bit of shingle. “ Honey-cake, Babi. ”
There was no answer. There was, however, when he looked around, at least the ghostly impression of two reproachful dark eyes in the air at his left.
And, having had experience of, as his detractors would agree every tavern keeper's daughter in Vojvoda, he knew it was not a good idea to make any great amount of fuss over Volkhi while Babi was feeling slighted.
So he stood up, unstopped the jug and poured a little into empty air.
Not at all strange to say, the vodka never hit the ground.
There were very definitely eyes.
Then the honey-cake disappeared, and one could see the least suggestion of a black button nose and a mouth.
So Babi got the vodka, Babi got fussed over, Babi got his invisible back scratched, and little by little Babi became a blacker and more substantial shadow in the air, a suspicious Babi, a most put-upon and grumpy Babi—
A most canny and still dutiful Babi, one suspected, who had been watching the horse very carefully since yesterday. Being a Yard thing and a keeper of livestock at least by ancient habit, Babi had only to be coddled a little and coaxed a little, and convinced things were still in approvable order in his yard— adding, of course, reassurances of his great importance.
And lo and not completely surprising, a mostly visible Babi wound up sitting by Pyetr's feet once he had given Volkhi his grain and sat down to watch him eat it.
“ You know, ” Pyetr said, pouring another dash of vodka which Babi did not let reach the ground, “ the yard's looking quite respectable these days, isn't it? It's got a garden, it's got a much larger, much finer house, and all, and now it's got a horse to look after, probably a stable this year—it's a very good job you're doing. ”
Much of this. Babi grew more visible and more cheerful, and eventually Babi, a quite tipsy and much happier Babi, trotted around the perimeters of their makeshift fence—a very good thing, Pyetr understood from Sasha, who knew all about such matters, to have Babi's approval of that fence, a Yard-thing having a certain magic of his own.
And magic, he had found, could have its uses around the house. Else the corner-posts would be far worse than they were.
So by midmorning, Babi was sitting sunning himself, if Yard-things indeed felt the sun, on the rail of the pen, content to watch him fuss with Volkhi. Not a sign from Eveshka or Sasha, to be sure: one supposed they were at the books again, most probably at the books again.
Volkhi would get the boy, Pyetr was quite sure of that. Volkhi would get him sooner or later, and Pyetr intended just to let the matter go along as it would: the stableboy who had wished up the horse in the first place was certainly not going to resist temptation forever; and the sun and the wind would put a little color into the boy's face, absolutely it would.
A tight straw-bound bundle of broom stalks made a fair currycomb, and Volkhi took the attention for his due, always quite the glutton for pleasure. Certainly someone had taken good care of him: there was no fault to find with his feet nor the condition of his coat, but the old lad had certainly not unlearned all his scoundrelly tricks—such as backing up on a man trying to comb his tail, then looking around with a soft, innocent eye to wonder whether that was indeed his master's foot he had almost trod on, Not the perfect horse, not at least where it regarded manners but he was certainly the handsomest thing Pyetr Kochevikov had ever owned in his life; and sure of foot and willing to go wherever a good rider took him.
“ No tack, ” he chided Volkhi. ‘‘Lad, while you were making off with yourself, you might have been considerate enough have snitched a saddle, or at least a bridle. ”
Another look of wise innocence over Volkhi's shoulder, mostly obscured dark eye.
“ I suppose,’ Pyetr conceded, “ you did the best you could. So he went and got a bit of rope in the storage-shed, and sa t
There was no answer. There was, however, when he looked around, at least the ghostly impression of two reproachful dark eyes in the air at his left.
And, having had experience of, as his detractors would agree every tavern keeper's daughter in Vojvoda, he knew it was not a good idea to make any great amount of fuss over Volkhi while Babi was feeling slighted.
So he stood up, unstopped the jug and poured a little into empty air.
Not at all strange to say, the vodka never hit the ground.
There were very definitely eyes.
Then the honey-cake disappeared, and one could see the least suggestion of a black button nose and a mouth.
So Babi got the vodka, Babi got fussed over, Babi got his invisible back scratched, and little by little Babi became a blacker and more substantial shadow in the air, a suspicious Babi, a most put-upon and grumpy Babi—
A most canny and still dutiful Babi, one suspected, who had been watching the horse very carefully since yesterday. Being a Yard thing and a keeper of livestock at least by ancient habit, Babi had only to be coddled a little and coaxed a little, and convinced things were still in approvable order in his yard— adding, of course, reassurances of his great importance.
And lo and not completely surprising, a mostly visible Babi wound up sitting by Pyetr's feet once he had given Volkhi his grain and sat down to watch him eat it.
“ You know, ” Pyetr said, pouring another dash of vodka which Babi did not let reach the ground, “ the yard's looking quite respectable these days, isn't it? It's got a garden, it's got a much larger, much finer house, and all, and now it's got a horse to look after, probably a stable this year—it's a very good job you're doing. ”
Much of this. Babi grew more visible and more cheerful, and eventually Babi, a quite tipsy and much happier Babi, trotted around the perimeters of their makeshift fence—a very good thing, Pyetr understood from Sasha, who knew all about such matters, to have Babi's approval of that fence, a Yard-thing having a certain magic of his own.
And magic, he had found, could have its uses around the house. Else the corner-posts would be far worse than they were.
So by midmorning, Babi was sitting sunning himself, if Yard-things indeed felt the sun, on the rail of the pen, content to watch him fuss with Volkhi. Not a sign from Eveshka or Sasha, to be sure: one supposed they were at the books again, most probably at the books again.
Volkhi would get the boy, Pyetr was quite sure of that. Volkhi would get him sooner or later, and Pyetr intended just to let the matter go along as it would: the stableboy who had wished up the horse in the first place was certainly not going to resist temptation forever; and the sun and the wind would put a little color into the boy's face, absolutely it would.
A tight straw-bound bundle of broom stalks made a fair currycomb, and Volkhi took the attention for his due, always quite the glutton for pleasure. Certainly someone had taken good care of him: there was no fault to find with his feet nor the condition of his coat, but the old lad had certainly not unlearned all his scoundrelly tricks—such as backing up on a man trying to comb his tail, then looking around with a soft, innocent eye to wonder whether that was indeed his master's foot he had almost trod on, Not the perfect horse, not at least where it regarded manners but he was certainly the handsomest thing Pyetr Kochevikov had ever owned in his life; and sure of foot and willing to go wherever a good rider took him.
“ No tack, ” he chided Volkhi. ‘‘Lad, while you were making off with yourself, you might have been considerate enough have snitched a saddle, or at least a bridle. ”
Another look of wise innocence over Volkhi's shoulder, mostly obscured dark eye.
“ I suppose,’ Pyetr conceded, “ you did the best you could. So he went and got a bit of rope in the storage-shed, and sa t
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