MUCH OF WHAT HAPPENED NEXT was lost in a fog of semiconsciousness. Marynka vaguely recalled being dragged, carried, the sound of a deep voice cursing, boots stomping on ice, the shadowy shape of a woodcutter’s hut materializing between snowbound trees and the creak of a door opening, but the memories had all the haziness of a bad dream. They were grayed and blurry at the edges.
She did remember being unceremoniously dumped onto a supremely hard floor. The shock jarred her wounded shoulder. The ache of it had faded to a dull throb. When she finally opened her eyes, she could make out the red gleam of firelight playing over the sagging beams of a wooden ceiling. The frigid air was thick with dust.
Footsteps and a sneeze told her she wasn’t alone. Rolling onto her side, Marynka found Kajetan staring down at her. He’d started a fire with the dry logs stacked beside the hut’s crumbling stove and bound her wrists in front of her, and her ankles, with bloody strips torn from the hem of his żupan.
Lying on the hard floor Marynka shivered violently.
Such bonds would not normally have held her, but Kajetan had soaked the cloth with holy water from a flask he carried. It scalded her skin, and without her magic, she couldn’t summon the strength to rip the fabric apart.
Outside, the wind had turned vicious. The roof gave an ominous creak. Shuddered, but held. The wooden walls groaned so loudly it seemed as though the whole hut would collapse. Wild gusts of air scuttled down the chimney, whirling sparks into their faces that threatened to set the place ablaze.
But at least then they wouldn’t be cold. Even Marynka’s fiery red-brown hair was frozen into stiff, icy curls.
She watched Kajetan beat the ice from his robes, remove his sodden, snow-crusted fur cap and sweep a hand through his hair. With a grimace, he picked up the blanket moldering on an old cot in the corner and glanced at Marynka. His handsome face pinched with indecision.
“Ooh, are we going to cuddle together for warmth?” Marynka’s teeth started to chatter. She bit the words out around the clacking. “How romantic. I bet you’re wishing it was the prince here and not—”
Kajetan dragged her across the dusty, leaf-strewn floor toward the stove by her collar.
Marynka cursed at him, kicking and spitting, only her heart wasn’t in it. She was so tired still, and it was warmer lying closer to the stove anyway, with those glorious flames throwing a red glow over everything. She wanted to stretch her hands to the fire, let the heat wash over her thick and slow, crawl in among the embers and let herself burn.
Kajetan shook off one boot and then the other, dusted the snow from both, and set them by the fire to dry. His brown hair was touched with gold in the flickering light. It made Marynka think he’d been as blond as Beata as a child.
He sat down cross-legged in front of her, back to the glowing warmth, sweeping the blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, blocking most of the heat. He gripped his saber in one white-knuckled hand. “What in God’s name are you?”
It was the same question he’d asked after he’d shot her. Marynka smiled, but did not answer.
“A witch? A devil?”
“A monster,” Marynka said. “Midday. The Red Rider. Faithful servant to Red Jaga who rules the hours between noon and nightfall.” She preened as best as she could with her hands and ankles bound. “You’ve probably heard of me.”
“I haven’t,” said Kajetan, which made Marynka scowl. “Wait—Midnight? You saying you’re the midnight demon?”
“Midday.” Marynka glowered.
“Then no,” Kajetan said. “I’ve not heard of you. Did the tsarina send you after Józef? Are you some manner of dark creature that she summoned?” He paused, gaze flicking past her to the shadows of the hut before returning. “Did my father send you after him? Szczęsny Pilawski?”
“And if he did?” Marynka asked. “Perhaps you should free me just in case.”
Kajetan scoffed. “I’m not freeing you. I’m taking you back to Warszów. So Józef can see for himself that I was right to warn him. So that you can answer for your crimes.”
“He’s probably dead,” said Marynka. “The prince. Buried beneath the snowslide. Rather than chase after me, you should have stayed and searched for him.”
Kajetan’s expression didn’t change. “Józek’s too stubborn to die from such a small thing as that.”
“Well, you would know,” Marynka said, rolling onto her back, fitting the pieces together in her head—Kajetan’s questions and the accusations she’d heard the prince hurl at him back at the Copper Palace. “Seeing as you tried to kill him before I did.”
The words struck a nerve. Kajetan’s green eyes flashed. “Who is the other girl?” he demanded.
“Other girl?” Marynka stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind screech. She wondered vaguely if this was what it was like for Zosia living in Black Jaga’s house in the Midnight Forest, surrounded by darkness and the cold pressing in through the cracks. “I don’t know any other girl.”
“The one with silver braid. She tried to stop you.”
“Did she? She didn’t succeed.” Marynka turned her head toward him, started to sit up, voice going sharp. “Why, did you see her?”
“Not since we were caught up in the avalanche.” Kajetan was watching her closely. “Afraid she’ll come after you again?”
Marynka slumped back to the floor. “No.”
I’m afraid that she won’t.
She started to laugh. Loud and unsteady and sharp.
Kajetan stared. “What is wrong with you?”
Marynka huffed out a breath that was almost a sob. “I wish I knew.”
“Why did she try to save Józef?”
“She’s not your ally, if that’s what you think. She only tried to stop me because she wants to take his life herself.”
“You said you serve Red Jaga? Who is she?”
“A witch.”
“Where can she be found?”
“Beyond the mountains, beyond the forest.”
Kajetan’s eyes narrowed. He continued to ask questions, demand answers: Is she working with the tsarina or the King of Prusja? Where in Lechija is the Midday Forest? Why does the witch wish to hurt Józef?
Marynka lost interest. She was beyond caring by now and so tired of it all. Even the snap and crackle of the flames nibbling on the wood in the stove had become a distant thing. Her body ached. All her senses were numb with cold. She just wanted to stop thinking. About Grandmother. About the prince. About Zosia. She would kill this fool in the morning when she’d recovered her strength and magic, when she was warmer. No matter how dark the night, a new day always dawned. The sun never, ever failed to rise.
Or so she told herself.
She shut her eyes, ignoring her captor, and slept. For an hour. Maybe longer. Waking with a racing heart, choking on memories. Waking to complain that Kajetan was making too much noise heaping more wood on the fire.
He muttered something unkind and lay down across from her, his back to the stove, beneath his blanket, saber still in hand.
In retaliation, Marynka waited until his eyes fluttered shut and then rolled closer, wriggling to join him under the blanket, pressing her freezing fingers to his neck.
Kajetan’s body went rigid. The sound he made was completely worth it.
“Don’t worry, Kajtuś,” Marynka reassured him, using an overly affectionate form of his name, pressing her body closer, anything to feel warm. “And don’t flatter yourself. I’m just tired of being cold. I don’t like boys.”
“And I don’t like monsters,” he snarled back. “So keep your cursed hands to yourself. Do you have any shame?”
“Not really. Oh! Don’t tell me this is your first time? You’ve never slept with a girl before?”
Kajetan’s face was as brilliant red as the coals he’d just stoked. “I am going to murder you.”
“No, you won’t. You would’ve already if you were, and you don’t want me to freeze to death before you can drag me before the prince, do you?” Marynka pulled the itchy wool blanket over her head and gave an exaggerated shiver, and then a contented sigh. Finally, finally she was starting to get a little warm. The feeling was creeping back into her numb fingers and toes, making them tingle with a pleasant kind of pain. “I’m like your penance. You betrayed your prince, fought for the enemy, and now you’re trying desperately to redeem yourself. You think by protecting Józef you’ll earn his forgiveness. Am I wrong?”
For a long moment, she thought he would not answer. Then he said, voice barely audible, “If I could choose a single moment, if I could go back.” Kajetan swallowed audibly. “I prayed to the saints he’d kill me on that battlefield. I already know I can never make amends for the things I’ve done. I don’t deserve his forgiveness. I don’t expect it. I wouldn’t ask it of him.”
His words were punctuated by the pop and spark of a burning log in the fire.
Marynka was quiet.
They both slept this time, surrendering to exhaustion. All night the winter storm raged on and morning broke without a sun. Marynka had hoped to sense the world warming beyond the wooden walls of the hut, but those hopes were dashed. There was no venturing outside in such a blizzard. The brutal wind and heavy snowfall were unrelenting. They were lucky for the wood stacked inside the hut so they could keep feeding the fire. Less lucky to have no food with them, but Kajetan woke Marynka when he melted a little snow for them to drink.
She was awake again now, listening, watching the steady rise and fall of Kajetan’s chest. There wasn’t much to do save wait and rest. He murmured something in his sleep, a word she didn’t catch. Little more than an exhale, but she read the shape of the prince’s name on his lips. There was a deep furrow between his brows as he clutched his saber to his breast. His clenched fingers had locked around the jeweled hilt as if he didn’t dare venture into his dreams without it, as if he intended to take the weapon with him to fight the horrors in his mind.
Marynka had felt him jerk out of more than one nightmare.
She hadn’t tried to comfort him with empty reassurances, hadn’t tried to weasel into his good graces—it wasn’t her style—hadn’t whispered in his ear that it was all just a bad dream the way Beata did for her. That was a lie anyway. The thoughts and fears that kept Marynka up at night were all too real, and she had the feeling it was the same for Kajetan.
Ever so carefully now, so as not to wake him, she raised her bound wrists to her mouth. Reaching, in vain, for her magic. Her teeth still wouldn’t turn to iron, nor lengthen to vicious points. Red welts from the holy water Kajetan had soaked the cloth with marred her skinny wrists.
Still, it wasn’t anything she couldn’t bear or couldn’t work with. Sucking in a deep breath, Marynka pulled and pulled against the bindings until they bit into her skin, gnawing at the cloth at the same time and—
Kajetan shifted, blinked, groaned, and dragged a hand down his face at the sight of her, which was honestly kind of rude. “How many times are you going to try that?” His voice was gravelly with exasperation.
“As many times as it takes.”
He raised his eyes to heaven.
Marynka’s stomach grumbled loudly. She thought longingly of kaszka with molten butter and brown sugar and cinnamon. “Are you sure there’s no food?”
“If there was I wouldn’t waste it on you.” Kajetan staggered upright. His clothes were rumpled and his movements stiff, a gift from sleeping on the cold, unforgiving floor. He shivered as he retied the wide, ornately embroidered sash wound several times around his slim waist.
Marynka hadn’t paid much attention before, but really his clothes were very fine. His fur-lined kontusz was a rich red heavily embellished with patterns of silver thread, and the contrasting żupan he wore beneath it was a brilliant silken gold. Pearl buttons drew a glittery line up his torso to his chin. It was a pity he was so much taller than her. She could’ve taken the outfit from him when she finally freed herself.
Kajetan bent to the stove, stirring the sullen embers back to life, frowning grimly at their dwindling pile of wood.
“How much longer, do you think, until the wind dies down?” said Marynka. “Until it stops snowing?”
How long do you think we’ll be trapped in here?
Kajetan settled another log into the embers. “For our sake, you should pray that it’s soon.”