A Wolf for a Spell

by Karah Sutton

  “That was beautiful,” Zima said.

  But the song also planted a seed of worry inside her. There were only two nights until the full moon.

  “Thank you,” said the girl. She plunged her hands into the soapy water and pulled out another dish. “I’m Oksana.”

  “Call me Galina,” said Zima.

  Oksana had already been so helpful that Zima dared to ask a question that had been gnawing at the back of her mind since her arrival in the kitchen. “Do you know how I can find Katerina?”

  Oksana shook her head. “She’s been ill since she arrived. No one is allowed to see her. I’ve wondered what she’s like, though, the orphan who will be a tsaritsa. I hope…” She paused, biting her lip. “I hate to speak ill of…but I do worry about her, marrying the tsar. He might crush her.”

  So Izel wasn’t the only one who thought the tsar a monster.

  They didn’t talk much after that and continued washing the dishes in silence. If Izel didn’t return soon, Zima would have to set about finding Katerina herself.

  Watch where you step, said Baba Yaga.

  Her senses were heightened now that she was responsible for not only navigating the forest herself but keeping Ivan safe. She was acutely aware of how many things there were in the forest that could kill a human.

  After some time walking, they stopped to eat. Ivan took a flask from his rucksack and knelt down to fill it at a stream nearby. Baba Yaga caught him out of the corner of her eye just as he was raising the bottle to his lips.

  With a growl she charged toward him, snatched the bottle in her jaws, and flung it away.

  “Ah! What was that for?” said Ivan.

  You fool! Baba Yaga hissed. This is a poisonous stream. The Waters of Death flow through this forest.

  Ivan stared at her in wide-eyed confusion. “But I’ve drunk from forest streams before, and nothing has ever come of it.”

  This made Baba Yaga pause. Certain pools and streams in the forest, rare ones, were filled with the Waters of Life, which would strengthen the drinker. Perhaps this accounted for Ivan’s unnatural strength.

  You were lucky, she said. But from now on, you only drink when I tell you it is safe.

  Traveling with Ivan was like trying to track a dandelion seed on the wind. When they continued on their journey, Ivan ambled behind her at a distance. She turned to watch him meander among the trees, crouching to admire some plant or mushroom.

  Follow closely! said Baba Yaga. I cannot show you the safe paths if you are always wandering behind me.

  “But there is so much to see,” said Ivan. “I have never journeyed this far, to the heart of the forest. How can you be tired of its wonders?”

  What wonders? said Baba Yaga, surprisingly curious to hear the answer.

  “I was certain I saw a firebird just now,” he said.

  Even Baba Yaga herself had never seen the firebird, with its wings of flame. Some thought it a prize, others a bad omen. Baba Yaga chose not to remind Ivan of this.

  What if he had been touched by bad fortune—would he be able to defeat the tsar? Baba Yaga was growing skeptical. Ivan seemed strong enough, that was certain. He could easily match the tsar for strength, though he was still a boy. And Ivan’s bloodline made him the logical choice for the task.

  But was he willing to fight the tsar at all? She had hoped to find someone adept at fighting, who could believably defeat the tsar in a duel. Ivan was not that. He showed none of the ruthlessness of spirit that seemed necessary to best the tsar in combat.

  Yet he was so joyfully fascinated by what he saw in the forest, and that revealed a different kind of strength.

  She couldn’t let herself dwell on these thoughts. She needed someone to defeat the tsar, for there was no question that she could not do it herself.

  She shook away her thoughts and continued on their journey. They had to keep moving. They had only two days until the full moon and her last hope of unraveling the tsar’s schemes.

  Then a flash of light and movement caught Baba Yaga’s eye, glowing brighter as she approached a cluster of trees. The grove was illuminated by the flicker of flames. Baba Yaga looked up. Perched in a tree was indeed a firebird. Was it following them—a bad omen for Ivan? She watched as it blinked jewel-bright eyes at her.

  What is it you want? she whispered.

  It was silent, though the ember-like glow of its feathers was so real she could almost hear the crackle of the fireplace in her hut. Warmth filled her, smoky and comforting as black tea, and with it came gratitude, which nestled in her stomach like a hot coal. She was grateful for the forest, its dangers and magic. For the life it had given her.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, the firebird spread its wings and soared through the naked tree branches, gliding away into the night.

  Baba Yaga stood watching the firebird as it drifted away, not even noticing that Ivan had come up beside her.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  Baba Yaga didn’t know how to tell him. She could still feel the firebird’s heat on her body long after its glow disappeared from view. She was certain she would never have seen a firebird if it were not for him, and it suddenly struck her how little she knew of this forest that had so long been her home. In that moment she was grateful to be traveling with him.

  Izel finally returned the next morning. Lubov started to protest, but Izel ignored her, tugging Zima by the elbow into another room to speak to her privately.

  “I am to be the guard stationed at Katerina’s room,” he said, smoothing out his coat sleeve and clearly pleased with his own cleverness.

  “And when will that be?” Zima asked. She twisted her cane in her palm. Only one night remained until the full moon, then the hunt would start the following day right after the dawn wedding. This was taking too long.

  Izel straightened his spectacles. “Tomorrow morning. Have someone show you to the great hall, and I will meet you there,” he said.

  Tomorrow morning. And then this would all be over. She could go back to the hut to try and find a way to become a wolf again and leave this world of humans behind.

  For now, she had one night to wait until she could see Katerina. One more night of pretending.

  Soon, the tsar’s plans would be called off. Soon, her pack would be safe.

  Soon…so long as nothing went wrong.

  * * *

  —

  That afternoon, Oksana eyed Zima’s skirts and wrinkled her nose. “You know you’re provided with fresh clothes to wear, right, Galina? Just ask Toma for an unsoiled uniform.” She gestured at a maid who was running lengths of cloth through a basin of water, similar to how Zima and Oksana had washed the dishes.

  Zima looked down. She was wearing the same dress Baba Yaga had worn on the day they switched bodies. Dark smudges soiled the front. It was covered in wrinkles. Oksana’s uniform, by contrast, had a few smudges from the work of the day but was otherwise crisp and clean and gave off a hint of lavender.

  Zima had always kept her fur spotless. But as she’d discovered rather quickly, her tongue wasn’t very effective at cleaning her human clothes.

  She crossed her arms, her cheeks growing hot. Clean clothes seemed to be yet another thing that set her apart from the humans and showed her to be an outsider.

  Part of her wanted to ignore the suggestion. She didn’t have much time left in the kitchens, so what did it matter if her dress was dirty? But she looked down at Oksana’s shined shoes, compared to her own, which were scuffed and caked in mud. It surprised her to realize that she wanted to fit in.

  Oksana gave her a warm smile. “I can go ask Toma, if you like,” she said.

  Moments later, when Zima found herself in the small bedroom where she’d slept, she held up the clean frock and stared in wonder at what Toma had called “undergarments.” What were all these bits of clothing—what went on first and which strings tied around what?

  She threw the frock over her head and pulled it down. But which hole was for her
head and which were for her arms? She tried to remember how the old dress had draped over her. After a few wrong tries, she finally got her head through what seemed to be the right hole, and her arms through the others.

  When she opened her bedroom door, Oksana waited outside, leaning against the far wall. She stood upright as Zima approached.

  The girl’s eyes widened, and a smile stretched across her face.

  “Much better,” she said. “Except that it’s inside out.”

  * * *

  —

  Cooks hurried past, grabbing ingredients from shelves and hurling them into bowls and pots. With only today and tomorrow to prepare for the dawn wedding, they were scrambling to finish preparations.

  Oksana gave Zima a wink as she grabbed a new sack of flour and carried it to her station.

  Zima didn’t see the peels on the floor until it was too late.

  Oksana stepped on one of them, her foot slipping from under her and twisting with a sickening crunch. As she fell, her head made contact with the edge of the table, then slammed against the floor.

  For an endless moment, Zima’s heart stopped. She stared in horror at Oksana and realized in that second that she cared for the human girl like a member of her own pack. Oksana was a friend.

  Everything swirled around her as she stood, unmoving, and then suddenly it all moved at double speed. Zima stepped forward to Oksana’s side, kneeling beside her and wincing with fear at the blood trickling from a cut in Oksana’s head.

  Lubov immediately ordered two strong servants to carry Oksana to her room and sent a maid away to call for the healer, who lived in a small cottage on the castle grounds.

  Zima was ordered to continue helping with dinner preparations, though she ached to check on Oksana. But it wasn’t until after the meal was prepared and Zima had finished cleaning the dishes—on her own, she realized with another pang of heartache—that she was allowed to visit her friend.

  The healer was just rising from a stool beside Oksana’s bed as Zima entered the room.

  “How is she?” Zima asked, her voice no more than the squeak of a mouse.

  “She won’t wake,” said the healer. He was young, hardly older than Oksana, but the dark circles under his eyes made him appear withered. They were especially pronounced in the evening light. “I’ll return soon, but in the meantime, perhaps it will help her to have a friend by her side.” He closed the door behind him, careful not to make a sound.

  Zima took a seat on the stool. The palm that gripped her cane was slick with sweat, but she placed her other hand on Oksana’s arm. The girl’s skin was cold and clammy, and her breaths were shallow.

  This was all Zima’s fault. She’d missed the peel that Oksana slipped on.

  If only she were really Baba Yaga, maybe she could heal Oksana the way the witch had healed Leto.

  But it was hopeless. She didn’t know how to use magic. She would gladly be a witch if it meant Oksana would wake up.

  The voices whispered that she could be. Heal her, they said.

  She tried to remember that moment when Baba Yaga healed Leto, but the memory was foggy. The witch had muttered something under her breath. She could remember the witch’s lips forming the words Heal him.

  Without even meaning to, Zima began to do the same. “Heal her, please, heal her,” she found herself muttering, over and over.

  Heal her.

  Please.

  Heal her.

  She wasn’t a witch. And she didn’t know magic. But there was a weight to the words. They tingled in her throat, and her palm was warm against Oksana’s skin.

  The room felt too hot. And there was a buzzing in the air.

  Zima almost stopped speaking in her surprise, but she forced herself to keep repeating the words.

  Heal her. Please, heal her.

  Something was happening.

  Zima didn’t know what, or how, but it was.

  And then, Oksana’s eyes fluttered open.

  Zima nearly screamed in surprise. But instead, she kept saying the words, over and over. Until, at last, Oksana placed her hand over Zima’s.

  With a grin, Oksana said, “I thought Baba Yaga only cursed people. I didn’t know she could heal.” She licked her dry lips and smiled.

  Oksana moved to sit up, with Zima helping her. But Oksana didn’t seem to need helping. She was as fit as Leto had been after Baba Yaga healed his injury.

  “Thank you,” said Oksana. She looked at her hands, then blurted out, “Can…can I hug you?”

  Zima leaned back. The word sounded vaguely threatening. “What’s a hug?” she asked.

  Oksana smiled at her confusion. Slowly Oksana reached forward and wrapped her arms around Zima, holding her close.

  The hug was warm and comforting. Zima was used to wrestling and cleaning her brothers in her pack, but this was different. It felt peaceful and caring.

  “This is a hug?” Zima asked.

  Oksana pulled away. “We don’t have to hug if you don’t like it.”

  “No, it’s nice,” said Zima. “But what does it mean?”

  “It’s my way of saying thank you,” said Oksana.

  “Oh,” said Zima. Thanking someone wasn’t something they usually found time for in her pack. There were too many other dangers to worry about. She liked how Oksana had things like singing and hugging to bring joy to cold winter nights.

  Katerina had improved a little in Nadya’s care. Her skin was still ashen and seemed to drape over her bones, but she was able to eat and had gained the strength to stand for dress fittings and other wedding preparations. But she still needed rest, and the constant interruptions were making that impossible.

  Nadya had had enough. The next person who arrived would be turned away, even if Nadya had to stand guard and force them out herself. She tugged the blankets up to Katerina’s chin. The air outside was icy and the sky threatened snow.

  But Katerina had been asleep barely an hour when Tsar Aleksander burst into the room. He made no effort to quiet his footsteps or soften the slam of the door.

  Nadya jumped to her feet in surprise. “Hush, your illustrious highness. Katerina only just—”

  Even if the tsar had not turned white with anger, the look of horror on the faces of the guards standing behind him would have made it clear to Nadya that she had just said something very, very wrong. Only a day ago she might have been heartbroken to see that look, to realize it might ruin her chances of living in the castle.

  But that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Her home wasn’t the castle, it was Katerina. Frustrating, caring, infuriating, loving Katerina.

  “Careful,” he said, a forced smile stretching his lips. “I have beaten servants for less.” The disdain in his voice shocked Nadya’s bones. “Leave this room. I will speak to my bride-to-be.”

  The words of protest were lost in Nadya’s throat as a guard scooped under her arms and deposited her in the empty corridor before retreating into Katerina’s room and shutting the door between them.

  Nadya ground the plush carpet beneath her heel. She had grown to hate the tsar since coming to the castle. One of the maids mentioned finding the cloak Katerina wove for him among a pile of rags. This was his first time visiting Katerina in her sickness. It didn’t seem as though he cared about her at all. They were supposed to be married at sunrise, and Nadya found herself wishing that she and Katerina could return to the orphanage.

  The tsar’s voice rattled the keyhole. “There are rumors Baba Yaga was sighted on castle grounds,” he said. Something weighted his words. Was it fear?

  There were steady footsteps in the room now. The tsar must have been pacing. “The witch is determined to stop this wedding. I don’t yet know if she’s still here, or in the forest, but she is searching for you,” he said.

  “She has cursed me,” said Katerina. “I am certain of it.” Her voice was weak and breathless. “Why else would I be so ill? I have not been the same since she came to me in the village.”

  The fo
otsteps ceased. A cold dread filled Nadya. Was this true? Katerina had never said that Baba Yaga had come to her. And now, here she was, with an illness that mystified the castle healers, begun so suddenly, as soon as Katerina left the village.

  No, it couldn’t be true. Baba Yaga didn’t seem the type to curse anyone, let alone Katerina. And she’d never even heard of Katerina or the tsar when Nadya met her in the hut. How could the witch possibly want to prevent the wedding?

  The tsar seemed just as surprised as Nadya. “When did she come to you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I knew she was trying to deceive me,” said Katerina, pleading. “It was before I met you. She predicted that you would fall in love with me, but she said it was because…” She paused.

  “Because what?” said the tsar, his voice dark.

  “It was lies, what she said,” said Katerina. “It’s why we must stop her.”

  “I swore to you that I would protect you from Baba Yaga, did I not, my love? My gold?” The declaration by the tsar seemed almost perfect, musical. The kind of oath a girl might swoon at, hearing it from the ruler of the tsardom. But to Nadya it sounded flat and hollow. “As long as your powers remain, you are in danger from her.”

  Powers?

  “But if she’s here, in the castle…,” said Katerina. “What if we delay the wedding? Just until I’m well again. Just until she’s been found.”

  In an instant the tsar’s tone turned. He let out a bark of high-pitched laughter. “My foolish girl, you have no idea what it will take to defeat the witch, even if you are of her kind.”