“Not often enough.” She’d expected her answer to trigger curiosity, the flood of questions every shape-shifter knew so well, the lack of understanding, the fear, all too often mixed with disgust or disdain.
Orlando’s face showed none of these.
“It’s never enough, is it?” he said, pulling a comb from his pocket. At first glance, it looked like one of those ivory combs for which elephants or saber-toothed tigers had to give their lives, but the decorations on the handle indicated this comb had been carved by a Witch from human bones.
Orlando ran his thumb over the fine teeth. “I found this on the forbidden market in Din Eidyn. Cost me a whole year’s earnings, but it has proven very useful in my line of work. Though I admit that was just the pretext under which I bought it.”
Fox hadn’t met many other shape-shifters who, like her, had been born as ordinary humans. She avoided those who made a spectacle of themselves, and the others kept their double life as hidden as she did.
“Does the comb make you age faster?”
“I don’t know. Do birds age faster than humans? Do foxes?” His smile was gleeful, like that of a boy. And he did look like a boy, though he was older than Jacob.
Jacob once had a Witch’s comb. He said he’d stolen it from a gingerbread house when he was a boy, but Fox knew he’d never used it. Jacob didn’t want to be anyone or anything else; the very idea scared him. He’d later traded the comb for a horse.
Orlando cast a quick glance into the next archway and then pulled Fox through with him. Just like Baryatinsky’s yard, the backyard they entered belied the fact they were in a large city. An old beech stood among beds of vegetables and pens for livestock. The tree’s branches hid them from any curious eyes. Orlando looked around cautiously before he pulled the comb through his white-blond hair. Then he took off his jacket and pushed up his shirtsleeves. Feathers were sprouting from his arms like grass.
Fox touched the sharp quills. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
The feathers were as gray as a winter morning.
“A wild goose!” Fox whispered.
“I beg your pardon? A gander!” Orlando snapped his fingers, and the feathers dropped from his skin, making the cobblestones at his feet look as though a cat had just made a kill. Or a fox.
Orlando pulled his shirtsleeves down over his reddened skin. The next time you hunt a goose, think of me.”
“Why not a raven?” Fox picked an icy-gray feather from the ground.
“I didn’t want to develop a taste for the eyes of the hanged. The man who sold me the comb told me I could wish what bird I wanted to turn into. When I was a child, my favorite book was about a boy who was turned into a wild gander by a Wizard.”
Fox liked his choice. The vixen was going to have to take wild geese off her menu.
Orlando put his jacket back on and tucked the comb into his pocket. “Is it as easy to call the fur?”
Fox again hesitated. She was used to keeping the fur secret. But he understands, Fox.
“It’s getting harder.” It used to come almost by itself. That hadn’t happened in a long time.
The house where Orlando rented his apartment was painted the same green as many of Moskva’s housefronts. It was a beautiful house, with tall windows, stone friezes, and wrought-iron balconies. It reminded Fox of Lutis, though the plaster was stained from the rain.
“As you can see, the King of Albion doesn’t pay enough for a palace,” Orlando said. “But there’s not a single Kikimora in this house, which is rare in Moskva. I know they’re useful, but I can’t stand them. The one next door leaves dead cats for those who don’t leave a bowl of milk for her, and many of the cats have been dead a while.”
An old woman walked past, eyeing Fox as though she reminded her of her own younger days. What was she imagining? What are you imagining, Fox?
A small painted statuette stood in a nook by the entrance. Someone had left flowers at its feet.
“This is Vasilisa the Wise,” Orlando whispered. “You see the bowl next to the flowers? That’s salt water. Vasilisa is the daughter of the Sea King. She protects many houses in Moskva.”
He placed a feather at Vasilisa’s carved feet before he unlocked the door. His hand was so warm as he brushed Fox’s arm. Maybe he could wipe the Bluebeard’s caresses off her skin. Maybe Orlando could make her forget the one she’d longed for all these years. The Bluebeard’s forgetyourself had managed only for a very short while.
A few Malenk’y scattered as she followed him up the stairs. In Baryatinsky’s palace, they always stole the sugar from the breakfast table.
Orlando’s apartment was on the second floor. It was bare, as if its inhabitant feared any objects might give away too much about who he really was. The walls were as gray as the feathers the comb had sprouted. A plain desk in front of one of the three high windows. Three chairs, a couch, a chest with a samovar. Fox found the plain interior very soothing after Baryatinsky’s overstuffed rooms. Two of the windows were open, flooding the room with the scents of a cool, foreign summer. For an instant the vixen stirred inside her; she wanted to be off, into the woods she could smell through the smells of the city. But Celeste wanted to stay.
There had been other men before the Bluebeard: the son of a wood trader during one of the times Jacob was gone for weeks, and a young soldier who’d nearly caught her shifting shape in the woods. Both had just made her miss Jacob even more.
The maid who took Fox’s coat spoke only Varangian. Orlando spoke to her as if he’d spoken it since birth. Shape-shifters. The girl poured some tea from the Samovar while Orlando went to look out the window.
“She should be here soon,” he said. “When Ludmilla is late, it’s time to start worrying.”
A strange house, strange rooms... And they came again, the memories of another strange house, empty except for a few corpses. Fox shook her head a little too abruptly when the girl offered her a cup of tea. Who did she think she was fooling? She would never be free of the memories. They would stay with her like the scars on her wrists. The air suddenly smelled of small white flowers, sweet and alluring.
“I have to go.” She could hear the servant with the bloody antlers behind the door. Someone touched her arm. She slapped the hand away and spun around. Orlando gently took her arm and stroked the scars left by the Bluebeard’s chains.
“Sometimes we think we know people at first sight,” he said. “As though we’d met them a hundred times before, in another life, in another world. And then we realize that we know nothing. How did they look as children? What dreams startle them from their sleep?” He let go of her arm as if he were returning it to her together with the memories still caught in her skin.
The girl was still standing there, holding the cup. She nearly dropped it when the doorbell rang.
“And there she is,” Orlando said. “The best spy in all of Varangia.”
The Dwarf woman who was being led into the room was dressed in the newest fashion, which was quite unusual for one of her people. Dwarfs generally preferred old-fashioned garments, to show how much older their traditions were. They also aged more slowly. Orlando’s visitor could’ve easily been over seventy, though Ludmilla Akhmatova’s face was that of a young and beautiful woman. An untrained eye probably would’ve missed the fact that she was carrying a gun under her coat, but Fox was used to spotting such little secrets.
“May I introduce you?” Orlando said. “Ludmilla Akhmatova...Celeste Auger.”
The eyes that took in Fox’s face were so large and expressive that there seemed hardly enough space for them in the beautiful face. They were almost as black as Ludmilla Akhmatova’s hair.
“Ah, the vixen,” she said with the surprisingly deep voice of a Dwarf woman. She offered a delicate hand to Fox. “What an honor. I’ve been following your career with keen interest. Women treasure hunters are even rarer than women spies.”
“Fox was trained by a man,” Orlando interjected.
�
��Who, according to what I’ve heard, would be long dead if it weren’t for her.” Ludmilla Akhmatova gave Fox a smile as she sat down on the couch. “Can she hear what I have to tell you?”
The maid brought in a plate with honey cakes.
Orlando gave the Dwarf an apologetic smile. “No, I’m afraid that is top secret, but maybe you know something about the Dark Fairy’s plans? Mademoiselle Auger is looking for her.”
Ludmilla Akhmatova took a cake and sipped some of the tea the maid had placed in front of her. “Did you hear what the Tzar’s spies told him about her? It’s too piquant—and he’s said to have believed them.”
Orlando offered Fox a chair.
“I would love to hear it, Ludmilla Akhmatova,” she said.
The Dwarf flicked a few crumbs from her collar. “They told him the Dark Fairy is on her way to Kamchatka to offer her magic to the Peasant Prince. One of the Wolf-Lords or the Khan probably spread that information, hoping Nikolaij would kill the prince before his rebellious farmer boys ransack their palaces. We really do live in interesting times.”
Another sip of tea.
“But you don’t believe that story.” Orlando looked unsure what to think.
“Of course not. No woman would ever believe it.” Ludmilla winked at Fox.
“What are you trying to say? That the Dark Fairy has had enough of all crowned men? Except for her rival in Austry, there’s only one woman ruler, and that is the Empress of Nihon. A very long journey.”
Fox exchanged a look with Ludmilla Akhmatova. Orlando knew how it felt to shift shape, but maybe the difference between man and woman was even more fundamental than that between human and animal.
“I think Ludmilla means something else,” Fox said. “The Dark Fairy didn’t help Kami’en because of his crown. So why should she offer herself to one now?”
“Indeed.” Ludmilla dunked her cake in the tea, which was strong and dark. “The Dark Fairy loved the Goyl King, Orlando. They say it was a great love. Maybe even a Fairy feels pain when such a love is betrayed. She’s not traveling east to find an ally against her lover. She is seeking the one who can sever the inseverable bond.”
Fox gave Orlando a puzzled look.
He took her hand.
“Excuse us, Ludmilla,” he said. “I’ll have Olga bring you some of the Albian cake you like so much. And I’ll be back before your next tea is cold. Then we can discuss that other matter.”
He pulled Fox into a room that seemed far too small for all the books and papers in it. They were piled high, even on the bed beneath the window. Behind the door was a cabinet. Orlando opened one of the drawers and picked out a glove covered in scales.
“A present from my homeland,” he said, pulling the glove over his hand. “The Walrus wanted me to find out if his foreign secretary had been with a naiad in his youth. The secretary’s daughter was living proof of that affair, but I didn’t tell on her or her father. This glove was a gift to show his gratitude. He said it could show true love. May I?”
Orlando reached into the air in front of Fox’s face, and his gloved fingers grasped the same golden thread the Baba Yaga’s granddaughter had shown her.
“True love, selfless and deep as the oceans in their most fathomless depths.” Orlando let the glove run along the thread, which glistened like a ray of sunlight. “But I fear this one is not meant for me. This kind of thread is not spun in mere days.”
He let his hand drop, and the gold disappeared as though it really had been nothing but a ray of sunlight. “The Golden Yarn…or the inseverable bond, as it is also called. As inseverable as the threads of fate. And there is only one who can spin them and who can cut them.”
“La Tisseuse de la mort et l’amour.” Fox whispered the name as she did as a child. In Austry she was called the Weaver.
Fox never imagined she’d feel pity for the Dark Fairy, but Orlando’s words reminded her of the Blood Wedding and the pain she’d seen on the other’s face. His words reminded her of the days when all her unrequited love for Jacob had made her feel so raw that she’d nearly set off in search of la Tisseuse herself.
Orlando gently stroked her cheek. His touch felt good to the vixen and to Celeste.
“Yes, Takushy, la Tisseuse. The Weaver. La Hilandera. She goes by many names and has many stories. Some claim they are three sisters. But all agree on one thing: it’s very dangerous for a mortal to ask for her help because she may sever not just the bond of love but also the threads of life.” Orlando plucked the glove off his fingers. “But the Dark One won’t have to worry about that. She is, after all, immortal.”
And more powerful than the kings and emperors of this world.
“I can’t believe she can’t sever the bond herself.”
“Yes, not even she. We’ve all tried, haven’t we? It is somehow comforting that even immortal Fairies are powerless against the Golden Yarn. Don’t you think?”
Maybe.
“But what happens when she has it severed?” She was speaking of the Fairy, only the Fairy.
“I suppose the love disappears. Like the pain of a wound of which only a scar remains.”
Yes. A scar. Nothing more.
Orlando returned the glove to the drawer and shut the cabinet. Fox loved his face. It was like a promise that wishes could come true, that desire might lead to more than yearning.
Before she knew what she was doing, she kissed his mouth. The Golden Yarn. There had to be other colors.
Red. The Bluebeard’s chamber became a bed of flowers as Orlando’s lips kissed her back. The shadows of her heart grew gray feathers. Every kiss made her breath lighter, and her fingers sought Orlando’s skin as though they sought her own. Celeste. For the first time only Celeste. And she didn’t have to hide the vixen from him; he knew about her longing for the other body. He met hers with skin and feathers and followed her into the woods that spread inside her, where so far she’d met only Jacob. They lost themselves until he found her heart, beating so fast in his hands, and still he held on to it, weaving red and gray into the golden thread.
Minutes. Hours. Time transformed into touch. No more words on her lips, not even Jacob’s name. Just the kisses she now gave to another.
Fox. He called her Fox. He whispered it over and over, as though to remind her he also loved the vixen even as he kissed Celeste’s human skin. They forgot the Dwarf and whatever information she’d gathered for Orlando. They forgot the maid who was serving her Albian cake.
Fox had no idea how late it was when she remembered it all. Orlando was so fast asleep that she managed to wriggle out of his embrace without waking him. Much harder was to stop herself from looking at his sleeping face, as if something inside her was afraid of forgetting it. She pushed the warm blanket off her skin. The cool air made her shiver, feeling the sweat on herself. She stroked her naked arms. So soft. So warm. Was she happy? Yes. And no. Because now the words were back, and with them the name that had spun gold around her heart for so long she hardly remembered how things had felt before him.
She looked back at Orlando’s sleeping face.
Gold and gray.
She wanted both, and peace between the two.
She picked up her clothes off the woven flowers of the carpet. She’d never dropped her fur dress so carelessly and was relieved when she found it among the discarded human clothes.
Ludmilla Akhmatova was gone. She’d left a note for Orlando. Secrets. Fox didn’t read it.
Baryatinsky’s palace was far, but she walked. She took her time, looking at her reflection in shop windows as if looking at a stranger, not sure whether she should laugh or cry, and doing neither. She left someone behind on Moskva’s streets: the Celeste who’d sat at the Bluebeard’s table, but also the girl who’d followed Jacob all those years like a child. She couldn’t yet tell who’d taken their place. When she passed the entrance to a park, she called the fur. It came more easily than it had in a long time. The gate scraped the vixen’s back as she squeezed under it, but it felt go
od to break away from all human memory. If only the sun hadn’t been spinning golden threads between the trees.
The guard at Baryatinsky’s gates opened them without question. He lowered his eyes as she stepped past him, but she’d already seen the desire in his eyes. Like an echo of before.
Jacob was not back yet.
Fox was glad.
The Bear in the East
Wladimir Molotov was not just the curator of the Tzar’s Magic Collection; he also taught Varangian history at the university of Moskva, as he proudly informed Jacob before he began the tour. Ten minutes later, Jacob already pitied every student who had to attend Molotov’s lectures. The collection was indeed as unique as people claimed, and Molotov’s Austrian was almost flawless, but his speech was slower than the gait of his gout-bowed legs, and even the famous magic eggs lost all their mystery under his dusty explanations.
Armor to make one invulnerable, ovens that gave a bear’s strength to anyone who slept on their warm tiles, two rooms filled with invisible-making mushrooms, magic nuts, magic rose hips, and Baba Yaga bark. Three rooms full of carved figurines from all around the world to summon the old gods: a god of thunder from Fon, a snake goddess from Bengal, the Fire Dancer from Savai’is... And there was no end in sight. Molotov’s dull monologue gave Jacob much time to wonder what Fox was doing with Orlando. Ridiculous how persistently his thoughts drifted back to her. No matter how much he tried to force himself to pay attention to his guide, it was too obvious whom his mind tried to follow as naturally as she’d followed him all these years.
The seventh room into which he followed Molotov was filled from floor to ceiling with magical books. Jacob had only seen comparable collections in Pendragon’s university library and in a Ligurian monastery. One of the books was bound in silver, which of course made him think of the Alderelves. Molotov explained how that book, should one be foolish enough to open it, gave the power to read things and creatures out of any book in the world. Jacob had never heard of such magic and was just about to ask Molotov about the silversmith who’d created the book’s covers, but then he saw what was in the next room.
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