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Zorica Dragić was nine years old, and she knew five things for certain.
First: she was no longer in her home town. The floor beneath her boots was stone, rather than packed soil and grass, and when she held her breath, she could hear neither the wind against the shutters, nor any of the village dogs answering one another across the snow.
Second: there were two men outside the door.
Third: the rope around her left wrist was looser than the rope around her right.
Fourth: they had taken her because of Siniša.
Siniša was her oathfather, the man her mother and father had chosen as family before Zorica was even old enough to remember it. Other people knew him as an important official of the Northland Bank, clever and cold and close to some of the most dangerous people in Snezhnaya. Zorica knew that he carried sugared nuts in his coat for her, he was very fun to sled with, and he taught her what to do if somebody ever tried to use her to reach him.
And so, fifth: he would come.
Though she wasn’t sure if she could be quiet while waiting for him.
Before doing anything else, she checked whether she was hurt.
She began with her fingers. All ten moved, although the smallest finger on her right hand had gone numb beneath the rope. She could move her toes inside her boots. Her tongue hurt where she had bitten it, but she couldn’t taste that it was bleeding. She ran it along her teeth, and none felt loose. The back of her head felt tender. Her left knee throbbed beneath her skirt, and when she shifted on the chair, the room tilted.
She didn’t think anything was broken, or that she was bleeding.
But her blue coat was gone. So was her satchel, and the little compass Siniša had given her last winter. She still had both boots, one woollen glove, and only one mitten.
That nearly made her cry.
Her mother had knitted the mittens from the good red wool and sewn tiny white flowers around the cuffs. Zorica had been wearing both when the men grabbed her. She could remember one of them lifting her beneath the arms, her boots striking uselessly against his legs. She could remember biting the hand pressed over her mouth and somebody calling her a filthy little animal.
She remembered feeling proud of that.
She could not remember losing the mitten.
Zorica pressed her lips together until they stopped trembling. A lost mitten was not an important problem to have right now. Her mother would knit her another. Or maybe someone would find it. Oh but she really liked that mitten!
The room contained one chair, one table, one bucket, and one window set much too high for her to see out of, never mind reach – even if she stood on the chair, which was dangerous. But she could see frost feathering the lower corners of the glass. She could tell the walls had once been white, but damp had turned them grey and brown. Something in the room smelled bitter and rotten, almost like wet bark. Beneath it, the colder smell of running water.
A tannery, perhaps. There had been one beside the western road before the roof collapsed. The winter before, Siniša had taken her along the western road and asked her to work out where they were without looking for signposts. Zorica had accused Vuk, the largest of the Huskies, of making the terrible smell. Siniša had gone quiet in the way that meant he was trying not to laugh, then explained that it came from the abandoned tannery beside the river. Old bark and spoiled hides, he had said, made worse whenever thaw-water bled into the building.
He had asked her to close her eyes and name everything she could hear. The river beside them. The runners beneath the sleigh. The village bell somewhere to their left.
Then, he had asked her to point towards home.
Zorica had pointed correctly, and Siniša had given her the last sugared nut in his pocket.
Outside the room, one of the men coughed deeply. The other spoke more quietly. Zorica had begun thinking of them as the Coughing Man and the Narrow Man.
Neither sounded worried, but that was alright. They did not yet know that they ought to be. Zorica turned her left hand just a little, and the rope burned across her skin, but there was space. Just not enough to pull free. Yet.
The voices stopped.
She let her head fall forwards just before the lock scraped. Siniša’s employer had once told her that there was no sense in wasting a weakness. Show people what they expect to see, and let them believe it is everything you are. Being small was not a trick. Neither was being nine, or frightened, or tied to a chair. But the mistake would be thinking those things made her harmless. So Zorica rounded her shoulders, allowed her hands to hang limply inside the ropes, and made certain that was exactly what they saw.
The Narrow Man entered carrying a cup, two sheets of paper, and a small bottle of ink. He pushed the door shut with his heel. Zorica heard the two turns of the lock. The Narrow Man put the cup on the table where she could see it but, obviously, could not reach it.
“Awake, then?”
Zorica looked at the water, the condensation dripping down the glass and pooling on the wooden table. That would leave a stain.
“Thirsty?”
She nodded.
The Narrow Man smiled, as though she’d said something amusing. “We’ll see what you can do for me first.” He dragged the table closer, legs grating over the stone, and Zorica flinched before she could stop herself. The smile widened.
He expected her to be frightened. How useful for him, then, that she very much was. He set out the paper, uncorked the ink, and placed a pen beside it.
“You’re going to write a message to your uncle–”
“He isn’t my uncle.” Zorica knew as soon as the words left her that she should not have corrected him.
The Narrow Man tipped his head. “No?”
“He’s my oathfather.”
“Same thing.”
It was not the same thing. It was not at all the same thing. An uncle belonged to a family because he had been born or married into it. An oathfather stood before the village and chose to become part of one. He had made a promise, knowing exactly what it meant, and was expected to keep honouring that promise for the rest of his life.
Zorica did not explain this.
The man crouched in front of her. “He’ll pay for you, won’t he?”
She said nothing.
“You belong to him.”
“No!” This answer, also perhaps not the smartest choice, escaped even faster than the first.
The Narrow Man’s expression changed. He reached out and took hold of the end of one of her braids, rubbing it slowly between his fingers.
“No?”
Zorica’s breath caught. She wanted to pull away, but there was nowhere for her to go, and there was a small fear in the back of her mind that he’d close his fist around them if she did.
“He’s my oathfather,” she whispered.
“And until your oathfather gives me what I want, you belong to me.” He said, as if talking to a small child. Which she supposed he was. But she wasn’t that small, and he wasn’t explaining a real concept that she was just too young and stupid to understand. Zorica stared at the ink stain on his thumb. Looking into his face felt impossible.
But people did not belong to people. She wanted to say that so loudly. Siniša had been very clear about it. Children had parents, families, and people responsible for protecting them, but that was not the same as belonging to them. A promise was not ownership, and neither was love. He had always been so specific about that.
“You’re wrong,” she said, very quietly, her voice shaking so badly that the two words hardly sounded like words at all.
The Narrow Man released her braid. “We’ll see.”
He walked behind the chair and began untying her right wrist, with no care for how sore it was feeling now. Zorica forced herself to remain still. The rope dragged over the raw skin before falling away. And she really, really, wanted to snatch her hand against her chest, but the man caught her arm and pulled it forwards instead.
“Write exactly what I tell you. Don’t try to be clever.”
He placed the pen between her fingers. Zorica’s hand was shaking. A spot of ink fell onto the paper before she had written anything.
The man sighed, and began to dictate. “Siniša. I am safe.”
Zorica wrote.
“The men have not hurt me.”
She wrote that too, although her wrists disagreed.
“Please do what they ask.”
Her letters were uneven. She usually wrote more neatly. Siniša always waited for her to finish reading before he corrected anything, even when she knew perfectly well that he had spotted every mistake.
“I am not frightened.”
Zorica looked down at the words she had already written.
“Go on. What are you waiting for?”
Nothing, she thought, as she put the nib to the paper. I am not frightened. Siniša would know that was a lie. He had never told Zorica not to be frightened. He had told her that fear carried information, just as pain did. You listened to it, decided what it was trying to tell you. And then chose what to do. But you never, ever, pretended it wasn’t there. Had she been writing freely, she would have told him: I am very frightened. There are two men. One of them coughs. There is water nearby and the room smells like wet bark. Instead, she signed her name.
The Narrow Man took the letter from her, read it, and frowned at the ink blot near the top.
“Messy.”
“Sorry,” Zorica said.
He placed the page aside to dry. Beneath it, almost hidden by the edge of the table, lay a small brass pin that had held the sheets together. Zorica let the pen roll out of her fingers, and struck the floor. The Narrow Man cursed, and bent to retrieve it, while Zorica put her freed hand upon the table as though steadying herself. Her fingers closed over the pin. It was smaller than she had hoped, but she hid it inside her palm regardless.
When the man straightened, Zorica was looking at the water again.
He followed her gaze. “You can drink when we’re finished.”
“But I finished!”
For a moment, she thought he might strike her. Instead, he took her wrist and dragged it back towards the chair. Zorica spread her fingers and pressed her wrist as hard as she could against the wooden arm while he wound the rope around it. Make yourself larger while the rope is going on. Smaller afterwards. Siniša had demonstrated it using one of his silk neckties. Zorica had laughed because he looked offended by the knot.
The Narrow Man pulled the rope tight. Pain flashed through her wrist, and a sound escaped her before she could swallow it.
“Hold still.”
“I am!”
He tightened it again, and this time, Zorica cried properly. She couldn’t help it. Tears ran down her face and dripped from her chin, but the pain made it easier to hide what her hand was doing. She kept her fingers stretched, and pushed back against the rope until every small bone ached. At last, the man tied the knot and stepped away, and Zorica allowed her hand to become small again. The rope loosened. The Narrow Man picked up the letter and the bottle of ink, and made towards the door.
“Your oathfather behaves himself, and you’ll be home soon.”
Zorica watched the door close, and heard the key turn twice. She waited until his footsteps had faded before drawing the brass pinbrass pin from beneath hher palm. It took so much longer than it had when Siniša showed her. In his sitting room, her hands had been warm. It wasn’t like the formal rooms where he received people from the Bank. The chairs there were deep green and arranged close to the fire, with blankets folded over their arms and books fitted two rows deep upon the shelves. The dogs slept wherever was warmest – and often most inconvenient. Pahuljica, Siniša’s white fluffy cat, had claimed the chair nearest the fire, the seat no longer green.
Zorica and Siniša had practised on the thick, plush carpet with one of his silk neckties. Pahuljica kept pawing at the loose end, and Siniša had looked equally offended by the knot and the cat hair clinging to the silk. Zorica had laughed so hard, she hadn’t made much progress at all.
Nobody had been watching then. There was no pressure, and the rope had not been cutting into bruised skin, and she had known that if she became stuck, he would be there to help. Now, the pin slipped twice. The second time, it nearly fell beyond the reach of her fingers. Zorica caught it against her skirt and sat, frozen, breathing through her mouth.
Outside, the Coughing Man cleared his throat. But nobody seemed to have noticed. So she began again. One fibre. Then another. Her wrist burned. Her fingers cramped. The pin was beginning to bend slightly in the middle.
Zorica thought about her mother discovering she was missing. She’d be frightened, although she would try not to show it until she knew what needed doing. Out of everyone in the village, she was closest to the Fatui, and Zorica understood why. Her mother had been seven when Siniša’s train came off the rails outside her village. She didn’t know what happened to the other passengers. But she knew Siniša had been badly hurt and confined to the warmest spare room, and that her mother was one of the only ones not sensible enough to leave him alone. Her mother had wanted to know why his leg was different, whether it hurt, how quickly he could run, and whether the metal got cold in winter. Siniša told her she was… what was the word he used? Im… Impertinent? Yes, that was it. But her mother had returned the following morning with several more questions, and a bowl of soup.
He left as soon as he was well enough. Then, her mother turned eight, and he sent a birthday present. After that, he kept coming back. Most people in her village had first known Siniša as a Fatui stranger, but her mother had first known him as the frightening man recovering in her family’s spare room who complained about the soup but always finished it, and complimented it. Zorica had a hard time even understanding why anyone would find him frightening in the first place. But people did. Apparently her father was when they first met.
Someone would go to Glupov. Probably her mother. Someone would tell Siniša, probably before the letter even got to him.
The rope gave a little. Zorica pulled harder. Skin scraped from the side of her hand. She bit the inside of her cheek and kept pulling until her left hand slid free. For one breathless moment, she simply stared at it, almost in disbelief that she’d actually done it.
Then, the door handle moved.
Zorica shoved her hand back beneath the loop of rope. The brass pin dropped into her lap. She trapped it beneath her thigh just as the key entered the lock. It was the Coughing Man this time. He was broader than the other man, with a scarf around his neck. His eyes moved from Zorica’s face to the cup on the table.
“You haven’t drunk.”
“I can’t reach it!” Her voice wavered halfway through the sentence.
The man approached, and Zorica stopped fighting the tears. They had never truly stopped, but now they were flowing freely.
“I want my mama!”
The Coughing Man hesitated. That was interesting.
“Sh-She’ll be worried, can you tell her I’m not lost?”
“You’ll see her soon enough if Siniša does as he’s told.”
“My wrist hurts!”
He looked at the rope but did not touch it. “It’s meant to keep you still.”
“I am being still!”
The man pushed the cup up to her lips. Zorica drank too quickly, choked, and spilled water down the front of her dress. He pulled it away with an irritated noise. From the corridor came the Narrow Man’s voice.
“We have to move.”
The Coughing Man turned his head. “Already?”
“He has people on the western road.”
Zorica forgot to pretend she wasn’t listening.
“How?”
“How do you think? Get her coat.”
The Coughing Man dumped the water on the table and left the room. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice Zorica had stopped crying. Siniša had found the western road. She knew he would. Could he have found her mitten? Oh, she hoped so. A red mitten against the snow would have been so visible. Zorica pulled her hand free again. They were going to move her. Siniša knew where she had been taken, she was sure of it. But he might arrive to an empty room! She looked from the high window to the locked door. She couldn’t reach either. But, but she still had the pin. One wrist still tied, she was just about able to crouch awkwardly beside the chair, and scratch underneath the seat with the pin.
Z
Underneath it, she scratched two straight marks for the two men, then an arrow pointing towards the sound of the water. It wasn’t much. But she knew Siniša would look beneath the chair. He always looked everywhere. She had just returned her hand to the loosened rope when something heavy struck the wall outside.
She flinched, then went as still as she could.
The sound was followed by a muffled voice. Then, silence.
Then, footsteps approached the room.
Zorica tried to pull her hand free again, but her fingers wouldn’t work! The rope seemed to have shrunk. Her breath came too quickly. She stared at the door and couldn’t remember whether the key had turned once or twice or whether the Narrow Man’s shoes had sounded like that on the stone.
The footsteps stopped.
Someone knocked twice, paused, then knocked once more.
“Zorica.” Siniša’s voice came through the door, quieter than the men had been.
She couldn’t bring herself to answer. She wanted to. She really wanted to. She imagined herself doing, several times. But she just couldn’t force herself to open her mouth.
“Zorica, it’s me. It is safe to answer.”
Finally, two words came out as a sob: “I’m here!”
The lock turned. The door opened. And Siniša stood on the other side. Snow powdered the shoulders of his dark coat, several strands of black hair had escaped from their ribbon, and his glasses sat slightly crooked upon his face. Zorica had never seen them crooked before. His eyes found her, moved over the ropes, the bruise upon her knee, and the blood smeared along her wrist, and something in his expression became very still. Then, he entered the room, closed the door behind him, and lowered himself in front of her.
“May I–”
Zorica threw herself at him, though one wrist remained tied to the chair, and it pulled painfully when she moved, but Siniša caught both her and the chair before either could fall. His arm closed around her, as Zorica pressed her face into the cold fur of his collar, and made a noise she had never heard herself make before.
He held her while she cried.
“My mitten,” she managed at last. “I lost Mama’s mitten.”
“I know.”
“She made them.”
“I know that too. I have it.”
Zorica pulled back far enough to look at him. “You found it?”
“It was dropped beside the western road.” Siniša took a small knife from somewhere along his coat – he always liked to hide weapons as fancy jewels – and began cutting the rope. “Red wool. White flowers around the cuffs. I recognised it immediately. It is safe.” His hands were steady, although his voice was not quite. The rope fell from her wrist, and he examined both without touching them.
“Your mother and father are waiting for you at home. I have sent word that I found you.”
“There were two of them. One of them coughed a lot, the other was really narrow, and I think this was the old tannery because of the smell, but I wasn’t sure.”
“You do not have to report everything yet.” Siniša removed his coat, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“I made my hand bigger when he tied me again, like you showed me! And I took a pin from the table. I used it on the rope. It took a long time, but I got one hand out. Then I scratched a Z underneath the chair when they said we were moving. I wanted you to know I was here…” She took a deep breath.
“It sounds like you did everything I taught you.”
Zorica looked down at the blood on her hand. “Did I do it right?”
“You did.” Siniša adjusted the coat beneath her chin. “But I always hoped you’d never have to use that information. And I hope you never have to again.”
He lifted her carefully from the chair. Zorica wrapped both arms around his neck, exhausted enough that she did not care whether nine was too old to be carried. She was asleep by the time they returned to her village.
“I have recently acquired two fresh corpses,” Siniša would later say to his employer’s closest associate. “Would you benefit from them?”