Ilyana! ’ Eveshka flung up an arm to ward off the white owl that instinctly flew at her. It whisked away, shredding on insubstantial winds.
‘ Mother! ’ Ilyana gasped, thank the god she could cry out—while the ghost, the very familiar ghost, turned to face her with a familiar lift of the chin.
Young. Oh, yes, he would be that, here, with Ilyana. She remembered him that way, remembered him in the house, in her father's time.
‘ You damned dog! ’ she cried. ‘ Wasn't I enough? Get out of here! Don't you dare touch my daughter! ’
The whole world swirled and moved, and stopped, ringing with her mother's voice. Ilyana blinked, still dazed, still tingling to a touch unlike anything she had ever felt, a magic so intoxicating that for a moment yet she had no breath in her body.
Her mother screamed, ‘ You sneaking bastard, get away from her! ’
And her friend said faintly, ‘ Eveshka, listen to me … Please listen. ’
‘ Get out of here! Out, do you hear me? You've no right here! You've no claim on me and none on my daughter, Kavi Chernevog! ’
‘ He wasn't doing anything ! ’ Ilyana found breath to say, a nd ran and caught her mother's arm. The look her mother threw her was cold as ice, a rage that did not belong on her mother's face—
And oh, god, her father was here with the axe in his hand, b ut the same moment uncle Sasha slid down the bank through the sapling birches, all out of breath, with leaves snarled in his hair.
Her mother seized her arm so hard it bruised, shouting. ‘ Go awayl '' at her friend. ‘ Never come back, never!''
She wished her mother not to say that, and her mother wished at her with a force that made her dizzy.
Her uncle grabbed her and embraced her, and with an angry force she never imagined her gentle uncle had: ‘ Get out of here, Chernevog, go back! You've no right here. ’
Her friend lifted his wrist and collected Owl, who assembled himself out of misty pieces. He looked at her then with a dreadful sadness and said, so faintly a breeze could have drowned his voice, ‘ Ilyana, don't forget me, don't forget — ’
Forget him?
She could not. She never would. Her friend and Owl were fading. Her uncle surrendered her to her father, but she did not want to go to him: he had the axe in one hand. She had never been scared of her father before: he had never carried a weapon in her sight, not the sword that hung among the coats next the door, not so much as a stick the time he had chased the bear out of the yard. Her father caught her face painfully in his hand and made her look him in the eyes. ‘ Are you all right? ’ he demanded of her. ‘ Ilyana? ’
She tried to say she was. She stammered something like that, and tried to protest, ‘ He never hurt me— ’ but no one was listening to her. Her father let her go and she ran up the shore —
Stopped, then, because her mother wanted her to stop, but her uncle said, ‘ She's all right, she's just going to the house. Let her go. ’
Then she could run, up the slope and up through the hole in the hedge and across the yard to the rail of the walk-up before she ever stopped to catch her breath.
There was magic going on behind her. She felt it strangling her, her mother and her uncle were wishing, oh, god, wishing her friend back into his grave—and wishing Owl to the place he had died, somewhere far separate from him.
‘ Stop it! ’ she cried. ‘ Stop it, stop it, stop it ! ’ There was silence after that, and a heaviness in the air. It was her they wished at now, wanting her quiet, and wanting her to know —
She wanted not to know. She wanted them to leave her alone. She shoved herself away from the rail, walking she had no notion where until she saw the stableyard fence ahead of her, and all the horses standing with their heads up and I heir nostrils working, staring toward the river.
They were afraid. So was she. Babi was in the yard with t hem, growling as she ducked through the rails—but not at
‘ Mother! ’ Ilyana gasped, thank the god she could cry out—while the ghost, the very familiar ghost, turned to face her with a familiar lift of the chin.
Young. Oh, yes, he would be that, here, with Ilyana. She remembered him that way, remembered him in the house, in her father's time.
‘ You damned dog! ’ she cried. ‘ Wasn't I enough? Get out of here! Don't you dare touch my daughter! ’
The whole world swirled and moved, and stopped, ringing with her mother's voice. Ilyana blinked, still dazed, still tingling to a touch unlike anything she had ever felt, a magic so intoxicating that for a moment yet she had no breath in her body.
Her mother screamed, ‘ You sneaking bastard, get away from her! ’
And her friend said faintly, ‘ Eveshka, listen to me … Please listen. ’
‘ Get out of here! Out, do you hear me? You've no right here! You've no claim on me and none on my daughter, Kavi Chernevog! ’
‘ He wasn't doing anything ! ’ Ilyana found breath to say, a nd ran and caught her mother's arm. The look her mother threw her was cold as ice, a rage that did not belong on her mother's face—
And oh, god, her father was here with the axe in his hand, b ut the same moment uncle Sasha slid down the bank through the sapling birches, all out of breath, with leaves snarled in his hair.
Her mother seized her arm so hard it bruised, shouting. ‘ Go awayl '' at her friend. ‘ Never come back, never!''
She wished her mother not to say that, and her mother wished at her with a force that made her dizzy.
Her uncle grabbed her and embraced her, and with an angry force she never imagined her gentle uncle had: ‘ Get out of here, Chernevog, go back! You've no right here. ’
Her friend lifted his wrist and collected Owl, who assembled himself out of misty pieces. He looked at her then with a dreadful sadness and said, so faintly a breeze could have drowned his voice, ‘ Ilyana, don't forget me, don't forget — ’
Forget him?
She could not. She never would. Her friend and Owl were fading. Her uncle surrendered her to her father, but she did not want to go to him: he had the axe in one hand. She had never been scared of her father before: he had never carried a weapon in her sight, not the sword that hung among the coats next the door, not so much as a stick the time he had chased the bear out of the yard. Her father caught her face painfully in his hand and made her look him in the eyes. ‘ Are you all right? ’ he demanded of her. ‘ Ilyana? ’
She tried to say she was. She stammered something like that, and tried to protest, ‘ He never hurt me— ’ but no one was listening to her. Her father let her go and she ran up the shore —
Stopped, then, because her mother wanted her to stop, but her uncle said, ‘ She's all right, she's just going to the house. Let her go. ’
Then she could run, up the slope and up through the hole in the hedge and across the yard to the rail of the walk-up before she ever stopped to catch her breath.
There was magic going on behind her. She felt it strangling her, her mother and her uncle were wishing, oh, god, wishing her friend back into his grave—and wishing Owl to the place he had died, somewhere far separate from him.
‘ Stop it! ’ she cried. ‘ Stop it, stop it, stop it ! ’ There was silence after that, and a heaviness in the air. It was her they wished at now, wanting her quiet, and wanting her to know —
She wanted not to know. She wanted them to leave her alone. She shoved herself away from the rail, walking she had no notion where until she saw the stableyard fence ahead of her, and all the horses standing with their heads up and I heir nostrils working, staring toward the river.
They were afraid. So was she. Babi was in the yard with t hem, growling as she ducked through the rails—but not at
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