The House Where Good Girls Rot

You’re listening to The House Where Good Girls Rot, a Fabled Audio original. This story is intended for mature listeners.

Episode One: The Hen-Legged House I was washing a dead woman when my sister disappeared. There are probably prettier ways to begin a story. I don't know any. Old Mrs Varga had died sometime before dawn with her mouth open and one stocking halfway down her ankle. Her daughter found her like that and sent for me because nobody in Kostel liked touching the dead until I had touched them first. Superstition. Or laziness. Usually both. I washed her with warm water and juniper soap. Combed the grey hair she had worn in the same braid for forty years. Closed her eyes with two fingers. The mouth was harder. Dead mouths sometimes refuse dignity. "You were stubborn alive," I told her. "Why improve now?" Mrs Varga did not answer. The dead are excellent company that way. I tied a strip of linen beneath her chin and was pinning it above her head when the church bell began ringing. Once. Twice. Then without rhythm. Not funeral bells. Alarm. I remember looking at Mrs Varga and thinking, selfishly, that I had not even had breakfast. Then someone began hammering on the cottage door. "Danica!" My father's voice. Not the voice he used for me ordinarily. That one was tired, irritated, forever finding some new thing I had forgotten to repair. This one was afraid. I opened the door with my hands still wet from corpse water. "Milena's gone." Just that. Gone. My younger sister had been nineteen for three months and furious for most of them. She had my mother's black hair, our father's long nose and enough opinions for a parliament. She had also spent the previous evening telling me she would rather throw herself into the river than marry Stas Orlov. I had told her not to be dramatic. That sentence has lived inside me ever since. People say regret is heavy. It isn't. It is sharp. It gets under the ribs and waits for you to breathe. "Where?" I asked. Father looked beyond me. Toward the forest. I wiped my hands on my apron. "No." "Petar saw her." "Petar drinks lamp oil." "He saw her at the ninth marker before sunrise." The ninth marker. There were nine stone crosses between Kostel and the Black Forest. The first eight were for travellers. The ninth was a warning. Beyond it, the birches grew too close together. Birds sang with human voices if you listened too long. Paths moved when nobody looked at them. And, somewhere past the old wolf road, stood a house on chicken legs. Baba Yaga's house. Children in Kostel learned her name before they learned the names of saints. If you wander, Baba Yaga will take you. If you lie, Baba Yaga will smell it. If you leave meat uncovered, if you whistle after sunset, if you sleep with your feet toward the door… Baba Yaga. Useful woman. She had been blamed for bad harvests, dead infants, missing spoons and one priest's inability to perform his marital duties. I had never believed half of it. The half I did believe was enough. "What was Milena wearing?" Father stared at me. "What?" "Her red coat?" "Yes." "Boots?" "I don't know." "You saw her last." His face closed. I knew that face. It meant I had become inconvenient. "She went to bed angry." "After what?" "Danica." "After what?" His mouth tightened. "Father Olek came to speak with her." Something cold moved down my back. "About Stas?" "Among other things." "What other things?" "She has been having dreams." I almost laughed. Instead I looked at him. "Dreams." "Don't." "You let a priest frighten her over dreams?" "She has been saying things." "What things?" He lowered his voice although Mrs Varga was dead and the cottage empty. "That she sees women standing at the edge of the cemetery." I said nothing. "Women who aren't there." Still nothing. "She knew Marta Biel had lost the baby before Marta told anyone." I thought about that. Then thought about Milena two nights earlier, waking me because she had heard somebody scratching beneath the kitchen floor. I had told her mice. I had wanted it to be mice. Wanting something sensible is not the same as being sensible. Father rubbed a hand over his face. "Father Olek offered to cleanse her." There it was. A clean word for something dirty. "What did that mean?" "He was going to pray over her." "With the iron chair?" Silence. I took off my apron. "Danica" "The one with the wrist straps?" "He said it was precaution." "For prayer." "She was becoming hysterical." "Oh, good. Then tying her to furniture should have calmed her beautifully." "Enough." It came in his old military voice. Once, that voice could make both of us straighten before we knew we'd moved. It still worked on my body. Not on the rest of me. I went upstairs. Milena's bed was unmade. Her cupboard stood open. Three dresses remained. The good blue one was missing. So were her heavy boots, two pairs of stockings and Mother's silver comb. Not abducted, then. Prepared. On the pillow lay a black hen feather. Beside it, written in charcoal: DO NOT COME AFTER ME. I sat down. Read it again. Then once more because apparently I had become stupid. Father stood in the doorway. "She doesn't mean it." "She packed stockings." "What?" "Nobody fleeing supernatural kidnapping remembers spare stockings." "She is confused." That annoyed me. Maybe because it sounded like me. The night before. Don't be dramatic. "You want me to fetch her." "You're her sister." Meaning yes. Meaning you always do. I had been seventeen when Mother died. Milena was nine. After that I cooked. Worked. Washed corpses because Mother's position as village death-woman had to pass to someone and nobody else wanted it. I learned to mend Father's shirts, bargain with butchers, get Milena through winter fever, make coin stretch until it squealed. People called me dependable. Strong. Good. Good Danica. I wore it like a medal. I didn't know medals could become collars. Not yet. I packed bread, salt, a knife, two candles and Mother's old wool shawl. Father watched. "Bring her home." I tied my boots. "What if she doesn't want to come?" "She's nineteen." "So?" "You're older. You understand the world." I almost said yes. Instead I thought about an iron chair. "I'll find her." It was not the same promise. He didn't notice. The ninth cross had no Christ on it. Someone had taken him down years ago. Or he had climbed off. I preferred the second version. Beyond the marker, snow lay in thin grey patches beneath the firs. The morning smelled of wet bark and mushrooms, though it was too cold for mushrooms. I walked until I could no longer hear Kostel's bells. Then another hour. Then I found the first skull. Human. Clean. Mounted on a birch branch. A candle burned inside it. Daylight or not. "No," I said. The skull's jaw dropped. I continued walking. A second skull appeared. Then a third. By the seventh, they had begun turning to watch me. "Rude." One clacked its teeth. "You're a skull on a stick. Don't judge me." "Talking to the decorations?" A man's voice. I spun. My knife was in my hand before I saw him. He leaned against a pine tree ten paces away. Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Dark coat patched badly at one elbow. Brown hair too long at the front, falling into eyes that looked almost black in the forest shade. There was a scar through his upper lip. Not a pretty one. A real scar. Thick and pale, pulling his mouth slightly crooked when he smiled. Which he was doing. "Put that away," he said. "No." "Fair." "Who are you?" "Sava." "That isn't an answer." "It's usually enough." He pushed away from the tree. I lifted the knife. He stopped. "Looking for a girl in a red coat," I said. "That describes half the girls who come this way." My stomach tightened. "Half?" "Red shows blood less." He had a face built for bad decisions. A broken nose. Unshaven jaw. Something tired around the eyes. A red cord was tied around his right wrist. Three knots. "Have you seen her?" "Yes." My pulse jumped. "Where is she?" "Safe." "With Baba Yaga?" His eyebrows lifted. "So you're the sister." I moved before I thought. Knife at his throat. He was faster. His hand caught my wrist and turned it, not enough to hurt, enough to remind me that strength and intention are different things. Our bodies ended up too close. His breath smelled faintly of cloves. Mine probably smelled like Mrs Varga. His eyes dropped to my mouth. Briefly. "Let go." "Stop trying to cut me." "I'll consider it." He released me. I stepped back. "Take me to her." "No." I raised the knife. "That worked beautifully last time." "Sava." The forest said his name with me. Not echo. Whisper. Every skull along the path turned. Sava's face changed. "She knows you're here." A sound came through the trees. Thump. Scrape. Thump. The earth shook. Branches snapped. Birds exploded from the canopy. Then the house walked into the clearing. I had been told chicken legs. That seemed almost charming. These were not the neat yellow legs of farm hens. They were enormous grey-scaled things, taller than horses, with black talons sinking deep into the soil. The cottage balanced above them, crooked and smoke-stained, roof bent beneath moss. It stopped. Turned its back to me. The door faced the forest. Sava sighed. "You'll have to ask." "Ask what?" "The house." I stared at him. "You know the words." "No, I don't." "Everybody knows them." I felt foolish. Which I suspect was intentional. "Little house," I said slowly, "turn your back to the forest and your front to me." Nothing. Sava cleared his throat. "Nicely." "I said please in my heart." "You didn't." I tried again. "Please." The house shuddered. Then spun. The door opened. Warm yellow light spilled across the snow. Something inside laughed. Not kindly. "Come in, good daughter," said an old woman's voice. Every hair on my body rose. Baba Yaga was taller than my father. That was the first surprise. The second was that she was not ugly. Not exactly. Age had drawn deep cuts around her eyes and mouth. Her nose was long. Grey hair hung to her waist in a thick braid threaded with bones and bells. One tooth was iron. But there was something terrible about her face because it had stopped needing approval a very long time ago. She sat beside the stove with bare feet propped on a stool. One foot was flesh. The other looked made of polished bone. A pot simmered over the fire. Something inside bumped the lid. I chose not to investigate. Baba Yaga sniffed. "Corpse soap." I looked at my hands. "Juniper." "Corpse soap," she repeated. Sava closed the door. The old woman looked at him. "You took your time." "I enjoyed her threatening me." "You enjoy anything with a pulse." His eyes flicked to mine. Heat moved low in my stomach. Ridiculous place for it. I ignored it. "Where is Milena?" Baba Yaga scratched the side of her nose. "Fed." My heart stopped. Sava swore. The old woman cackled. "Not eaten, little corpse washer. Fed. Soup. Bread. Apples. Your sister is thin." "Where is she?" "Not here." "Then where?" "Somewhere you cannot follow yet." I stepped closer. "Bring her back." Baba Yaga's gaze moved over me. Slowly. She looked amused. "No." "She is my sister." "Yes." "She belongs with her family." "Does she?" The question hit harder than it should have. "She came to me," Baba Yaga continued. "Knocked. Asked entrance. Ate my salt. Told me what she wanted." "What?" "To disappear." I laughed. A bad sound. "Milena doesn't know what she wants." "Ah." Baba Yaga leaned back. "There she is." "Who?" "The woman your sister ran from." Silence. Even the pot stopped bumping. I felt my face heat. "You know nothing about us." "I know she asked me to hide her from the priest." "Father Olek frightened her." "And her father?" I swallowed. "And you?" That one landed. I looked at Sava. He wasn't smiling now. "I came here to get my sister." "No. You came here to become right." Baba Yaga stood. She unfolded herself until her head almost touched the rafters. "You want the girl?" "Yes." "Then earn the road to her." "What do you want?" Her iron tooth showed. "Oh, good daughter." She reached beneath the table and placed three wooden bowls before me. One red. One white. One black. "I want to know what you are when nobody is watching." I should have left. I know that now. But leaving would have meant returning to Kostel without Milena. Returning empty-handed. Failing. At the time, those three things felt the same. "What do I do?" Baba Yaga pointed toward a small black door beside the stove. "Tonight you sleep in my house." "That's all?" "No. You may eat anything on the table. Drink anything from the jug. Warm yourself by the stove." She leaned close enough that I smelled smoke in her hair. "But you must not open that door." I looked at it. Black wood. Iron latch. Nothing remarkable. "Why?" "Because I told you not to." "I dislike that reason." "So did your sister." Sava laughed under his breath. I glared at him. Baba Yaga turned toward the stairs. "If the door is still shut at dawn, I answer one question." "And if I open it?" The witch looked back. "Then I answer a different one." "What question?" "You'll know." She climbed the stairs. Sava followed. At the landing he stopped. "Don't open the door." "I wasn't planning to." "You're looking at it." "I'm looking at you." "Much safer." "Debatable." That crooked smile again. Then he disappeared upstairs. I sat alone. The fire settled. The skull lamps outside went dark one by one. Midnight came. I knew because the house began scratching itself. Talons against bark. Slow. Contented. I lay on the bench beneath Mother's shawl. Closed my eyes. Then I heard Milena. "Danica." I sat up. The voice came from behind the black door. "Danica, please." I walked toward it. Stopped. "Milena?" A sob. Real. I knew her crying. I had known it since she was a baby. "She won't let me out." My hand found the latch. Don't. I could hear Sava telling me. Baba Yaga. Father. Milena at nine with fever. Milena at twelve after her first blood. Milena at seventeen, drunk on plum brandy and telling me she would marry a bear before Stas Orlov. "Help me." I opened the door. Inside was no room. Only darkness. Hundreds of red ribbons hung in it. Each one whispered. Girls' voices. Women's voices. Some crying. Some laughing. Some saying names. Some saying nothing but no. Then one ribbon floated toward me. Milena's voice came from it. Clear as morning. "Danica, if you love me, don't bring me home." The door slammed shut. I stumbled backward. Baba Yaga sat at the table. I had not heard her come down. Sava stood behind her. Barefoot. Shirt open at the throat. Annoyingly alive. Baba Yaga poured tea. "You opened it." "Yes." "Why?" "I thought she needed me." The old woman smiled. "No. You needed her to need you." My mouth opened. Nothing came. Baba Yaga pushed the black bowl toward me. "First answer." "I thought I was supposed to ask a question." "You did." "When?" "With your hand." She nodded toward the closed door. "You asked who you are when love tells you no." The black bowl cracked down the middle. Something wet breathed inside it. Baba Yaga looked at me almost tenderly. "Your sister is not the one in danger, Danica." The crack widened. A human eye opened in the bowl. My eye. "You are."

Episode Two: A Lie from a Holy Man I woke with Sava's hand over my mouth. Not the romantic beginning people imagine when a man climbs onto your bed in the dark. I bit him. Hard. He jerked back. "Christ." "Try that again and you'll meet him." "Quiet." I sat up. The house was moving. Not turning. Running. Each stride threw the furniture sideways. Pots rattled. Bones clattered from shelves. Baba Yaga snored upstairs like an ox dying in a barrel. "What is happening?" "The priest's men entered the forest." My sleep vanished. "Looking for Milena?" "Looking for you both." "How do you know?" He held up his wrist. The red cord was bleeding. Not his skin. The cord itself. Three knots wet with blood. "What is that?" "My leash." I stared. He looked irritated. The house lurched. I grabbed his arm. His other hand landed at my waist. For one second we were pressed together in the dark. His chest warm. My thigh between his. That same inconvenient pull in my stomach. Sava felt something too. I saw it. Then he released me. Quickly. "Get dressed." "You're disappointing in emergencies." His head turned. He smiled. "I'll try harder during the next attempted exorcism." By breakfast, the house stood beside a frozen pond I had never seen. No sign of pursuit. Baba Yaga ate porridge with a chicken foot sticking out of it. I did not ask. The black bowl remained cracked on the table. Beside it sat the red and white bowls. "You failed," I said. Baba Yaga licked porridge from her spoon. "I slept beautifully." "The men entered your forest." "And?" "You ran." "The house ran. I was asleep." "Convenient." Part of me wanted her approval. "Tell me where Milena is." "Not yet." "You promised a road." "I promised you could earn one." She pushed the white bowl forward. "Bring me a lie." I waited. "That's it?" "A particular lie." Naturally. "Father Olek keeps it under the tongue of Saint Nikolas." "Our church has Saint Nikolas's tongue?" "No. Churches lie too." Sava choked on his tea. Baba Yaga grinned. "Under the saint's tongue. Bring me the lie the priest has never confessed." "How does one carry a lie?" "Carefully." She went back to eating. I looked at Sava. "No." "I didn't ask." "Your face did." "My face thinks you know the way." "My face regrets meeting you." Baba Yaga pointed her spoon. "Sava goes." His expression hardened. "Yaga." "Sava goes." The red cord tightened around his wrist. He went pale. "Fine." "Why is he bound to you?" Baba Yaga smiled. "Ask him." "I did." "Ask better." Sava knew paths that should not have existed. We crossed a stream by walking over the back of something sleeping beneath the ice. I did not look down. We passed a birch where children's milk teeth hung from every branch. At noon we reached the old charcoal road. Kostel lay three hours beyond. "How long?" I asked. "How long what?" "Have you belonged to her?" His shoulders tightened. "Six years." "Doing?" "Whatever she says." "You must have done something terrible." "Thank you." "I meant-" "I know what you meant." He walked faster. I followed. There is an art to irritating wounded men. I am gifted. "What did you do?" "Later." "That's what guilty people say." "Dead women probably like you because they can't answer back." I stopped. He took two more steps. Stopped too. Turned. "That was cruel." "Yes." He looked almost surprised that I agreed. "I know what people say about my work," I continued. "That I'm comfortable with death. That I don't feel things properly." "I didn't say that." "You were going to." "No." "You're lying." "Perhaps you'll put me under the saint's tongue." That nearly made me laugh. I refused to reward him. We kept walking. After a while he said, "Why corpse washing?" "My mother did it." "That's not why." "It's work." "That's also not why." "You have become very curious for a man with secrets." "Dead people can't leave you." My boot slipped. He caught my elbow. I looked at him. "What?" He released me. "People are clean when they're dead." I thought of Mrs Varga's stubborn mouth. "No, they aren't." "Cleaner than the living." Maybe. We entered Kostel after dark. The village looked different when I came back as something being hunted. Windows I had scrubbed. Doors I had knocked on delivering funeral notices. The bakery where Milena once stole six honey cakes and blamed a dog. Ordinary places. That is the worst part of finding rot. It doesn't announce itself. It grows under kitchens. Behind altars. Inside people who still remember your birthday. We crossed behind the cemetery. Sava stopped at the wall. He was looking toward my cottage. He climbed the wall. I followed. Father Olek's church stood at the top of the hill. Saints painted along the outer wall had mildew growing over their faces. Saint Nikolas was inside behind the altar, carved in dark wood. The old bishop stood with one hand raised and his mouth slightly open. Under the tongue. Easy words. The reality required me to climb onto the altar and put two fingers inside a saint's mouth. "I've had stranger evenings," Sava whispered. "No, you haven't." "True." My fingers touched metal. A catch. The statue's jaw opened. Inside was a narrow compartment. A book. Black leather. No title. I pulled it free. Sava swore. "What?" "I've seen that." "Where?" "Baba Yaga has pages from older ones." My stomach tightened. I opened it. Names. Years. Payments. At first I did not understand. Elzbieta Marek. Unclean visions. Delivered beyond ninth marker. Ivana Sol. Disobedience. Delivered. Kasia Petrov. Carnal corruption. Delivered. Page after page. Women. Mostly young. Some married. Some widowed. Some no older than fourteen. Beside each name was a family signature. And beneath that.. a payment from the church grain store. "They sold them." My voice sounded strange. Sava said nothing. "They told us Baba Yaga stole them." "They needed the story." I turned pages. More names. Familiar surnames. Mothers. Aunts. The mad woman who had lived by the river when I was small and vanished one winter. "Did Yaga kill them?" "Some." I looked at him. He did not soften it. "Some?" "Some came to her asking for help. Some were driven into the forest tied to carts. Some attacked her." "And she ate them." "Sometimes." My stomach turned. "Don't make her better than she is," Sava said. "She'll punish you for it." I needed that. A dangerous woman does not become righteous merely because worse men fear her. I kept turning pages. Then I found Milena. Milena Radan. Night speech. Female hysteria. Resistance to lawful marriage. Below it: Purification scheduled. If unsuccessful, transfer to forest. Signed: Father Olek. Stas Orlov. And— I stopped breathing. My father's name. Viktor Radan. "No." Sava came closer. I held up one hand. "No." He stopped. "He wouldn't." The ink did not care. "You don't know him." "No." "He must have thought—" My voice broke. "Thought what?" Sava asked quietly. "That it would frighten her. That she would cooperate." "Maybe." I wanted him to say yes. He wouldn't. I understood suddenly why Baba Yaga tolerated him. Footsteps sounded in the nave. Voices. Sava blew out our candle and we hid. The church door opened. Father Olek entered with Stas. I knew Stas by the shape of him. Heavy neck. Expensive coat. A man born expecting rooms to make space. "We should have done it immediately," Stas said. "Her sister complicated matters," Father Olek answered. "My father has already paid." "The elder daughter is useful." I felt something inside me go cold. Father Olek sighed. "Danica has always been reasonable." Reasonable. Good. Useful. Sava's hand found mine in the dark. Not romantic. Restraint. Because I was going to kill a priest. "Once she sees what the forest does to girls," Olek continued, "she'll bring Milena home herself." Sava's fingers tightened. I could hear my pulse. Stas laughed. "And if the witch has spoiled her?" Stas asked. "Then there are two daughters," Olek said. My knife was in my hand. Sava leaned close. His mouth almost touched my ear. "Not yet." They passed. We waited. Then climbed through the vestry window. Outside, I turned on him. "You knew." He didn't pretend. "Some." "How much?" "That Milena had been marked." "How?" Silence. "Sava." His face changed. I already knew. Still. He said it. "I brought her to Yaga." "You took my sister!" "She paid me to guide her." "With what?" "Your mother's comb." I stared. He pulled it from inside his coat. Silver. Small dent near one tooth. Mother's. I tried to take it. He closed his hand. "She told me not to give it to you until you listened." "She doesn't get to.. " "Listen." "Give it to me." "Danica." "Give me my mother's comb." He caught my wrist when I reached again. "She was terrified." I stopped. "She begged you to help. She told you Father Olek had strapped a girl named Aneta into the iron chair last year until she stopped speaking." I knew Aneta. Everyone said she'd fallen ill. "She told you she was next." My anger turned. Because it had somewhere new to go. "She told you," Sava said, "and you told her not to embarrass your father." I remembered. Kitchen. Milena furious. Father outside chopping wood. She had said, He thinks there's something wrong with me. I had answered- Keep your voice down. Then: Do you have any idea what people say about this family already? Not whether she was afraid. Not what Father Olek had done. People. Family. Reputation. Good Danica. Sava released me. The silver comb sat in his palm. I took it. This time he let me. "You still should have told me." "Yes." "You should have come to me." "Milena said you would stop her." I could not answer. Because I would have. The church bell rang. Men shouted. We had been seen. Sava grabbed my hand. "Run." We ran. Not toward home. Toward the forest. Behind us, Father Olek shouted my name. Ahead, past the ninth marker, every skull on Baba Yaga's fence lit at once. When we reached the clearing, Milena stood beneath them. Red coat. Mother's blue dress underneath. Alive. She looked older than she had three days earlier. Not in the face. Somewhere else. I stopped. "Milena." She began to cry. So did I. I went toward her. She stepped back. One step. It shouldn't have hurt. It did. "I came to get you." She wiped her face. "I know." "I'm taking you home." "No." "Milena" "No." She looked at me with a steadiness I had never allowed her to have. "I love you, Dani." Nobody called me Dani anymore. "I love you more than anyone." My throat closed. "But I am not coming home with you." Behind her, Baba Yaga's house turned slowly on its enormous legs. Watching. Milena swallowed. "And if you try to make me, I'll run from you too."

Episode Three: The Good Daughter's Skin For two days I refused to speak to my sister. Very mature. I recommend it if you enjoy being miserable while also making everyone else miserable. Milena slept in a small loft above Baba Yaga's herb room. I slept downstairs. Sava slept wherever men like Sava sleep when they have annoyed every woman in the house. Possibly outside. I hoped it snowed. Baba Yaga watched all of us with the happy patience of somebody who had put three beetles in a jar and was waiting to see which ate the others. On the third morning she dropped a bundle of skin onto my breakfast. I stopped chewing. "What's that?" "Yours." It was pale. Human-shaped. I looked at my arms. Still attached. Baba Yaga poured black honey over her bread. "Your good-girl skin." Milena snorted. I glared at her. She lowered her eyes. A mistake. I saw fear there. Not of Baba Yaga. Of me. I pushed my bowl away. "What am I supposed to do with it?" "Wear it." "No." "Then burn it." "Fine." "Or eat it." I stared. Sava, from across the table, murmured, "I'd burn it." "Nobody asked you." Baba Yaga clicked her iron tooth against the spoon. "You opened the first door because you needed to rescue. You stole the priest's lie and found your own underneath it." "I didn't lie." The witch looked at me. I shut up. She pointed toward the bundle. "Now take that to the bone orchard." "Why?" "Because something there knows whether it fits." I did not ask. Growth. The bone orchard grew two miles north of the house. Sava came with me. Not because I wanted him. Baba Yaga ordered it. I made that distinction several times. Mostly to myself. The orchard looked like apple trees from a distance. Up close, bones grew among the branches. Finger bones. Ribs. Teeth in clusters like white berries. One tree had a human spine spiralling around the trunk. "Whose?" I asked. "People who died owing the forest something." "Comforting." "You wanted answers." "I wanted Milena." I stopped. Sava looked at me. "Don't." "What?" "Start sounding like her." "Terrifying thought." I walked faster. He caught up. For a while, only snow under our boots. Then he said, "She's right about one thing." "Of course." "You don't listen." I turned. "You guided my nineteen-year-old sister into a cannibal witch's forest." "Yes." "For money." "Yes." "You do not get to become wise now." Something flared in his face. I wanted the wound. "Do you think I don't know what I am?" "I don't know. You won't tell me." His jaw tightened. The red cord at his wrist seemed darker today. "I used to move people across the border." "Smuggler." "Guide." "Smuggler." "Fine." "Women?" "Anyone with coin." "Girls from Kostel?" "Sometimes." "To Yaga?" "Sometimes." My stomach twisted. "You knew what happened here." "I knew enough." "And kept taking money." "Yes." No defence. It made it harder to hate him properly. "I told myself they would be safer once I got them through the trees. That what happened after wasn't mine." We walked. "One winter a girl named Liska paid me with two gold earrings." His voice changed. Small change. Enough. "She was sixteen. Maybe seventeen. Men followed us. Her uncle and brothers." I could guess. "I left her in a hollow and went to draw them off." "Did you?" "For about twenty minutes." He looked at me. "I realised I still had one of her earrings. Thought I could get more if I went back." There. The ugly thing. "When I returned, they had found her." I said nothing. "They killed her." The forest seemed to get quieter. "I carried her body to Baba Yaga." "Why?" "I don't know." "Yes, you do. Tell me." "I wanted somebody to punish me." That I understood. More than I wanted to. "And did she?" He held up his wrist. "Six years." "What happens when the knots are gone?" "If I earn it, I leave." "And if you don't?" "Bones grow somewhere." The orchard suddenly felt closer. I looked away. "How many knots did you start with?" "Nine." Three remained. "How do you lose one?" "When I choose differently than the man who earned it, one loosens. If I fall back, it blackens." "Helpful." "She's awful." "Finally, something we agree on." His mouth twitched. I hated how much I liked that mouth. Perhaps because the scar ruined symmetry. Perhaps because I was tired. Perhaps because desire is sometimes stupid enough to sprout in grave soil. We reached the centre of the orchard. One tree stood bare. No bones. At its roots lay a wooden box. My name was carved into the lid. "Absolutely not." Sava exhaled. "Fair." He opened it. Inside was Mother's wedding shawl. I recognised the embroidery. Red flowers. Black birds. Under it— an echo-bone shaped like a finger. Not one she'd lost. The orchard had grown it from memory. Mother's left smallest finger had bent strangely after a childhood break. This bone carried the same bend. The orchard shifted. Memory came like cold water. Mother sitting at our kitchen table. Alive. Younger than I remembered. Baba Yaga opposite her. I was seeing through the bone. Mother weeping. "I cannot leave them." Yaga's voice. You can. "My husband needs me." He will survive. "My daughters—" Will learn. "I would be selfish." Baba Yaga leaned close. Yes. Mother covered her face. Then: "I can't." The memory changed. Mother in bed years later. The illness that killed her had begun in her lungs. I had forgotten how angry she became. At Father. At us. At bowls. At sunlight. At needing help. I had decided illness made her cruel. Now I heard something she whispered one night when she thought I was asleep beside her. "I should have gone." The memory ended. I sat in the snow. Sava crouched beside me. He did not touch. Good man. Bad man. Whatever. He waited. "She wanted to leave us." My voice broke anyway. "Maybe." "No. She did." "Yes." "I spent years thinking she was perfect." "Dead people get polished." I laughed then. Ugly. Wet. "That's disgusting." "You wash them. You should know." I put my face in my hands. I don't know how long. Eventually his fingers touched the back of my neck. Warm. Careful. I should have moved. Instead I leaned into it. Just enough. His thumb moved beneath my hair. One slow stroke. Everything in me noticed. "Danica." "Don't make it kind." His hand stopped. "What?" "I can't bear kindness today." Something changed between us. He shifted closer. "Then what do you want?" I looked at him. Wrong question. Or the first right one anyone had asked me. Not what do they need. Not what will you do. What do you want? My eyes dropped to his mouth. His did the same. "You." No poetry. No good reason. His breath changed. "That's selfish." "Yes." "Yaga is ruining you." "Apparently." I kissed him. The first kiss was almost angry. Teeth. Cold lips. His hand tight at the back of my neck. I tasted blood where my mouth caught his scar. Then he pulled back. "Tell me to stop." "No." "Danica." "I said no." "That's not—" "Don't stop." His eyes darkened. He kissed me again. Slower. I felt every place he touched. Jaw. Waist. The strip of skin above my glove where his thumb slid beneath my sleeve. We were in a forest growing bones, snow in my hair, my mother's finger beside us. It should have been grotesque. Maybe it was. I didn't care. I wanted something alive. We ended up in the ruined bathhouse at the edge of the orchard because even selfish women eventually notice when their knees are freezing. The roof was half gone. An old stone stove remained. Sava found dry wood hidden beneath a bench. Smuggler. Guide. Useful bastard. By the time the fire caught, my hands were shaking. Not from cold. He saw. Of course he did. "You still want this?" "Yes." "You've been crying." "I can do more than one thing at once." That earned a real laugh. Brief. Rough. Beautiful.. He came toward me. His fingers worked the buttons of my coat slowly. He stopped after each one like I might change my mind between them. I almost told him to hurry. Didn't. I liked being waited for. My coat dropped. Then his. My hands went under his shirt. His skin was warm. Scars crossed his ribs. I traced one. He caught my wrist. "Don't." "Why?" "Because you'll ask." "I wasn't." A pause. He let go. I kissed the scar instead. His whole body tightened. That pleased something in me. Not noble. Not gentle. Mine. His mouth found my throat. My shoulder. The open edge of my blouse. I let my head fall back against the wall. My fingers went into his hair. He touched me as if asking questions with his hands, and for once I answered without trying to give the correct response. When he slipped beneath the layers between us, I gasped against his mouth. He stopped. I pulled him closer. "Don't become polite now." "Trying not to die." I felt his smile against my skin. We undressed enough. Not gracefully. My stocking caught on a buckle. He nearly fell. I laughed into his shoulder and he bit the side of my neck in retaliation, not hard, then harder when I asked. The fire snapped. Snow fell through the broken roof and melted on his back under my hands. When we came together, it was awkward for half a heartbeat. Then not. His forehead pressed to mine. My legs around him. His breath broken against my cheek. There was hunger in it. Mine too. I had expected guilt. Instead I felt relief so sharp it almost hurt. Nobody needed anything. Nobody was sick. Nobody was missing. Nobody had asked me to fix a damn thing. We were simply selfish together. His mouth found mine as the rhythm between us deepened. I held him tighter, feeling every shudder he tried to swallow. "Sava." His face changed when I said his name. Not joking now. Not guarded. He kissed me like he hated how much it meant. And when pleasure finally tore through me, I buried my mouth against his shoulder to keep from crying out. He whispered something against my hair. I didn't hear it. Maybe better. Afterward we lay beneath his coat on the bathhouse floor. Terrible mattress. Excellent company. For a while. Then I saw the red cord. Three knots. I touched it. "Could I take one?" His body went still. "What?" "Your debt." "No." "If it's transferable-" He sat up so quickly the coat slid away. "No." "I was asking." "You were volunteering." "Maybe." "Christ, Danica." "What?" "Did you learn nothing?" Anger rose. Fast. "Don't speak to me like-" "One hour." "What?" "You managed one hour of wanting something because you wanted it." His face was hard now. "And then you found a man with a wound and climbed straight back into sainthood." "That's unfair." "Yes." It was. That did not make it false. I pulled my blouse closed. "Forget it." "I can't." He tied his shirt. "Wonderful. You've had me once and become a philosopher." His face flinched. I regretted it. Did not apologise. Not yet. We dressed in silence. At the orchard entrance, Baba Yaga waited. No house. No warning. Just the old woman standing barefoot in snow. She held the bundle of pale skin I had left on her table. "Well?" I gave her Mother's finger. She sniffed it. "Wrong bone." I stared. "What?" "I did not ask for this." "You told me to go to the orchard." "Yes." "You said something there would know whether the skin fits." "Yes." "What?" Baba Yaga pointed at Sava. He looked suddenly tired. Then I understood. "No." The witch smiled. "You tried to take his debt." My face heated. Sava looked away. Baba Yaga shook out the pale skin. It looked smaller now. "Still fits." "What do you want from me?" Her iron tooth flashed. "Third lesson." "I thought this was the second." "The church was the second. You were too busy being betrayed to notice." She threw the skin at my feet. "Choose yourself." I laughed. There was nothing funny in it. "How?" "When it costs someone you love." The red cord around Sava's wrist tightened. One knot turned black. He gasped. I reached for him. Baba Yaga slapped my hand away. Hard. Behind us, somewhere toward Kostel, the church bells began ringing. Baba Yaga listened. Her face became very old. "The holy men are coming."

Episode Four: Three Bowls on the Table There were twenty-seven men at the edge of Baba Yaga's forest. Milena counted. She had always been better at numbers. Father stood among them. I wish I had become the sort of woman who could simply decide someone had betrayed me and shut the door. I was not. Blood is irritating. It keeps loving people after sense has left. Baba Yaga's house paced through the forest all afternoon. Huge feet stamping moss. The men could hear it. So could we. "They won't come beyond the skull fence," Milena said. Sava looked through the window. "They will." "How do you know?" "Men are brave in groups." Baba Yaga sat at the table polishing her iron tooth with ash. "Men are delicious in groups." Milena went pale. "Baba." "What?" "You said-" "I said I wouldn't eat you." I smiled. Milena sat beside me. For a while neither of us spoke. Then she said, "I'm sorry." "For what?" "Leaving." "You were right to." "I know." I looked at her. "That's an irritating apology." "You taught me." Fair. She picked at the cuff of her coat. "I wanted you to come after me." "Why leave the note?" "Because I wanted you to listen to it." "Milena." "I know." She smiled a little. Then disappeared again. "I thought if you found out what Father signed, you'd choose me." "I did." "No. You're still trying to take me back." There it was. I breathed. Unevenly. "I'm frightened." "I know." "What will you do?" "I don't know." "Where will you go?" "I don't know." "How will you live?" "I don't know, Dani." Her voice rose. "I want to get to be stupid. I want to make mistakes you didn't approve first. I want to sleep with somebody awful and regret it. I want to go somewhere nobody knows Father. I want to find out if the dead women I see are real." She swallowed. "I want my life to be mine even if I ruin it." I thought about Mother's memory. I should have gone. "I hate this." Milena laughed through tears. "I know." I took her hand. Did not tell her what to do. Nearly killed me. Across the room, Baba Yaga nodded once. I wanted to throw a cup at her. The men reached the fence at sunset. Father Olek carried a silver cross in one hand and a torch in the other. Stas stood beside him. Father behind. My father looked old. That made me angry. I had apparently become angry at ageing. Useful emotion. "Danica!" Father Olek's voice carried. "Come out!" Baba Yaga sniffed. "His voice has fat in it." Sava coughed. I looked at him. He was smiling. The black knot on his wrist had not changed. Since the bathhouse, we had barely spoken. I deserved some discomfort. "Danica!" Father called this time. I moved toward the door. Sava caught my arm. "Wait." I looked at his hand. He released me immediately. "What?" "Yaga hasn't finished your third task." The three bowls were on the table. Red. White. Black. I had almost forgotten them. Baba Yaga dragged her chair out and sat. "Now." Outside, men shouted prayers. The witch pointed. "Red bowl. Your sister," Baba Yaga said. Milena stiffened. "White. Sava." His face went blank. "Black. You." I stared. "Choose one," Baba Yaga said. "No," I said. "One leaves this forest with you." "And the others?" "Not your concern." "Meaning?" Baba Yaga smiled. "Choose." I looked at Milena. She shook her head. Sava said nothing. I hated him for making me look. The red bowl. My sister. The person I had raised. The white. Sava. A man I had known days. A man I wanted in a way that felt embarrassing and dangerous. Black. Me. "What happens if I choose myself?" I asked. "You leave," Baba Yaga said. "Milena?" "Chooses her fate." "Sava?" "Chooses his." I frowned. "Then what's the difference?" "To you?" Baba Yaga leaned forward. "Everything." Outside, something hit the fence. A skull screamed. "Choose." My hand moved toward red. Stopped. Milena's face. If you love me, don't bring me home. I moved toward white. Sava's eyes hardened. "No," Sava said. Not pleading. Warning. I withdrew. Black. My bowl. Me. I could leave. Walk through the forest. Let Milena stay. Let Sava face his debt. Not my responsibility. The thought made me sick. Baba Yaga watched. Patient. I suddenly understood. Not the lesson. The trick. Three bowls. Three choices. Her terms. Father Olek's terms had been iron chair or forest. Father's had been obedience or shame. Mine had been come home or I won't believe you love me. Different mouths. Same shape. I picked up the black bowl. Baba Yaga smiled. Then I smashed it against the wall. Milena jumped. Sava laughed. Not a chuckle. A real laugh. Baba Yaga's smile vanished. I grabbed the red bowl. Smashed that too. Then white. It broke in my hands. A shard sliced my palm. Blood hit the floor. The house stopped moving. Every sound outside disappeared. Baba Yaga stood. I was afraid. Properly. She crossed the room. Close. Her breath smelled of onions and grave dirt. "You were given a choice," Baba Yaga said. Her eyes narrowed. "I gave you three." "You gave me three cages." Something moved behind her face. Anger. Delight. Hard to tell. "I won't choose Milena because she isn't mine." My sister started crying. "I won't choose Sava because he isn't mine either." Sava stopped laughing. "And I won't choose myself by pretending other people cease to matter." Baba Yaga stared. My bloody hand shook. I let it. "I choose what I do next." Silence. Then the witch slapped me. My head snapped sideways. Milena shouted. Sava moved. The red cord pulled him back so hard he hit the wall. I touched my lip. Blood. Baba Yaga began to laugh. Bent double. Howling. "You horrible old bitch." She laughed harder. The room changed. Just slightly. Baba Yaga straightened. She looked pleased. Something eased inside my chest. Tiny. Terrible. She shrugged. "Now we may begin." Of course. I nearly strangled her. Father Olek set the outer fence on fire. Bone burns badly. Smells worse. Baba Yaga walked outside. The men began praying. She yawned. Then climbed into an iron mortar as casually as another woman might step into a carriage. Milena gripped my arm. "Is she?" "Apparently." Baba Yaga picked up a pestle. "Stay behind the house if you value your faces." Then the mortar rose. No wings. No smoke. It simply lifted above the burning fence. I heard men scream. Not dying screams. Mostly surprise. Mostly. The house stamped one enormous foot. Torches went out. Father Olek shouted for holy water. Baba Yaga emptied a chamber pot over him. Some legends improve when witnessed directly. That night the men camped outside the forest. Waiting. Yaga gave me a skull. Small. Female. A candle burned green inside it. "No." "You haven't heard what it does." "I have had enough gifts." "It reveals what obedience feeds." I looked at the skull. "Meaning?" "Carry it into Kostel." "And?" "It will burn what has grown fat on people saying yes when they mean no." "That could be half the village." "Perhaps." "Could it kill?" "Fire generally can." I stared at her. "You want me to decide." "I want nothing." Lie. I was learning her. "What happens if I refuse?" "Nothing." Sava spoke from behind me. "I'll go with you." Baba Yaga turned. "No." The red cord tightened. Sava went rigid. "Yaga." "Your road is different." Something passed between them. Old. Private. I did not like it. "What does that mean?" Sava looked at me. Then at the floor. "My debt ends when I help someone leave without taking anything for it." I frowned. "You helped Milena." "I took the comb." "You helped me." "I wanted you." Heat touched my face. Baba Yaga clicked her tongue. "Very loudly." "Thank you," I said. Sava ignored her. "If you take the skull to Kostel, my last task is to stay here." "What?" "Not follow you. Not save you. Not make your choice about my guilt." The words struck strangely close to my own lesson. "So that's it?" "Maybe." "And if I die?" His jaw moved. "Then you die." "Very comforting." "I'm trying." I wanted to hit him. Instead I kissed him. Baba Yaga groaned. "Take that upstairs." So we did. The second time was not like the bathhouse. There was no snow. No grief making excuses for us. No pretending it was only heat. Sava closed the bedroom door. I stood with my back against it. Neither of us moved. "Don't promise anything," I said. His eyes held mine. "I wasn't going to." He crossed the room. Stopped before touching me. My fingers caught his shirt. Pulled him closer. His mouth met mine. Slow at first. Then hungry. His hands slid beneath my coat, around my waist, up my back. I wanted the weight of them. I wanted to remember. Wanting memory while something is still happening makes grief arrive early. I pushed the thought away. His mouth moved down my throat. I opened his shirt. Kissed the scar over his ribs again. This time he let me ask. "Knife?" "Yes." "Who?" "Man whose wife I kissed." I looked up. "You deserved that." "Completely." I laughed. He pulled my blouse loose. His mouth found the skin beneath. The laugh disappeared. My head tipped back. "Sava." "I know." "No, you don't." I dragged him upward and kissed him until we both stopped pretending patience was a virtue. His hands worked my blouse the rest of the way off my shoulders and let it fall. He stepped back just far enough to look at me. I did not cover myself. He came back slowly, one hand cupping my jaw, the other tracing down from my throat to my sternum to the lacing of my skirt with deliberate, unhurried pressure, as if he had decided to memorize the path with his fingertips. I worked at his shirt buttons. He let me. When I pushed it off his shoulders I ran my palms flat down his chest, over the scar at his ribs, around his sides to his back, pulling him flush against me, skin against skin from the waist up. When he stepped out of his trousers and came back to me there was nothing left to negotiate. He kissed me again, slower, his hands moving up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, and I arched into it before I could decide not to. I resented being known. I loved it. He walked me backward until the back of my knees found the bed and I sat, pulling him down with me. He braced above me on one arm. His free hand slid beneath my underskirt, up the inside of my thigh. His fingers found me and I exhaled sharply against his mouth. He watched my face and adjusted until my hips lifted off the mattress, until my hand fisted in the sheet beside me, until I turned my face into his neck to muffle what I was doing to the sound of his name. He moved over me. I pulled him down. When he pressed into me I felt the slow adjustment of my body around his, and I held his shoulders and breathed through it and he stayed still until I shifted my hips to tell him I was ready. Then he moved. Slow at first. Long, careful strokes. His forehead dropped against mine. His eyes were open. I kept mine open too. My legs wrapped around him and I pulled him deeper and the careful rhythm broke. His mouth found mine whenever the sounds I made became too honest. I bit his shoulder and told him not to be gentle. His eyes closed. Then he stopped being careful. Not careless. The bed struck the wall. His hand slid beneath my lower back and tilted my hips and I felt the difference immediately, a sharper angle, a pressure that made my fingers curl hard against his spine. I said something I will not repeat. He answered in kind. His breathing became ragged. Mine had been ragged for some time. At the end I held him so hard my arms hurt, his weight full on me, his face buried in my neck, both of us shaking slightly with the effort of it and then the end of effort. He stayed over me. Breathing. Forehead against my neck. The red cord between us. One black knot. I touched it. This time I did not offer. We lay down. For a long time his thumb moved over my shoulder. Back and forth. No urgency. "What happens when you're free?" I asked. "I don't know." "Where will you go?" "I don't know." "Do you want me to- " I stopped. He smiled into the darkness. "Danica." "No." "Ask." I couldn't. Not because I was afraid he would say no. Because I was afraid I'd shape my next choice around the answer. He understood. Damn him.

At dawn I carried the skull out of the forest. Alone. The men tried to stop me. Then the skull looked at Father Olek. Green fire poured from its mouth. It ignored the church. Ignored the priest. Ignored Stas. The flames travelled down the road like water. Straight toward my family home. I stood frozen. Father ran after them. "No." The green fire climbed our front door. Did not burn the wood. It burned the paint. The whitewash. The little carved blessing Mother had nailed above the lintel. Then it moved inside. Toward Father's bedroom. He stopped beside me. His face had gone grey. "Danica." I looked at him. "What did you feed?" The skull laughed in my hands. Father began to cry. And I knew. Whatever rot Baba Yaga had sent me home to find, it had my name on it too.

Episode Five: What the Witch Saw in Me The fire found Mother's trunk. Father had kept it beneath his bed. I never knew. For ten years I had believed her clothes were given to the poor. Her letters burned. Her little wooden saints buried with her. Good daughters do not search their father's bedroom. There are rules. Green fire peeled the lock from the trunk. Inside were letters. Dozens. All addressed to Baba Yaga. Most unopened. Father dropped to his knees. "I was protecting you." "From what?" "Your mother wanted to leave." "I know." His face changed. "She told you?" "No." "Then" "I know." I opened the first letter. Mother's writing. Messy. Alive. I cannot breathe in this house anymore. Second. Viktor says the girls need me. Third. Danica watches everything I do. I am teaching her something terrible. My hands began shaking. Father reached for the letter. I moved away. "What did she mean?" "She was sick." "What did she mean?" "She became confused." Green flame rose behind him. The skull knew a lie. Father saw. Stopped. His shoulders sank. "I told her if she left, she would never see you again." There are moments when rage is so large it becomes quiet. This was one of those moments. "Why?" "Because she was my wife." No apology. Not yet. "Because I loved her." "That is not love." "I was frightened." "That I understand." He looked up. Hope. Poor man. I ruined it. "I understand being frightened. I do not forgive what you did with it." He cried then. My father. The man who had once carried me three miles through a blizzard because I'd cut my foot on river glass. The man who taught me how to sharpen knives. The man who signed Milena's name into a church ledger. People should be easier. Villains especially. It is inconsiderate of them to have tucked you into bed. The skull flame moved from the trunk. Across the floor. Out the door. Down the road. Now it chose the church. Father Olek ran. That was satisfying. The green fire touched the front steps. Every hidden compartment in the building burst open. Books flew from walls. Letters. Ledgers. Bundles of hair. Women's jewellery. Teeth. Dozens of teeth. People came into the street. Nobody spoke. The fire did not destroy the church. It illuminated it. Names appeared across the walls in green light. Aneta. Liska. Kasia. Elzbieta. Women blamed on Baba Yaga. Women declared mad. Unclean. Disobedient. Some had reached the forest. Some had not. Sava's Liska was there. I touched her name. The wall felt warm. Father Olek tried to leave through the sacristy. Milena stood outside. I had not seen her arrive. Red coat. Hair loose. A dozen women behind her. Some young. Some old. Women from Baba Yaga's ribbons. Not all of them ghosts. They had been living in villages beyond the forest. New names. New lives. Yaga had not saved all of them. She had saved enough to complicate the story. Milena looked at Father Olek. "You said the dead women wanted me," Milena said. He raised his cross. She laughed. "I think they want you." The cemetery gate opened. By itself. That was all it took. Father Olek fainted. Disappointing, but amusing. Nobody killed him. I need to say that. Not because he deserved mercy. Because stories like to make violence tidy. It isn't. We dragged Father Olek into the square and made him read every name from the ledgers aloud. When his voice failed, Stas read. When Stas refused, his mother slapped him across the face and continued where he stopped. By noon, nobody in Kostel could pretend. The missing women had not been taken by one witch. They had been traded among many hungers. Family. Church. Husbands. Fear. Sometimes Baba Yaga herself. There was no clean monster. Annoying. The village wanted one. So had I. The skull's fire burned until sunset. Then went out. Just like that. The skull became ordinary bone in my hands. I carried it back to the forest. Milena came with me as far as the ninth cross. "What now?" I asked. She adjusted the pack on her shoulder. "You tell me." She smiled. I smiled too. It hurt. "There's a woman named Zofia going north," she said. "She keeps bees." "Do you know anything about bees?" "No." "Do you like honey?" "Not especially." "Excellent plan." "Thank you." We stood there. Neither knew how to finish. "I should have listened," I said. Milena's eyes filled. "I should have asked what you wanted instead of deciding what would keep you safe." "I know." "I am sorry." She took my hands. "You kept me alive after Mother died." "That doesn't mean I own the rest." A small laugh. "You really have changed." "Don't tell Yaga." Then Milena hugged me. Hard. Childhood came back for one second. Her narrow shoulders. Hair in my mouth. Her face against my neck. I wanted to say come home. I didn't. When she pulled away, I gave her Mother's silver comb. She stared. "Take it." "But.." "I want you to." She put it in her pack. Then she walked north. I watched until she was a red mark between trees. Then nothing. I did not follow. That may have been the hardest thing I did. Baba Yaga's clearing was empty. No house. No skull fence. Just flattened grass. "Sava?" Nothing. I walked farther. "Sava!" The forest swallowed his name. Panic came fast. Of course. One good decision and I immediately expected reward. Typical. At the bone orchard, I found the red cord. Lying in snow. All three knots lay open, even the black one. I picked it up. A laugh came from behind me. "You look disappointed." I turned. Sava leaned against a tree. Free wrist. No cord. "I thought you were dead." "Why?" "Because you're irritating." "Consistent." I stared at his bare wrist. "You're free." "Apparently." "What happened?" "Baba Yaga told me to leave." "That's all?" "Then she threw a pot." "That sounds more believable." He took the cord from my hand and tucked it into his coat. Then his knuckles brushed my cheek. Gentle. I hated gentleness less than I used to. Dangerous development. "You did it," he said. "What?" "Whatever she wanted." I looked around. "Where is she?" A tremendous thump sounded behind us. The house came crashing through the trees. Hen legs. Smoke. One shutter hanging crooked. Baba Yaga flew above it in her mortar, pestle tucked under one arm. "There!" She shouted. At me. The house stopped. She landed badly. Nearly tipped over. I would remember that forever. Baba Yaga climbed out. "Girl." "Witch." Sava stepped back. Coward. The old woman came close. Looked at me. Not my clothes. Not my face. Through. I waited. "Who are you?" I almost laughed. "After all this?" "Who are you?" I thought of answers. Good daughter. Sister. Death-woman. Lover. Angry woman. Selfish woman. Brave. Cruel. Useful. None stayed still. "I don't know." Baba Yaga's iron tooth appeared. For the first time, she smiled without mocking me. "Good." I pointed at her. "Don't." She cackled. "I don't know," I repeated. "Is that the answer?" "No." "Then what was the point?" "You wanted a point?" "Yes." "Poor thing." She patted my cheek. Sava laughed. Baba Yaga looked at him. "Go." His laughter stopped. "Where?" "Wherever you like." Something crossed his face. Fear. Freedom does that. Nobody warns you. A cage has walls. You know where to stand. An open road can be much crueler. He looked at me. There it was. The question I had refused to ask upstairs. Come with me? Stay with me? Choose me? He did not say any of them. I loved him a little for that. Perhaps more than a little. Which was inconvenient. "What will you do?" he asked. "I have bodies to bury." The women whose bones had been found beneath the church storeroom. Seven. Maybe more. "After?" "I don't know." A smile touched his scar. "You're getting good at that." I glared. He corrected himself. "Terrible." "Better." Baba Yaga began climbing back into her mortar. "Wait." She looked at me. "Did you know?" "Know what?" "Who I was." "Everyone is someone." "You know what I mean." She scratched her chin. "You came into my house calling yourself good." I looked away. "You opened a door because you couldn't bear being unnecessary. You stole from a church. You wanted a man who did not deserve easy forgiveness. You tried to carry his punishment because pain makes you feel useful." Sava winced. I ignored him. "You broke my bowls." "I did." "My favourite bowls." "They were ugly." Her eyes sharpened. "And when your sister chose a road that frightened you, you let her walk it." Something tightened in my throat. Baba Yaga leaned close. "That is what I found." "What?" "You can love without owning." The sentence went through me. I wanted to reject it because it sounded too neat. So I did. She climbed into the mortar. "Will I see you again?" The question left before I could stop it. She looked almost offended. "Why would you want to?" The mortar rose. The house began following. At the edge of the clearing Baba Yaga called back: "When you are old, Danica Radan, keep an eye on your roof." "What does that mean?" She laughed. Then disappeared into the trees. I never got an answer. I buried seven women that spring. Father helped dig. We did not repair things between us. Some things should not be repaired while people still call the crack an accident. He sold the cottage later that year and went to live with his brother. Before leaving, he asked whether I forgave him. I said no, then hugged him. Father Olek lasted eleven months in a monastery before stealing silver and disappearing. Stas married a butcher's daughter who broke his nose on their wedding night. Milena wrote twice, then went silent for eight months. I imagined her dead almost daily. Then three jars of honey arrived. The note said: BEES ARE HORRIBLE. I LOVE THEM. I cried into the honey. Humiliating. And Sava? He stayed through the burials, repairing the cemetery wall and helping where he could. Not with me. Near me. He slept in my bed more often than was respectable and less often than I wanted. We never called it forever. He still woke reaching for the red cord. I still woke angry when he turned away. We were not especially healed. One August morning, he packed. I stood in the doorway. "South?" "Maybe." "Excellent planning." "I learned from your sister." I wanted him to stay. I could have asked. Maybe he would have. I didn't. Wanting wasn't shameful. Arranging his answer was. Sava put his pack over one shoulder. "Danica." "What?" "I love you." Tears came immediately. "That was unnecessary." "Probably." "You're leaving." "Yes." "Awful timing." "I know." He came close and waited. I kissed him. No fire. No magic. Just morning. His hand at my neck. My mouth against his scar. When we parted, neither promised to wait. He walked south. I watched for a while, but not until he disappeared. Three winters later, I left Kostel. Not because anyone needed me somewhere else. I trained Marta Biel's daughter to wash the dead. Packed two dresses. My knives. Mother's red shawl. Then I walked east. I had no plan beyond reaching the sea before forty. I was nearly thirty-one. Plenty of time. On my second night, I slept in an abandoned shepherd's hut. Just before dawn, something enormous landed on the roof. Thump. Scrape. Thump. Dust fell into my face. I lay very still. Then came the sound of claws. Chicken claws. I started laughing. Couldn't help it. Outside, an old woman shouted: "Are you going to lie there all morning?" I opened the door. No house. No witch. Only snow. In it stood three things. A black hen feather. A strip of red cord. And a small wooden bowl. Cracked down the middle. I picked up the cord first. I wish I could say I didn't. There are limits to transformation. It was Sava's. Maybe he had passed that way. Maybe Baba Yaga stole it from him. Maybe the old monster only wanted to annoy me. I laughed again. Then looked toward the road. I still did not know who I was. Not completely. Some days I was selfish. Some days kind. Some days I wanted people I had no right to keep. Sometimes I helped because I loved. Sometimes because I wanted to be praised for helping. Often both. Baba Yaga had not made me better. She had made it harder for me to lie about why I did things. I left the bowl in the snow. Kept the red cord. Also the feather. I am not a saint. Then I walked east. Behind me, deep in the trees, something old began to laugh. And somewhere beyond the road.. far enough that I could not be certain.. a man laughed too. I almost turned. Almost. Then I smiled and kept walking.