"You've been to the steppe? But how? It's so far from Saint Petersburg."

Nikolai pulled on a strand of hair, which was neatly combed, in contrast to the tired mess on his head on the other side of this dream. "Can you not tell from the near black of my hair? Or the shape of my eyes? The steppe is where I was born."

"You're Kazakh?"

"My mother was. She was a faith healer in one of the tribes. But she died when I was born."

"And your father?"

"Russian. But I never knew him."

Vika turned her eyes back up into the sky. "I never knew my mother."

Nikolai stopped and looked at Vika. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you. But it's all right. I've had my whole life to get used to it."

"I understand." And he did. Entirely.

She began to walk again. Nikolai watched as her dress swayed with each step, brushing against the tall gra.s.s, the brittle blades so high they rose almost to her hip. There were few girls he knew in Petersburg society who would traipse through the savanna without complaining about the burrs snagging their skirts or the dry wind mussing up their hair. But those thoughts didn't even seem to occur to Vika. She was a mythological creature among ordinary humankind.

She turned around to wait for him. "Is there more?"

"More what?"

"More of this dream?"

He nodded.

She held out her gloved hand. "Show me."

A smile began to spread across Nikolai's face, but he tamped it down. She was tempting-too tempting-and that was dangerous. He could enjoy her company, for now, but he had to remember this was part of the Game. Still, he jogged to catch up, and when he reached her, he took her outstretched hand.

He momentarily forgot how to breathe.

Her touch, even through their gloves, resonated to that ethereal part of his core he could only describe as his soul. He suspected that even his real body, asleep on the bench, warmed as her hand clasped his.

She blushed and looked at their entwined fingers. But she didn't unlace them.

"Come this way," he said, when he'd gathered himself.

Nikolai led her farther into the gra.s.sland, creating more of the dream as they trekked. He hadn't planned to expand this setting beyond watching the eagle hunting for prey, but then again, he hadn't accounted for Vika appearing in the dream with him and wanting to know more about his past. So now, as they walked, he filled out the landscape, not only stretching the barren plains and the mountains in the background, but also generating a yurt village in the near distance.

As they approached, a herd of sheep came into view, as well as a smaller herd of yaks some men on horseback were bringing home from pasture. There were boys there, too, about Nikolai's age, and for a second, longing flared inside him, desiring their simple existence. But then he remembered the reality of his life on the steppe, the looks of disdain-and fear-from the members of his tribe, and even the outright pretending he did not exist. No, Nikolai could never have been one of them.

He and Vika pa.s.sed the animals unseen, although they could see and smell and hear everything around them, from the pungent scent of the livestock to the zhauburek kabobs roasting over the fire. A group of boys marched past, each carrying a younger boy on his shoulders and singing, "Ak sandyk, kok sandyk . . ." Nikolai almost started humming along before he caught himself.

"Are these memories from your childhood?" Vika asked.

"Yes."

"Do you miss it?"

Nikolai shrugged. "I think I see the past more kindly than it treated me."

She quirked a brow. "How do you mean?"

"I mean, when I was here, they didn't know what to do with me. Although my mother had some abilities as a faith healer, they were very different from the things I could do. And without a proper teacher to show me how to hone my skills and to discipline me, all I did was wreak havoc on the village."

"How?"

"All sorts of nonsense. I'd mute the dombras-they're guitar-like instruments-while the men tried to play music, or I'd turn the other children's suppers from rice into sand. Things like that."

Vika laughed. "It sounds amusing."

"Yes, well, the villagers didn't think so. They tried to beat the magic-the demons-out of me. They were glad when Galina came and took me away. What I have here in this dream, however, are the good parts I recall."

They walked into the center of the village, past yurts with elaborate wooden crowns and walls covered in bright embroidered fabric. There were lions and tigers and garudas st.i.tched on the yurts, symbols of power, as well as pictures of fire, water, and earth, the elements of the universe. The village was a riot of colors and patterns.

"I understand why you think fondly of this place," Vika said as they neared a group of women cooking skewered meat over a fire. "Even if they didn't know what to make of you."

The wood crackled, and a log broke, sending up a plume of smoke. It smelled like charred memories. Then the wind blew the smoke away and left behind only the glowing embers.

"But I'm also glad the countess found you," Vika said.

Nikolai blushed, but it receded quickly. It was possible Vika didn't mean it the way he'd first interpreted. And that was why he was supposed to keep up the walls to protect himself.

She stopped walking. "Are you glad for the Game?" she asked.

Nikolai stumbled. Vika gripped him tighter and held him up so he wouldn't fall. Like when they'd met at Bolshebnoie Duplo, only with their roles reversed.

Nikolai wished, for a moment, that he could keep falling, and she could keep catching him.

But they couldn't. He stood, and she released his hand so he could brush the dirt off his trousers.

"Thank you," he said.

She nodded. But she did not reach for him again. Rather, she looked at him as if she expected something else.

All he wanted was her hand again, that quickening of his pulse when she touched him. But he answered her question instead. "No, I am not at all glad for the Game. Are you?"

Vika chewed on her lip as she considered. Finally, she said, "Yes. I'm glad for it. I both love it and hate it. Which, I think, means I both love and hate myself. I am the Game, and the Game is me. This is what my whole life has led up to, and this will determine the rest of it."

Nikolai sighed. He knew she was right, despite these fleeting moments of peace they seemed to have. They would both continue to play the Game to win. His entire existence had been built upon fighting for this, fighting against powerlessness, fighting to be somebody who couldn't be ignored, and he wouldn't give it up so easily. He suspected Vika felt the same way. If only he'd never started calling her by her name.

But who was he kidding? He would've been drawn to her whether he'd said her name or not. Their enchantments might be pitted against each other, but they were also part of the same magic. Part of the same whole. It would make winning so much more bittersweet.

At that thought, the dream around them vanished suddenly. Nikolai found himself crumpled on the bench, with Vika kneeling at his side.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I . . . nothing. I just . . . I lost my grip." Nikolai pushed himself upright, but unlike in the dreamworld, fatigue saturated him, and he could hardly keep his eyes open.

"The benches have taken a great deal out of you," Vika said.

Why didn't creating the island do that to you? he wanted to ask, but he was so thoroughly exhausted, his mouth couldn't form the words.

"You should rest," Vika said.

"I'll sleep on the bench," Nikolai managed to whisper.

"No, people will be coming to the island soon. After all, you made a dock that invited them. You should rest in your own bed."

"It's too far."

"Not as far as you think." She laid her hand on his arm, and again he warmed at her touch. "Sleep well, Nikolai. You deserve it."

"I-"

But he didn't get the chance to finish, because she pushed him gently, and he exploded and imploded all at once. His eyes flew open as the world went completely white, and for an instant, he thought she had finally killed him.

But she had turned him into . . . bubbles?

He rematerialized a few seconds later, and his vision pieced itself together. He was standing at the steps outside the Zakrevskys' house.

"Vika?"

It took a minute for Nikolai to realize what had happened. He had been a person. And then he'd dissolved. Then come back together again.

"Mon dieu! She evanesced me." He shook his head and stumbled. His reconstructed hand shook as he tried to charm open the front door.

She was so powerful, she had evanesced him all the way home.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.

Curtain rings sc.r.a.ped along their metal rod. Drapes parted, and the midday sun blazed into Nikolai's room, straight into his face. Renata stood over his bed.

"Argh, what are you doing?" He buried his face in his pillow.

"You need to get up."

"What time is it?"

"It's almost three in the afternoon."

"But how did you get in here?"

"You forgot to lock the door."

"What?" Nikolai rolled over and stared at his bedroom door. The five locks were indeed undone. How had he forgotten? He never forgot, even when it was only a single lock, not since Renata had discovered him in the midst of magic two years ago.

Then he remembered the island, and the benches, and it made some sense that he'd drowsed asleep without flipping the dead bolts. He flopped back onto his pillow.

"You're falling to pieces, Nikolai."

"Am I? I appear to be rather intact." He held out his arm to prove it. Which, however, reminded him of Vika evanescing him, and he drew his arm back close to his body, for perhaps he had fallen to pieces after all. Only, she had put him back together. This time.

"You know what I mean." Renata set a tray on the table by his bed. On it was a pot of tea, a section of baguette next to a dish of b.u.t.ter and jam, and a tiny pastry shaped like a swan. The swan swam in a dish of b.u.t.terscotch. It literally swam.

"What is this?"

"Ludmila gave it to me. I mentioned you were ill, and she sent me home to nurse you, with this as medicine. Of course, that was hours ago. Lucky the swan isn't real. Its poor legs would have broken off from exhaustion by now."

Nikolai jolted up in bed. "How could you bring this here?"

Renata frowned. "What do you mean? It's only breakfast, well, afternoon tea, now. And I . . . Oh. Oh no." Her eyes grew wide.

"Precisely."

"It was enchanted by Vika. So I shouldn't have been able to bring it past the front door."

"Let alone into my room."

"What happened to your protections?"

Nikolai fell back against his pillows. "I fear I'm too weak to keep them up."

"But the Game! If you're not strong enough . . ." Renata stared at him, her mouth downturned.

He sensed the conversation was about to take a sad turn. But Nikolai didn't want to talk about dying. Not again. "Could I have some tea?"

"Of course." Renata poured a cup for him.

"You won't read the leaves?"

"I won't read the leaves."

Nikolai nodded, although he did not drain the cup, just in case.

"Do you want the swan?" Renata asked. "Or should I decapitate it or something?"