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of him. The fast part was already convinced it was magic.
    The house inside was even more unusual than the house outside. It was one big cupboard. Doors and shelves lined every inch of wall space. And each door and cupboard carried a hand-lettered sign. The calligraphy differed from door to door, drawer to drawer, and it took a few minutes before Boris could make out the pattern. But he recognized the lettering from the days when he had helped his uncle Misha script broadsides for their act. There was irony in the fact that he had always had a good calligraphic hand.
    In Roman Bold were Newt, eye of; Adder, tongue of; and similar biological ingredients. Then there were botanical drawers in Carolingian Italic: Thornapple juice, Amanita , and the like. Along one wall, however, in basic Foundational Bold were five large cupboards labeled simply: H EADS , H ANDS , F EET , E ARS , E YES .
    The old woman walked up to that wall and threw open the door marked H ANDS .
    â€œThere,” she said.
    Inside, on small wooden stands, were hundreds of pairs of hands. When the light fell on them, they waved dead-white fingers as supple and mindless as worms.
    â€œWhich pair do you want to try?” Baba Yaga asked.
    Boris stared. “But …” he managed at last, “they’re miniatures.”
    â€œOne size fits all,” Baba Yaga said. “That’s something I learned in the twentieth century.” She dragged a pair out of the closet on the tiny stand. Plucking the hands from the stand, she held them in her palm. The hands began to stretch and grow, inching their way to normal size. They remained the color of custard scum.
    Boris read the script on the stand to himself. L OVER’S HANDS . He hesitated.
    â€œTry them,” the old woman said again, thrusting them at him. Her voice was compelling.
    Boris took the left hand between his thumb and forefinger. The hand was as slippery as rubber, and wrinkled as a prune. He pulled it on his left hand, repelled at the feel. Slowly the hand molded itself to his, rearranging its skin over his bones. As Boris watched, the left hand took on the color of new cream, then quickly tanned to a fine, overall, healthy-looking beige. He flexed the fingers, and the left hand reached over and stroked his right. At the touch, he felt a stirring of desire that seemed to move sluggishly up his arm, across his shoulder, down his back, and grip his loins. Then the left hand reached over and picked up its mate. Without waiting for a signal from him, it lovingly pulled the right hand on, fitting each finger with infinite care.
    As soon as both hands were the same tanned tone, the strong, tapered, polished nails with the quarter-moons winking up at him, Boris looked over at the witch.
    He was surprised to see that she was no longer old but, in fact, only slightly mature, with fine bones under a translucent skin. Her blue eyes seemed to appraise him, then offer an invitation. She smiled, her mouth thinned down with desire. His hands preceded him to her side, and then she was in his arms. The hands stroked her wind-tossed hair.
    â€œYou have,” she breathed into his ear, “a lover’s hands.”
    â€œHands!” He suddenly remembered, and with his teeth ripped the right hand off. Underneath were his own remembered big knuckles. He flexed them experimentally. They were wonderfully slow in responding.
    The old woman in his arms cackled and repeated, “A lover’s hands.”
    His slow right hand fought with the left, but managed at last to scratch off the outer layer. His left hand felt raw, dry, but comfortingly familiar.
    The old woman was still smiling an invitation. She had crooked teeth and large pores. There was a dark mustache on her upper lip.
    Boris picked up the discarded hands by the tips of the fingers and held them up before the witch’s watery blue eyes. “Not these hands,” he said.
    She was already reaching into the closet for another