Vasya stopped and stared.

“It is what you came for, is it not?” Morozko said.

“I didn’t think I’d actually find any!”

“You are fortunate, then, to have done so.”

Vasya looked at the flowers and said nothing.

“Come and eat,” Morozko said. “We will talk later.” Vasya opened her mouth to argue, but her empty stomach roared. She bit back curiosity and sat down. He sat on a stool across from her, leaning against the mare’s shoulder. She surveyed the food, and his lips twitched at her expression. “It’s not poison.”

“I suppose not,” said Vasya, dubious.

He twisted off a lump of bread and handed it to Solovey. The stallion seized it with enthusiasm. “Come,” said Morozko, “or your horse will eat it all.”

Cautiously, Vasya picked up an apple and bit down. Icy sweetness dazzled her tongue. She reached for the bread. Before she knew it, her bowl was empty, half the loaf was gone, and she sat replete, feeding bits of bread and fruit to the two horses. Morozko touched no food. After she had eaten, he poured the mead. Vasya drank from her silver-chased cup, savoring the taste of cold sunshine and winter flowers.

His cup was twin to hers, except that the stones along the rim were blue. Vasya did not speak while she drank. But at last she set her cup on the table and raised her eyes to his.

“What happens now?” she asked him.

“That depends on you, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

“I must go home,” she said. “My family is in danger.”

“You are wounded,” replied Morozko. “Worse than you know. You will stay until you are healed. Your family will be none the worse for it.” More gently, he added, “You will go home at dawn of the night you left. I can promise it.”

Vasya said nothing; it was a measure of her weariness that she did not argue. She looked again at the snowdrops. “Why did you bring me these?”

“Your choices were to bring your stepmother those flowers or to go to a convent.” Vasya nodded. “Well, then, there you have them. You may do as you will.”

Vasya reached out a hesitant forefinger to stroke one silky-damp petal. “Where did they come from?”

“The edge of my lands.”

“And where is that?”

“At the thaw.”

“But that is not a place.”

“Is it not? It is many things. Just as you and I are many things, and my house is many things, and even that horse with his nose in your lap is many things. Your flowers are here. Be content.”

The green eyes flared up to his again, mutinous instead of tentative. “I do not like half answers.”

“Stop asking half questions, then,” he said, and smiled with sudden charm. She flushed. The stallion thrust his great head closer. She winced when the horse lipped her injured fingers.

“Ah,” Morozko said. “I forgot. Does it hurt?”

“Only a little.” But she would not meet his eyes.

He made his way around the table and knelt so their faces were on a level. “May I?”

She swallowed. He took her chin in one hand and turned her face to the firelight. There were black marks on her cheek where he had touched her in the forest. The tips of her fingers and toes were white. He examined her hands, drew a fingertip along her frozen foot. “Don’t move,” he said.

“Why would—” But then he laid his palm flat against her jaw. His fingers were suddenly hot, impossibly hot, so that she expected to smell her own flesh scorching. She tried to pull away, but his other hand came up behind her head, digging into her hair, holding her. Her breath trembled and rasped in her throat. His hand slid down to her throat, and if anything the burning grew. She was too shocked to scream. Just when she thought she could not endure it another instant, he let go. She slumped against the bay stallion. The horse blew comfortingly into her hair.

“Forgive me,” Morozko said. The air around him was cold, despite the heat in his hands. Vasya realized she was shivering. She touched her damaged skin. It was smooth and warm, unmarked.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” She forced her voice to calm.

“No,” he said. “Some things I can heal. But I cannot heal gently.”

She looked down at her toes, at her ruined fingertips. “Better than being crippled.”

“As you say.”

But when he touched her feet, she could not keep the tears from her eyes.

“Will you give me your hands?” he said. She hesitated. Her fingertips were frostbitten, and one hand was crudely wrapped in a length of linen to shield the ragged hole in the palm from the night the upyr had come for Konstantin. The memory of pain thundered at her. He did not wait for her to speak. It took all her strength, but she swallowed back her cry while the flesh of her fingertips grew warm and pink.

Last, he took up her left hand and began to unwind the linen.

“It was you who hurt me,” said Vasya, trying to distract herself. “The night the upyr came.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“So that you would see me,” he said. “So that you would remember.”

“I had seen you before. I had not forgotten.”

His head was bent over his work. But she saw the curve of his mouth, wry and a little bitter. “But you doubted. You would not have believed your own senses after I had gone. I am little more than a shadow now, in the houses of men. Once I was a guest.”

“Who is the one-eyed man?”

“My brother,” he said shortly. “My enemy. But that is a long tale and not for tonight.” He laid the linen bandage aside. Vasya fought the urge to curl her hand into a fist. “This will be harder to heal than frostbite.”

“I kept reopening it,” Vasya said. “It seemed to help ward the house.”

“It would,” said Morozko. “There is virtue in your blood.” He touched the wounded place. Vasya flinched. “But only a little, for you are young. Vasya, I can heal this, but you will carry the mark.”

“Do it, then,” she said, failing to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“Very well.” He reached to the floor and scooped up a handful of snow. Vasya was for a moment disoriented; she saw the fir-grove, the snow on the ground, blue with dusk, red with firelight. But then the house re-formed around her and Morozko pressed the snow into the wound on her palm. Her whole body went rigid, and then the pain came, worse than before. She bit back a scream and managed to keep still. The pain rose past bearing, so that she sobbed once before she could stop herself.

Abruptly it died away. He let go her hand, and she almost fell off her stool. The bay stallion saved her; she fell against his warm bulk and caught herself by seizing his mane. The stallion put his head around to lip at her trembling hand.

Vasya pushed him aside and looked. The wound was gone. There was only a cold, pale mark, perfectly round, in the middle of her palm. When she turned it in the firelight, it seemed to catch the light, as though a sliver of ice was buried under the skin. No, she was imagining things.

“Thank you.” She pressed both hands into her lap to hide their trembling.

Morozko stood and drew away, looking down at her. “You’ll heal,” he said. “Rest. You are my guest. As for your questions—there will be answers. In time.”