That boulder crouching like a huddled giant, had she seen that before? Nadya stepped toward it. But as she approached, she discovered that these trees were unfamiliar too. They crowded around her, strangers looming.
No, they weren’t strangers. She knew this forest. No one else in the village could find their way through it like she could, and no one else dared to.
But the frogs croaked the truth.
Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost.
Somehow Nadya was lost in the woods.
The smell of the witch had begun to surround Zima, thick as fog, making her body stiff with alarm.
The witch was closer than she had ever been. Zima needed to get away, but she couldn’t tell which way to go. The scent was everywhere, clouding her senses. She couldn’t detect a safe path.
She stumbled away from the rock, slipping on slick leaves and bumping into trees. Every hair on Zima’s back stuck out straight as a pine needle. Her legs weren’t moving right—they dragged along the ground as though weighted with rocks. She pushed herself upright, breathing hard.
Before her was a clearing she’d never seen, on the crest of a small hill. Rock structures twice the height of a grown human towered over her, seven in all, watching her like stone spirits. The smell surrounded her, thicker than fog. A crack and a snap split the air. And then the witch was before her.
Baba Yaga.
Zima had never seen her, but there was no mistaking the cane in her bony hand and the smell of magic clinging to her like smoke. Her skin was as rough and wrinkled as the bark of a pine, and what little gray hair she had stuck out in all directions from her head like many twigs forming a crown. Stone-gray teeth punctured shriveled gums.
Go away! barked Zima. Keep away from me! She panted, struggling to force each breath through her tightened throat. But as she prepared her front paws to run, the witch made a gesture. Roots sprang up from the ground, ensnaring Zima’s legs. The more she pulled at them, the tighter they wound around her.
“Silence, pup,” the witch said calmly. “I take as little pleasure in speaking to you as you do to me.”
The witch could speak the language of wolves.
But Zima’s amazement was short-lived, and she answered with a growl.
I am not falling for your tricks.
The distrust between the wolves and the witch went back hundreds of wolf generations. No wolf ever interacted with the witch without walking away changed. At least with a human you could search for a knife or an arrow. But the witch’s magic was hidden, and could be used for any number of devious purposes. You are worse than a human, Zima said through bared teeth.
The witch let out a thunderclap of laughter. “Oh ho, am I? The humans setting traps, chopping down trees, lighting fire to your home? You say I am worse?”
Baba Yaga glided closer to Zima, her footsteps silent, her skirts dragging across the ground. “It is the humans that worry me,” she said, tracing a gnarled finger along the top of her cane. “I came here because I have a task to give you.”
A spiteful retort froze in Zima’s throat. She coughed and spluttered in surprise.
Baba Yaga took advantage of Zima’s silence to continue. “I am the guardian of this forest. You would be serving not just me, but the forest itself, through your delivery of what I need.”
She seemed to have no doubt that Zima would say yes. Certainty twinkled in her eyes. But the witch was trying to trick her, of course she was.
I do not believe you. I know you have been following us, I have smelled you. Zima stared at the witch, taking in the wrinkles of her lips, the purple flecks in her eyes. The realization hit her. The humans in the forest, the witch tracking her pack—they were linked. You are working with them.
Baba Yaga let out an amused cough. “Stop talking nonsense!” She jabbed her cane at the ground. “How can I side with them, when they pose as much danger to me as they do to you?”
Zima had to fight to ignore the witch’s words. She tried to wrench her paws away from the ground. But the roots held fast. She lost her balance and tumbled forward, her snout slamming into the dirt. Still, her paws didn’t move.
I do not care what you want. I will not help you, said Zima, her growls muffled against the ground.
The witch’s lips hardened into a thin line. “Fine, then. But it is not only I who you betray with your refusal.” Her mouth curled into a smile, revealing those gray teeth, jagged as knives.
Baba Yaga struck her cane into the ground. To Zima’s surprise and wonder, a giant stone bowl floated toward them from just beyond the crest of the hill. Baba Yaga climbed inside the bowl and seated herself, her knobbly knees jutting out on either side. “Come to me when you change your mind,” she said. The stone bowl took flight, skimming along the ground and carrying her out of sight.
Zima’s legs trembled, but she forced herself to stand. The witch’s words clung to her bones like moss on stone. There was something evil in them.
The witch had a plan. And Zima had narrowly escaped being part of it.
Nadya swallowed. Steady breaths…she just needed to find something familiar. Something she had marked on her map that would help her find her way home.
Tears stung her eyes, but she fought to hold them in. How was she supposed to run away through the forest if she couldn’t even find a path to her own village? She stamped her foot. She would find her way back, just to prove that she could. And if she couldn’t, the orphanage wasn’t a home to her anyway, so what did it matter if she never returned?
“Lost, little one?” a voice boomed.
Nadya whipped around. Before her was a man on horseback, his shadow sharp in the light of the newly risen moon. A fur cloak clung to his arms and shoulders like ivy.
As her eyes adjusted, it took Nadya a moment to tell where the fur of the man’s cloak ended and his pointed black beard began. At last, she recognized the angular features of Tsar Aleksander. His dark eyes glittered in the shadows, heavy black brows arching above them.
No, no, anyone but him. Nadya’s stomach churned as she imagined the smug look of satisfaction that would drape itself across Katerina’s perfect face when Nadya was returned to the orphanage by the tsar himself.
She turned away. She could pretend she hadn’t seen or heard him.
The golden bridle on his horse jangled, sending musical tones ringing through the grove.
“I asked, ‘Are you lost?’ ” said Tsar Aleksander. His deep voice was warm; his tone had a hint of amusement.
She gritted her teeth and turned around, remembering at the last minute to give a formal bow, her hand on her heart. His eyes fell on the hem of her skirt, and she remembered the dirt smudges.