Death stole into her yurt, reached out with its bony hands, and attempted to lift the boy away.

But the girl s.n.a.t.c.hed the baby back. "You cannot have him." She hugged the child, the only thing she had, and heard his pulse fluttering like a dragonfly, trying to escape. "Shh . . . ," she said. "Shh. I am a healer. I will save you."

And then she thought of all the times she'd healed a wound or nursed an ache. It was simply a matter of moving energy, of shifting the patient's strength from one place in a body to another. She looked at the gasping baby in her arms. What is stopping me from channeling my energy to him? Nothing. It would either work, or it wouldn't.

She focused on the place where the baby's skin touched hers. Then she felt her own energy flowing hot with the fear of losing him. She directed her remaining strength into his veins.

The boy cried, so loudly it shook the walls of her yurt.

Death c.o.c.ked its head and moved to take the girl, who lay weak on the dirt floor. "But I'm not dead," she whispered.

Death paused. And then, instead of picking her up, it knelt and pa.s.sed its skeletal fingers over her eyes to shut them. Because she was brave enough not only to face and defy Death, and also to outsmart it, she was rewarded with sleep in ante-death, the s.p.a.ce between the living realm and the dead.

But she would not stay in ante-death forever. She swore with her last breath that when she was strong enough, she would rise again.

The women around the fire pit quivered.

"Do you remember me now?" Aizhana smiled in a way that once would have been sweet, but now was nothing but rotting gums and disdain.

"You rose from the dead," Damira said, scrambling away. She did not go far, though, before she b.u.mped into the other women.

"No. Were you not listening? I was never dead. I was merely not living. But I have returned, and I want my boy. Where is he? Is he out shepherding or hunting with the men?"

"He . . ."

"Is he out shepherding or hunting with the men?" Aizhana asked again, the screech of her voice rising.

Damira's eyes widened. "I . . . We haven't seen him in eleven years. He left the village."

Aizhana sc.r.a.ped her fingernails against her papery temple. They rasped like claws against molted snakeskin. "He could not have left on his own at age seven. What did you do?"

Damira sniveled. The other women held one another, as if something so simple would protect them.

"Where is he? What did you do?" Aizhana snarled.

"A Russian aristocrat came. She wanted him. You have to understand, he was too much for us. We didn't know what to do with his power-"

"You lived with me among you all those years. How could a boy be any different?"

"He was. He was different!" Damira said. "You were a healer. You made people better. You were a force of good. He was . . ."

"Like a demon," another woman, Tazagul, said. Her face glowed in the light of the fire. "He had too much power. It came from somewhere other than the people who needed to be healed. He wasn't like you."

"My son is not a demon!" Aizhana howled, and her shriek nearly drew blood from the women's ears.

But if he wasn't a healer, then what was he? Could he be an enchanter? It would make sense, the way Damira and Tazagul described him. Healers utilized small magic, and the energy came from their patients. But enchanters could use greater magic.

"Whatever he was, we did not know what to do with him," Damira said. "And the Russian woman offered two horses and two sheep to take him away to train-"

"You sold my son? For four animals?"

"No, we-"

But that was all Damira got out before Aizhana pounced on her and slashed her throat with her wicked nails. Thick, hot red spurted everywhere. Aizhana grinned. Then she siphoned off the energy as Damira's life left her body.

"What have you done?" Tazagul said, trembling. She and the other women still kneeled on the ground, too paralyzed to flee. They gaped at their dead kinswoman.

"Even if I was disgraced, my son was innocent, and you were supposed to mother him in my stead," Aizhana said, her voice now a low growl. "That is how a village works. But you left him without a mother, and now I will leave all your children without theirs."

She lunged at the women. She shredded them with her nails, ten merciless blades compelled by vengeance. And as she killed them, she absorbed their energy, just as she'd done to the worms and the maggots in the ground.

She was now so full of both life and death that it would take more than a mere bullet to kill her. And her left foot seemed almost awake. Which was good. For apparently she had a long journey ahead.

Nikolai, she thought. I am coming for you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

The following morning, Vika's apartment brimmed with the smells she had so missed: the sour tang of the Borodinsky bread starter in its pot in the kitchen corner, the sweet richness of farmer's cheese for the vatrushka pastry filling, and the brightness of fresh pears cooking down into jam. Ludmila had arrived last night at Vika's invitation-Vika had lived with her father her entire life, and being alone in an unfamiliar city, especially after the attack of the stone birds, felt too exposed-and the older woman had wasted no time taking over the flat's kitchen as her own and laying out plans for opening a temporary Cinderella stall in Saint Petersburg.

When Vika walked into the kitchen, she found Ludmila with icing all over her face and ap.r.o.n, like a cake frosted by a flurry of euphoric five-year-olds. Ludmila swayed around the tiny kitchen, her hips nearly touching from countertop to stove, humming a folk song.

Vika sighed happily. How she loved folk songs. Her father sang them all the time.

She sat down on one of the dining chairs. Its red lacquer was buried under a light dusting of flour snow. A Ludmila pastry storm.

"You're a mess with the ingredients," Vika said, "but you're a magician with the oven and stove."

Ludmila beamed as she flourished a wooden spoon in the air. "Thank you, my sunshine. But what I do is merely good chemistry. b.u.t.ter and flour and water, combined with just the right amount of heat . . . The true magic is out there." She pointed her spoon at the window, to Nevsky Prospect and beyond.

Vika smiled. "Yes, the tsar's city planners and engineers are quite talented."

"Oh, no, it isn't engineers who managed that river fountain. It's real magic. I know. And so do you and your father." Ludmila winked.

Vika's smile faded away.

"Don't worry, dear, I haven't told a soul. I may be the island gossip, but I know when it's wise to keep my mouth shut. Not everyone would think so kindly of your abilities. It's the reason Sergei taught you to hide them."

"I . . . But . . . How do you know?"

"I grew up in a circus, my dear."

"You did?" Vika perked up in her chair. When she was younger, she'd longed to be part of a circus, moving from place to place and seeing the country. It seemed to be a place where the performers could be themselves in front of entire audiences, no matter how outlandish their talents might be. They had no need to hide in remote island forests.

"Indeed," Ludmila said. "And when you grow up in a circus, you learn early on how to distinguish what is real and what is made of smoke and mirrors. I'll tell you that most feats in the circus are pure trickery. But you and your father have something about you that cannot be hidden from those who know there is more to this world than what we see."

Incredible. Vika shook her head. She'd gone her entire life concealing who she and her father were, when right in front of her, every single day, someone else had known. She and Father hadn't even bothered to cast shields around themselves when they weren't actively using magic; they'd a.s.sumed no one would be the wiser.

Ludmila crossed the kitchen and wrapped Vika in her arms. "I know it's quite a lot to take in, dear. And I'm sorry I said nothing earlier, but I didn't think you or Sergei wanted your true natures known. Now, however . . . well, you've decided to put your magic on display for all to see. And with Sergei absent, wherever it is he's gone, I thought you might need a mother. Or a friend." Ludmila kissed the top of Vika's hair. "I am lucky to have you, sunshine."

But Vika only patted Ludmila on the back. Maternal affection was unfamiliar territory.

After a minute, Ludmila released her, smiling from icing-covered ear to icing-covered ear. She hadn't seemed to notice that Vika had been hesitant to return her embrace. "The facades on the buildings outside are lovely," Ludmila said.

Vika laughed. She loved that her magic was being seen by others, but she couldn't take credit for something that wasn't hers. "It's true that I'm an enchantress. But the paint on Nevsky Prospect is not my doing."

Ludmila tapped her spoon against her chin, leaving sticky jam prints on her skin. "Really? There is yet another . . . what did you call yourself? Enchanter? How fascinating."

Vika nodded, and now she wanted to hug Ludmila. What a gift it was to have someone else know what Vika was, and what she could do.

And then it occurred to her: she could tell Ludmila about the Crown's Game. She would not have to bear it on her own.

But no. One glance at the baker's jolly mood and she dismissed the idea. Vika couldn't burden Ludmila with the knowledge that she was walking a tightrope to her death. And why spoil what she'd only now acquired, a confidante for her magic?

No, she would not tell Ludmila about the Game. Having her here, knowing that she knew what Vika could do, was enough.

So instead, Vika stood and walked over to the counter. Ludmila had brought a gla.s.s pumpkin with her from the island, and Vika picked it up and turned the iridescent sculpture in her hands. "Well then, since you know what I can do, it makes setting up your new bakery a great deal more fun. How do you feel about selling pastries from another enormous pumpkin?"

That afternoon, a team of men wheeled two large boxes-both a yard long on each side-into Palace Square. One of the boxes was plain red with a large metal crank sticking out of its side. The other was royal purple and decorated with scenes of ballet dancers on every face. There was no explanation given for the appearances of the boxes, nor did the crew that brought them know any more than the crowds that gathered around them.

An albino rat scampered onto Vika's kitchen windowsill. She recognized him as the rat she'd fed a piece of blini to the other day, on her way back from the river. Vika circled her pinkie over its head to translate its chattering.

"Two boxes in front of the Winter Palace?" Vika asked. The rat's red eyes glowed brighter in confirmation. "I wonder what he's up to."

"Your mystery enchanter?" Ludmila said. "We should go right away."

Vika sat at the windowsill and fed a few sc.r.a.ps of leftover pastry to the rat, who tore at them greedily. The boxes could be a trap. Instead of cheese to snare a rat, it would be boxes that served as bait to catch an enchantress. Palace Square was immense, and her opponent could hide in the crowds. If Vika went, he could attack and kill her unseen.

Ludmila wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and tossed it onto the counter. "What are you waiting for? This is why I came to the city, because it's more exciting than the routine at home."

Vika tried to smile. But if she died in Ludmila's arms, or worse, if Ludmila died in Vika's arms, it would not be exciting at all.

Ludmila stood by the door of the kitchen, icing still smearing her cheek. "You know I'm going, with or without you, don't you?"

"Well, if you put it like that . . ."

There was no way Vika would let Ludmila around the other enchanter without her.

Besides, Vika refused to be the type of girl who hid from danger. And she needed to see what her opponent's move was, so she could best him again. Because if he didn't kill her outright, the tsar always could. Her death sentence was as simple as the tsar declaring her opponent the victor. It didn't matter that she technically still had four turns.

Vika walked over to wipe the smudges of frosting from Ludmila's face. Then she tossed the rat one more sc.r.a.p of pastry before she grabbed her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, casting a shield around herself and Ludmila at the same time.

"All right."

"Hurrah, an adventure!" Ludmila said as she launched herself through the apartment's front door.

Yes, an adventure. But hopefully not a fatal one.

Even though Vika had walked by the Winter Palace every evening since she'd arrived in Saint Petersburg, its grandeur hadn't ceased to amaze her. It was a pale-green-and-white Baroque masterpiece, its three stories lined with proud columns and arches and almost two thousand gilded windows. On one side of the palace was the Neva River-she hoped the imperial family had a clear view of her fountain, her first "gift" to the tsesarevich for his birthday-and on the other, Palace Square, where the two peculiar boxes sat and a crowd of several hundred now gathered.

Ludmila fought her way to the front, using her girth and her elbows to clear a path for Vika to follow. A short fence of sorts had been erected quite some distance from the boxes, but instead of wood, the fence was constructed of woven silver ribbon, each piece as wide as Vika's hand. There were no posts that supported it, and yet the ribbon remained cordoned in place, as if set through invisible stakes.

Having made it to the ribbon, Vika scanned the square for obvious danger. Nothing, other than a larger-than-usual contingent of the Tsar's Guard, likely owing to the sudden appearance of the boxes. And there, bobbing along the top of the palace roof, was the albino rat. He had very quick feet for a creature with such tiny legs. If he ever came back to her, she would give him a name. Perhaps Poslannik. Messenger.

A figure moved in the window directly below Poslannik. No! Vika jumped in front of Ludmila and held both hands in defense in front of them. A transparent shield enveloped them, and the people behind them stepped away as though they had been nudged, although there was no evidence they had been touched at all.

But the figure in the window didn't attack. He didn't even seem to see Vika. He tilted his head, leaning it against the windowpane, as if he, too, were waiting to see what the boxes would do.

"Everything all right?" Ludmila asked.

Vika nodded and stepped to the side, so that she was no longer in front of Ludmila. But she held on to their protective sphere, on top of the spell she'd cast before they left the flat, just in case.

Behind them, the crowd grew to at least a thousand. Vika had worried that the other enchanter could hide in the ma.s.ses and attack her. But he wouldn't try to kill her in front of all these people, would he? The tsar had warned them at Bolshebnoie Duplo not to frighten anyone, and here they were, ordinary, nonmagical folk, filling Palace Square to its very edges. It was not like Nevsky Prospect at dawn, empty but for the lone street sweeper. It wasn't even like her fountain in the Neva, where it was easy to make it look as if her opponent had slipped. Here, there would be too many witnesses.

In the distance, a bell tower chimed six o'clock, and the crank on the plain red box began to move, winding in slow circles to a tinny, playful scale. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. The music progressed from C-major to the next scale, G-major. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. And then the next, D-major, and then the next, A-major, the pace of each scale faster than the previous one, with the crank speeding up to match its pace. By the time the box reached the twelfth scale, the crank turned at a frenetic pace. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti- The top of the box exploded open on the final do! and out leaped a life-size jack-in-the box. Vika and the rest of the crowd gasped and jumped back.

But the Jack-who was no longer in the box, and who had legs where his accordion body ought to be-stood still in front of his box, wavering slightly back and forth as if he were still on his springs. Vika watched him carefully. There was something devious about his wooden grin.

Beside him, a tinkling version of the music from the ballet Zephire et Flore began to play from the purple box. But unlike the red one, the lid of the purple box started to open as soon as the song began. As it lifted, a life-size ballerina doll, wearing a periwinkle-blue dress and fairy wings, rose on a spinning platform, as if she were part of a music box. Now Vika had two dolls to track.

As the song came to an end, so did the ballerina's twirling. It was then that the Jack came back to life. He bowed to the ballerina, one toy to another, then danced to her box and offered her his hand. "Don't take it," Vika whispered. "Don't trust him."

But the ballerina placed her delicate porcelain fingers in his wooden ones and pranced down to the cobblestones in the square. Vika shook her head.

Ludmila pressed up to the ribbon fence, and because they shared an invisible bubble, Vika found herself pulled to the edge of the makeshift stage as well. The figure in the palace window likewise leaned forward as far as he could. Was it the tsar, keeping track of the Game? Or the tsesarevich, watching the show put on for his birthday?

A melody pealed out from the purple box again, this time for a pas de deux. The Jack led the ballerina to the center of their cobblestone stage, where they bowed once again to each other. Then he set his hands gently about her waist, and she lifted onto the points of her shoe, both arms arched overhead, and spun as ethereally as a fairy.

They danced as the music played. The ballerina spun. The Jack leaped. And when together, he lifted her, light as the doll that she was. Then the music began to soar, and their dancing did as well, with the ballerina and the Jack whirling together so quickly they began to levitate into the sky.

"How are they doing that?" someone behind Vika asked, as if he had forgotten they were not real people.

"There must be strings," another person said.

But next to Vika, Ludmila said, "They're like puppets manipulated by masters they cannot see."

Too true. Vika knew the ballerina represented her, and the Jack the other enchanter. Like the puppets, she and her opponent had never had a choice: their destiny was a pas de deux, a splendor and a torment fated for the two of them.

And yet, there was something about the other enchanter, about the magic he chose, that drew her to him, as if the bond between them was not an altogether evil thing. It was more like a tenuous thread attempting to reconnect two halves of a whole.

And although Vika hated to admit it, she'd dreamed of him more than once. Each time, he would appear as a shadow boy, but each morning, just before she woke, she would catch a glimpse of his real face. . . .