerti that’d listen. Of course, as every other day, he’d turn up at her home to grow or drop off lisichki and other mushrooms. By now she’d learned at least a dozen ways to roast and eat them. More often than not they came out burnt. Burnt, but delicious.
Solovey snorted. I’m sure that is what he had in mind.
“It doesn’t matter what he had in mind. I need stairs.” Vasya paused. “And windows and a door.” And new furniture. And perhaps a better oven. The list went on.
No door. I like being able to come in whenever I wish. Vasya vaulted up on Solovey’s back, relishing in the way he shifted beneath her, ready to race at a moment’s notice. It felt good to be on his back and able to ride as much as she wished. Her horse; her best friend.
“So do the chills,” Vasya countered.
I bet he would.
Vasya frowned, trying to keep her face straight. Heat blossomed across her cheeks, but then she remembered she had nothing to be embarrassed about. “I bet he would,” she repeated, coolly. Or, at least tried to. “Come on, let’s go finish lunch then go ride around the lake.”
That spurned Solovey to action. He sprang up and in the blink of an eye raced across the undergrowth like a black blur. He leapt over fallen logs and underneath low hanging branches, hooves pounding against the ground like thunder. It echoed up and down the forest. Vasya felt at home, wind in her hair and stinging her face; Solovey below galloping free.
“Stairs?” Morozko asked, amused.
“And windows and a door,” Vasya said.
Morozko rotated the fine chunk of wood in his hand; thin, curving edges of flowers set face up. From where she sat Vasya could count the petals, intricate as they were. In his other hand the knife he’d been using glinted white then blue in the firelight. A shard of ice, then a blade in a blink. Both, but neither.
Compared to the sticky sweat of summer that she’d grown accustomed to, the cozy breath of the stove warmed her down to the core, lingering in the layers between her skin and shirts. She took a swig of the spicy mead he’d poured her earlier— a drink she did not find growing wild in the forest. She thought it a treat for keeping up with the horses and the lake home and her crazy, but well-meaning great-grandmother who demanded in one breath and grumbled in the next of long past loves.
“How many?” Morozko finally asked.
“Not that many, three steps, two windows, and a single door.” She tried to hide her smile behind the rim of the chalice, but the look he sent her told her he saw it. She drank deeply, spices warm down her throat.
“Will you accompany me somewhere afterwards, Snergurochka?”
“Perhaps. Where?”
“Think of it as a surprise.”
Vasya could not say she liked surprises. Not after everything. She thought of his last surprise; the Bear’s face in between the glowing embers of her pyre, grinning and mad as the two went hand in hand more often than not. Her sour look must have shown on her face for he turned toward her fully, sharp face lit up in red from the fire’s glow. He appeared inhuman, if not for the softness in his eyes, old and new all at once. She remembered sharply the two were twins.
“You will not come to harm,” he said. Not good when he had to say that. “You deserve a break from the lake, Vasya. Come with me. Visit a land from the road of Midnight. You said you wanted that, remember?”
She did. She also remembered saying she’d watch the horses and guard them and the lake. And wasn’t that what she’d been doing for the past days— weeks? How long exactly had she been toiling away at the endless filth that spawned in the house? The decay blossomed beneath her nose and ate away at the wood silently.
“I remember. But, I want to finish fixing the house first. There’s a lot to be done between trying to clean and watch the horses. It’s taking a while for them to warm up to me,” she said. It hurt in a dull way that the horses fled when she exited the lake house. “Then, there’s the lessons with great-grandmother.” Not that she was going to whine about them, though her tone grew listless near the end. She gave a sigh and laid her cheek against the chair. Perhaps she’d ask for a few new chairs while she was at it.
Morozko regarded her for a moment as if sensing her thoughts before turning back to the almost forgotten carving in his hand. He whittled the edge, the slivers of wood slipped gracefully down like snowfall. “That is why I said after.”
Vasya smiled. “Alright, I’ll go along with you.”
“You shall have your stairs, windows and door then, Vasilisa Petrovna” he said, half in humor.
He’s actually doing them. Solovey dug his hoof into the hard earth. The onset of winter came heralded by Morozko himself. Frost turned the grass brittle and thin, growing in tough clumps through the earth. Behind the house, which welcomed an inch of early snow along the roof, the lake froze in a thin sheet. Cracks of running water ran along the lake’s edge where Vasya pierced a few holes for drinking earlier. Not that it was needed as Pozhar stamped her hoof and a cascade of sparks showered the ice.
“Of course he is, he said he would.” Not that he was doing it by himself. His servants worked on the other side of the house. A hammer slammed into wood repeatedly, echoing loudly. The constant buzz of a saw razored the air in a musical fashion. One, the first note of the saw teeth piercing. Two, the second drag of the saw back down. Again, again, again.
Her home would be practically finished by the end of the day. Her door already laid against the opposite wall, stained dark brown with a gleam from the knob. Solovey thumped his tail in disappointment.
Frost broke with a crackle beneath her boots as Vasya walked up towards Morozko. He knelt near her little home, out of place and welcomed all at once. He dressed in finery as usual, collar and cuffs stiff with embroidery and boots polished black. Dirt dare not stain him, despite him walking about.
“The stairs are not done,” he said. His hands moved deftly over the wood she’d found, shaving the edges to a straight line.
“How does soup sound for lunch?” She knelt by him, careful of the slippery ground.
They ate soup by the oven on chairs that, albeit sturdy and steady, did little to appease the back. She dipped her bread in the drips that collected at the bottom of the bowl and sucked if off. The bread grew softer as dinner went on; soggy and warm. Baked fresh with the domovaya who muttered about with eyes like coals.
Her fingers were pink at the tips from working the stove and moving about in the cold all day. Her fingernails grew cracked and short, something black beneath the beds. She didn’t know if it was dirt or spices. She tried to picture it as spices, but knew what it really was.
She devoured the last bite of bread, finally warm and full. The shuttered windows peered out the front of the house, two clear eyes to watch the forest’s edge and the road that wound to the darkened horizon. The door fit snug in its once lopsided frame to which Morozko had straightened. The whole house appeared to stand taller now that it no longer had holes to weaken its structure. The warmth of the oven stayed stagnate now, not seeking freedom through the shattered windows or open door. That, she was thankful for now that winter had come.
“This is your first time visiting since I started living here,” Vasya spoke. She gave a small smile.
“Yes, it is.”
“What do you think?”
“That you own little more than a single chest in the corner,” he said dryly. He opened his mouth to speak once more and hesitated. Then, with the slow smile she’d come to associate with him he leaned towards her. The smells of clear snow and pine filled her nose. “Your bed could use some work too.”
“Is that an offer?” Vasya rose her chin. An easy air filled the space between the two, light and airy. Somewhere outside the crackle of hooves against snow stamped. One, two, three— she counted them. Perhaps Solovey was trying to learn how to return to a nightingale once more with the other horses. Pozhar had little patience for teaching and often left Solovey on the ground or in the lake, instead turning into a fierce flash of light and fire that soared across the sky. Solovey was not envious. He’d told her so many, many times.
“Not tonight. You owe me your company and I hold you to your word.”
“And still you won’t tell me where we will go?” Vasya asked.
The curve of his lips widened. “No. Be prepared when the road to Midnight opens. Make sure Solovey is with you as well.”
Vasya wondered where they’d go. An adventure for herself. Not for her family or Moscow or the winter-king himself. Her. She smiled, pleased and excited. Daylight slanted through the crystal windows, sharp as a lance against the shining floor. Many hours would have to pass until the road opened.
“We have plenty of time until the road opens,” she said. The bowl clanked when she set it down on the makeshift table. She reached for a second roll of bread. This one had been left too long on one side, browned considerably compared to the honey crust atop. It crunched between her teeth, hard on the outside and soft on the inside. Delicious.
“And what do you suggest we do until then?” Morozko turned in his own chair, away from the small flame that leapt in the oven and to Vasya.
She had the beginning of a new bed by the time the sky darkened and the stars peeked through the window frames.
The two rode side by side over the soft snow that padded the forest floor. The tree branches scraped one another with a slow grind while the wind whistled. The moon sat full in the empty branches like a splash of milk in the otherwise dark night. Vasya kept one eye on Morozko, the other on the road ahead. She trusted Solovey enough to not trip and fall.
When it came to Midnight’s road, Vasya had led him and the others around. First, to get back to her brother in summertime, then to Moscow and around the countryside. That, or she’d traveled alone. She liked not having to focus so intently on the destination in fear of losing it. Trying to grasp any stray though or emotion that linked her across her homeland. Now, if only she knew where he led her.
The ground beneath in one step to the next turned wet with melted snow. Solovey’s hooves sank into the ground, leaving distinct prints long behind with a sucking noise. The trees dissipated, their thin trunks gone in an instant. Far off in the distance there came the crash of something. She stopped Solovey on instinct, eyes wide and one hand on the knife she kept with her. Morozko did not stop, waving her onward and toward the noise.
She remembered what he’d said: You will not come to harm. Vasya followed.
“We’re almost there,” Morozko said, but Vasya paid no heed. The roaring sound came louder with a sweeping whoosh that shuddered the air. Morozko was no fool. He wouldn’t bring her somewhere too dangerous. I’ve fought immortal sorcerers. Fought mobs and Tartars and agued with both Bear and winter-king. This does not scare me. She set her chin and spurned Solovey faster, who complied easily.
The curve of road hid what Morozko led her to till the last moment. The ground, wet and sucking beneath turned the same shade as the sky above: black as coal. Beyond there came the rush of water, loud and with a mighty crash along the shore. Vasya sucked a breath in, caught between awe and fear. A tang of salty air burnt her nostrils and coated her tongue.
The sea. He’d taken her to the sea. She climbed off Solovey back, unaware of anything but the dark water before her. Sand sucked her boots down, clinging in clumps against the leather as she approached. Water crashed down upon the shore followed closely by another crest, shooting up the shoreline in a thinning sheet till it almost reached her toes. She watched the water creep closer and closer until finally giving out in a ghostly white that imprinted itself against the black. Then, that too faded in the moonlight.
Again, it happened. This sheet of water kissed her boots. With no hesitation Vasya squatted down and shucked them off, followed by the two layers of socks which she stuffed down the now empty boots. In the moonlight her toes glowed, pale.
As the water rushed up Vasya stepped forward and planted her foot firmly in the spray. “It’s cold!” She shouted.
“It’s still winter.” Morozko’s voice floated somewhere behind her, soft and with a hint of laughter. As if summoning it, a shock of wind cut through her wool shirt in reminder. It came from the sea, tinged with another spray of salt. It burned her eyes which she blinked furiously in response.
“Well?” Vasya faced him. He still sat on his white mare, watching the sea atop her back. “Are you going to stay sitting up there all night?”
His eyes, clear and bright found hers. Even far as they stood apart she noticed their shine; the way they glowed, incredibly old and focused solely on her. “Have fun, Vasya. Perhaps I will join you later.”
The sea called out to her with a fierce spray against her toes. She responded in kind, kicking her foot up in an arc of black sand. The water slashed through the air, dark droplets catching the moonlight in their small curve and shining brilliantly, if only for a moment. They crashed to the ground silently. She’d always wanted to see the sea. Even before Sasha whispered to her of rolling hills and small rivers that cut through the land like a knife. Of distant lands she’d dreamed of as a child. Vasya relished in the drum of the waves crashing and its echo in her heart.
She walked into the water, first to her ankles then to her calves. It froze against her skin, clinging like a sheet of ice. Her toes went numb. Vasya wiggled them, aware in a dull sense they still existed. The water was black as everything else; sea, sky, land all dark as Midnight herself. A shock of white lanced down its middle in a wavering line. The moon stretched down the sea, drowned in its frozen grasp. She waddled further in, careful to keep an eye on the shore and the water itself. Far ahead the horizon waved, an impossibly thin line that shifted where the waves crossed. Endless, the waters continued on.
Up to her thighs now, Vasya’s teeth chattered. The waves battered her in quick succession, never hard enough to topple, but the spray coated her shirt and she caught stray drops in her hair like dark gems. It’d grown longer again, brushing her shoulders like a silky broom.
She wondered why she wanted to go so far into the water. A part of her still whispered warnings of going into waters during the night; of men who’d strayed too far into a lake or river and couldn’t find their way back out. She wriggled her feet further into the sand, burying them there. It was odd for the sand shifted and moved below as if she were the one moving.
Her hands came out with steams of water falling from her open palms. They trembled, pale and for a bright, single moment they were clean. Clean of mud. Clean of ash. Clean of blood. The vestiges of war she’d never been able to scour from her skin disappeared, washed away by the waves of the sea. Vasya shuddered a breath, suddenly cold to the bone. She dunked her hands back in with a wild splash, uncaring if the next wave hit her fully on the face. The black that festered beneath the beds of her nails was gone. Vasya laughed loudly in the night.
She trudged out of the water and back to shore, clothes heavy and clinging to her skin. Despite the chill that wore itself around like a cloak she smiled and approached Morozko and the two horses. They’d situated higher up on the shore, far from the seeking waves and around a fire. “It’s better than anything I’ve imagined,” she said, sinking near the flame.
“I’m glad.”
You’re soaked. Solovey’s muzzle pressed against her mostly dry hair. A breath of hot air brushed her forehead.
“It was worth it,” Vasya said, proud. She sat straighter. “The sea, the power of the waves coursing around me. I’d do it again.” And she might, after getting warm. “But, before that I want to ride along the sea’s edge. Don’t you, Solovey?”
He pinned an ear back. I suppose.
“I think you should warm up before you freeze to death.” Morozko reached over, grasped a wet lock between his fingers and pushed it behind her ear. A shock of winter frost stole down the side of her face where his skin brushed hers. “Then we can ride together,” he said, quiet.
“I shall hold you to it.” Vasya pressed her fingers against his, the cold of his skin and the sand mixing beneath her grasp. Then, “you should have come in the water with me.”
“Perhaps another time,” Morozko replied, flatly.
“You won’t accidentally freeze the waves, will you?” She asked. A grin slipped on her face.
“No, I won’t.” She followed his gaze back to the ocean which roared and swallowed the sand in hungry gulps. The spray glowed in the moonlight, bright white like stray moonbeams. “I prefer watching.”
Vasya didn’t mind that. Far as she was from the ocean, the waves caught her gaze and held her fast. The little lake and rivers she’d crossed couldn’t compare. The sea was larger than any body of what she’d seen, with strength in the waves and a call that she felt helpless against. The moon slipped further down the sky, brushing the sea in a flash of white that danced along the waves.
Warmth bloomed along her frozen skin, sinking its teeth where she still shivered. Her skin appeared stark white, almost marbled. Stray droplets slipped down her calves and into the damp sand below. While warming up, and how slow that took, she clumped the sand together in a mound, patting it together and smoothing the cracks that formed on one side. A tiny black hill formed between her and Morozko.
“I used to make mud bread when I was a child,” Vasya said. “It drove Dunya crazy when I came back and asked for them to be put in the oven.” She added a little hole at the top, sinking her finger into the cool sand. It was easier to mold than mud, forming to her command as easy as a press of her palm. “She used to tell me if I wanted to make bread I could help in the kitchen. Then, I’d steal one or two and she’d send me back out or to do my chores.”
“That hasn’t changed then.” Morozko watched her carefully as she made her little mound, similar to how she watched him. His eyes glowed in the firelight, low and black and endless.
“Shall I bring you mud cakes, winter-king? You can keep them in your home to remind yourself of me.”
“I believe I can go without,” Morozko replied, wry.
The mound caved in around Vasya’s fingers. “Let’s go ride along the water.”
Morozko boosted her up onto Solovey’s back who watched the waters. He flicked an ear. In the darkness she could barely make out the slope of the sand which bled into the night and sea. If Morozko had similar trouble he did not show, leaping up onto the white mare’s back and starting off. Vasya kept close behind.
They rode for what seemed hours, up and down the coast, starting off at a walk not too far from the water’s edge. Solovey’s hooves slung sand into the air behind them in large clumps, thundering reverberations up Vasya’s legs and into her chest as they picked up speed. It rattled there, stuck in a rhythm similar to the waves. The waves sloshed up to Solovey’s legs, never higher and not enough to spray Vasya. He flung the water back as well, droplets lost to the black of the sky.
They didn’t ride too fast- it wasn’t a race- but just enough to leave Vasya breathless. The wind swept her hair back, tangled her hair in whorls that she knew would be a pain to get out later. It was different than riding near the lake, the sand not nearly as firm as dirt. Different than riding on snow too, for the ground didn’t catch on her clothes with a chill.
“Enjoying yourself, Vasya?” Morozko called. They rode nearly shoulder to shoulder.
Vasya smiled. “Of course.” She paused, fingers caught loose on Solovey’s mane. The strands wild and long were equally windswept; sand turning the strands a gritty texture. “Thank you for bringing me here. I’d been so caught in keeping up with the horses and the home and my lessons I wouldn’t have come for a very long time.”
“This is only one part of the sea. There’s many more shores for you to explore,” Morozko said.
“I will explore them all,” Vasya promised. And she would. Think of the beaches on the other side of the world. Was the sand there black as well? Did the waves chop up in a hungry spray? She wanted to know— to see it firsthand. Many midnights would come where she’d ride off with Solovey into the unknown. “You’ll accompany sometimes, won’t you?”
“If you will have me.”
She would. As if sensing her thought, Morozko smiled a slow, small winter-king smile.
“I will,” Vasya promised once more.
The two continued to ride on. Across the sea the moon fell into the waves, drowned in a long reflection of white. The sky lightened, first to weary gray that permeated like fog across the horizon. The waves reflected that color, turning a slate before the sky became a slight blue. Sunshine glinted bright and thin as a blade, turning the sky bluer and bluer. Before her the once midnight waves turned the same shade till Vasya once more could not see where the sky ended and the sea began. Only the sand remained black, turning the incoming waves a gritty dark blue.
She’d never seen the sun rise upon water before. It glittered, white hot against the moon’s cool in thousands of reflections along the waves’ backs.
She watched atop Solovey’s back, walking gently into the spray that lapped up the shoreline. How beautiful, she thought. How beautiful. A sense of awe filled her, weightless and constricted all at once. Her shoulders straightened, eyes cast forward. She let go of Solovey’s back and extended her hand toward Morozko’s. He grasped it, cold and immovable without hesitation.
The third thing Vasya did was watch the sun come over the sea, hand in hand with her winter-king.