“Maybe,” Anya said. When Papa got back. Any day now.
Mama went about gathering herbs from Babulya’s collection along the walls. When their old house had burned down, Dyedka and the domovoi managed to save Babulya’s plant collection. Which was lucky. Some of the plants she had were rare and impossible to find anywhere in Kievan Rus’.
But the plant Mama brought back was a common local herb. The tiny white flowers were fun to braid into crowns to put on the goats’ heads. Mama held a stoppered vial with dried flowers in it that Anya had made into tea many times.
“Chamomile?” Anya asked.
Mama nodded. “Sweet little chamomile.”
“For nerves?”
“Oh yes.” Mama ground up the flowers with a mortar and pestle. “We’re making something a little stronger than tea today, though. Out in the garden, there’s some roseroot in the north corner. I need . . .” She tapped her finger against her chin, thinking. “An inch of root. Can you get some for me?”
Anya took a knife out into the garden. The roseroot grew low to the ground along the northern fence, its fleshy leaves lining a stem topped with brushlike yellow flowers. She poked the soil with her knife until she found the dirty, thick root of the plant. She cut off an inch and hurried back inside, brushing the soil off of it and the knife blade.
Mama took the root from Anya and washed it, then ground it up with the chamomile. She added them to a small bowl, dripped some water in, and then put her finger in the mixture. As she stirred with one hand, she wove threads with the other. The potion in the bowl changed as she worked her plant magic. It turned a dark beige with swirls of white throughout, and the scent wafted up to Anya. Chamomile, yes, but barely; an afterthought of the magic. Mama pulled her finger out of the thick mixture and tilted the bowl this way and that.
“That looks . . .” Mama pulled one more string, and the white in the mixture faded into a dull silver. “That’s perfect.” Anya helped her pour the potion into a separate flask with a stopper, and Mama tied a tiny wooden spoon to the flask’s neck.
Anya poked the spoon. “That’s the dosage?” When Mama nodded, Anya said, “It’s so small.”
“It’s powerful,” Mama said. “If he takes one spoonful a day, he’ll feel better. If he takes two, he’ll probably miss a sermon at the church. If he takes three, he might . . .” She sighed. “Just, when you deliver it, make sure you emphasize only one per day, in the morning.”
Anya nodded. “I will.”
Mama kissed her on the forehead. “Good girl, Annushka.”
Chapter Three
Anya helped Mama make Zinoviya’s teething potion and Bogdana’s digestive. Sasha Melnik’s astringent would take longer, Mama said, so Anya took the three ready potions out for delivery while Mama got started on his.
Even though she knew which potions were which, Anya still labeled each of them with a different colored bit of yarn tied around the mouth. Baby Zinoviya’s was blue. Bogdana’s was green. Father Drozdov’s was purple.
She checked her sukkah before she went. No goat-bites had been taken out of it. Good.
Up the drive she went, and south on the road that ran past the property. Zinoviya and Father Drozdov lived inside the village, while Bogdana lived south of it. She and her family had extensive land down there, with a lot of bees. They were candlemakers, so Anya supposed they needed lots of bees.
A raven landed on the stone pylon of the bridge as Anya approached. It cawed at her, then cocked its head downward, toward the water. Anya had seen that head nod so many times over the last year that there was no mistaking what it meant.
Furtively, Anya checked the road behind her and across the bridge on the other side. No one was coming, so she hurried around the bridge and slid down the embankment, tucking herself under the bridge where there was a little strip of dry land on the side. A moment later, a ruby-red head stuck up out of the water, and what would probably have been fearsome teeth to someone else grinned widely at her.
“Anya!” Håkon heaved himself half onto the bank next to her. He left most of his body in the water for a quick escape if needed. The fishermen usually didn’t come down by the bridge because their boats had a hard time fitting under it, but sometimes they caught bait over here, and Håkon had come very close to being found out a couple of times.
“Hey!” She arranged her dress so he wouldn’t splash the potion vials in her pocket. “What are you doing all the way up here?”
Håkon doodled with one claw in the wet dirt. “I dunno. I was bored. I went by your barn, but I didn’t see you. Just that little house-thing you built.”
“It’s called a sukkah,” Anya said. “Did Zvezda eat it?”
He wrinkled his nose. “What?”
“Nothing.” Anya watched his doodle turn into a crude drawing of Zvezda. The goat breathed what she assumed was fire.
“So where are you going?” Håkon asked.
“Delivering potions,” Anya said. She patted her pocket; the vials clinked inside it.
“Oh,” Håkon said. He continued to doodle. Now Zvezda had spines on his back, like Håkon did. His were reddish-gold, dull in the shade under the bridge but brilliant in sunlight. “That sounds fun.”
“Lots.” She poked his shoulder with one finger. “The deliveries won’t take me long. Why don’t I go pick up Ivan, and we can come to your house and play something?”
Håkon perked. “Rescue the Princess?”
Anya cringed. She’d be the princess, and that amounted to sitting in a cage he built out of stone or ice or something, and watching him and Ivan battle with magic. It wasn’t her favorite, especially since she could use a weapon and didn’t need to be relegated to being stuck in a cage. But Håkon seemed very down today, so she’d suffer the indignity of being caged if that made him happy.
She managed to smile. “Absolutely.”
“Yes!” Håkon splashed his tail in the water, and a wave rolled up onto the shore and wet the hem of Anya’s dress.
She jumped back and lifted her dress up, foot slipping on the mud near the water. Her shoe got all wet, and she groaned. “Now it’s going to be all squishy.”
“Sorry, Anya!” Håkon said, moving closer to her. “Here, let me—”
“Anya?”
A voice from over them, on top of the bridge, called down. Anya and Håkon both froze. Anya recognized the voice. It belonged to Verusha Dragutinovna, one of the girls Anya had become friends with over the last year.
Terrified, Anya looked up. Verusha’s shadow was on the water, but Anya couldn’t see Verusha’s face. That meant Verusha couldn’t see Anya or, by extension, Håkon. Håkon’s secret was safe.
For now.
Multiple sets of footsteps moved toward the side of the bridge. Verusha wasn’t alone.
“Go,” Anya hissed at Håkon, shoving him.
Håkon looked as scared as Anya felt. He hesitated for a breath, then slid backwards into the water with the tiniest of splashes. Just like that, he was gone, the doodle of a fire-breathing goat with spines the only evidence of his visit.
As Håkon’s last ripple hit the shore by Anya’s foot, Verusha rounded the corner. Behind her were two others: her sister, Olya, and their friend Mila Nikolaevna. They all had approximately the same color of light brown hair, but Verusha wore hers in two braids, while Olya wore hers in one. Mila always had hers braided perfectly around the crown of her head, and today she was carefully sliding tiny flowers into the plait as she followed Verusha.
Anya stood as Verusha peeked under the bridge. “I thought I heard you talking to someone,” Verusha said. She looked disappointed.
Anya shook her head. “Just me.”
“What are you doing down here all by yourself ?” Verusha asked.
Anya tensed up, then pointed at the river. “Um, I was just . . . You know, trying to do some water magic? I got my shoe wet.” She lifted her soaked foot.
Verusha clapped her hands. “Oh, magic? Really? Watch this!” She reached her fingers toward
the water, setting them against invisible threads in the air. She plucked, and a tiny jet of water arced out of the river and hit the bridge’s pylon.
A surge of jealousy roiled Anya’s belly—she still didn’t have any magic, water or otherwise—but she managed to smile. “That’s great!”
Verusha ran a hand down one of her braids and said, “I’ve been trying to get better.”
Olya giggled and elbowed Mila, who said, “Because she loves Ivan.”
Verusha turned a shade of red to rival Håkon’s brilliance. “Shut up, Mila! I do not love Ivan!”
In unison, Olya and Mila sang, “Uh-huhhhhh.”
Loudly, Verusha said, “Actually, we were on our way to your house, Anya. To invite you flower-picking with us.”
Anya’s heart did a little jump for joy. She wondered when she’d get used to this, being asked to do fun things with the other village children. It was still a thrill. “Are you going right now?”
Verusha nodded and pointed to Mila. “If she doesn’t have flowers in her hair, she can’t function.”
“Can so,” Mila said absently, weaving another tiny flower along her crown.
Anya said, “I’ve got to deliver some potions, but I don’t think that will take long.”
Olya clapped. “Oh good! You know where all the best flowers are!”
Anya puffed up. She did. It was because of Mama and Babulya. Anya had gone on flower-picking missions many times to keep up with the higher demand for potions. She knew all the richest spots.
Then she remembered what she’d told Håkon. She’d deliver her potions, then play a game with him. She couldn’t abandon him for flower-picking.
“I just remembered,” Anya said, “I told my mama I’d come back and help her with a really tough potion. I can’t go with you.”
Olya and Mila pouted, and Verusha sighed. “Oh, Anya! Really? Can’t you come anyway? She’d understand.”
Anya shook her head. “I can’t. But there’s a lot of daisies in the field north of the eastern road,” Anya said, gesturing in that direction. “That would be a good place to go.”
“Too bad you can’t come,” Verusha said. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” Anya said, hoping it would be possible. She wished and wished for some way to bring Håkon into the group of friends she’d made since last year. When her house had burned down, the whole village had surprised her family by running to their aid. Anya had made friends with the trio standing before her now, and was becoming friends with Sasha Melnik, the miller’s grandson. Mama had started to spend time with some of the other women her age in the village, swapping recipes for fish and bread and soups. Even Babulya created tenuous friendships with the collection of grandmothers whose sole purpose seemed to be creating warm garments for any child who got too close to them.
Everyone was making new friends, except Håkon. He was still alone, and Anya felt obligated to play with him as much as possible. He had no one else.
The four girls climbed to the top of the embankment back onto the road, and Anya pointed the way to the daisy field. Olya and Mila paid attention and nodded, but Verusha stared toward the village instead. Her face got red at the bottom, and the color rolled upward all the way to her ears before Anya turned and noticed who was coming over the bridge.
It was Ivan, a jaunt in his step and a cap too warm for the weather sideways on his head, swinging the metal-topped staff Kin had made for him with sloppy abandon. He’d gotten taller since he’d first moved to the village a year and a half ago with his family, who were sent by the tsar to hunt a dragon: Håkon. But Ivan wasn’t like the rest of his family, and instead of hunting Håkon, he had befriended him. Today, he wore his usual attire, the uniform of a fool: very expensive clothing worn entirely incorrectly. Technically all the pieces were there: loose trousers over tall boots, a linen rubakha, and a stocking cap. The rubakha that day was particularly nice, even though it was much shorter than most men wore theirs, made of undyed linen with red embroidery around the sleeve cuffs and neck. But he had ruined it with a ratty belt tied into a bow rather than a proper knot.
Ivan waved at Anya, then seemed to see the other girls for the first time. Olya and Mila giggled behind Anya as Ivan stared at Verusha, letting his arm drop. He stopped walking.
From the other end of the bridge, Ivan yelled, “Hello, Verusha!”
Verusha squeaked, then managed to say aloud, “Hello, Ivan!”
Olya and Mila both sighed. “Awwww.”
Anya groaned and kept herself from pinching the bridge of her nose. Now she was going to hear about nothing but Verusha all day from Ivan.
“I’m surprised to see you!” Ivan yelled, leaning against the bridge’s side.
Before Verusha could answer, Anya called, “Ivan, why don’t you come closer so you don’t have to yell?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Anya!” Ivan yelled even louder.
Verusha was wringing the hem of her apron and staring at Ivan with a goony smile, so Anya took her gently by the shoulders and turned her around. “You should go pick flowers.”
Verusha allowed herself to be turned around. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She tucked one braid behind her ear. “Will you tell him I said it was wonderful to see him?”
“I sure will,” Anya said. “Have fun picking flowers.”
Verusha nodded, grinning, and she went with Olya and Mila. They had barely stepped off the bridge when they started whispering to one another.
Ivan remained on the other side of the bridge, still leaning against the side. Anya trotted to him and said, “Why are you standing all the way over here?”
He watched the girls walk north and didn’t answer.
Anya snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Ivan!”
“Huh?” He looked down, startled, like he hadn’t noticed her there before. “Oh. Hi, Anya!”
“Why didn’t you come closer?”
He balked. “Come closer? To Verusha?” He whispered. “Because I like her.”
“Exactly,” Anya whispered back.
“I don’t think she likes me, though,” Ivan said.
Just then, the trio of girls squealed among themselves up the road. She could hear Verusha’s high-pitched triumphant declaration, “He’s so handsome!”
Anya stared at Ivan as he listened to Verusha’s squeal too.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ivan said.
Anya pushed past him toward the village. “You’re such an idiot.”
Ivan followed her, his too-short pants riding up past his calves with every step. “Thanks!”
Chapter Four
Baby Zinoviya was screaming so loudly, Anya heard her while she was still out on the road. A harried Sveta answered the door when Anya knocked. Zinoviya held on to Sveta’s leg, howling, face covered with tears.
“You’re a blessing,” Sveta breathed out. Her hair was partly braided but mostly loose, and her eyes were so dark, it looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She scooped Zinoviya up and cooed with a shaky voice, “Here, Zinya; here, myshka,” as she rubbed some of the potion inside the baby’s mouth.
Almost immediately, Zinoviya stopped crying. She smacked her lips, made a sound like she was about to start crying, but then changed her mind and quieted. Sveta laughed, sounding a bit on the verge of tears herself.
“Tell your mama she’s a miracle worker,” Sveta said.
Anya nodded. “I will.”
Sveta closed the door. Anya and Ivan continued into the village. It hummed as much as it normally did on a Thursday. It was nearly the equinox, so the villagers who were Slavists were preparing to celebrate. Dyedka would pray to some idols and get Babulya clucking at him about idolatry, like she did at every Slavist festival.
Anya was trying to figure out Ivan’s reasoning for standing so far away if Verusha liked him. “What difference does it make how close you stand?” Anya asked. “I could understand if you weren’t going to talk to her, but . . .”
“I don’t know,”
Ivan said. “I get nervous. What if she smells me and I smell bad? What if I have a booger?” He rubbed his nose. “What if—”
“Verusha wouldn’t care about any of that.” Anya rolled her eyes.
“How do you know?”
“Because she likes you!” Anya said. “She got all giggly. Did you not notice that?”
Ivan clutched his staff as he stared into the distance and whispered, “Anya, do I smell bad?”
She sighed. As they approached the mill, the door opened, and Sasha Melnik poked his head out. Even from her distance, she could make out the pimples all over his forehead. When he saw Anya, he lifted his hand and waved at her. She smiled and waved back.
He disappeared into the mill for a second, then came out with a sack of flour over one shoulder. “Anya! Hi!”
“Hi, Sasha,” Anya said. “I don’t have your potion yet. Astringents take more time. Mama says it will be done later.”
“Oh.” Sasha looked dejected for a second, then brightened again. “That’s okay. I’m just glad she’s helping me at all. Here.” He handed the flour to her. “Payment.”
She grunted as he dropped the flour in her arms. “Thanks.”
“Absolutely.” He beamed, then looked a little puzzled. “I swear I saw Ivan with you when you walked up.”
“He’s right—” Anya turned to where Ivan had been walking beside her, but he was gone. She turned, looking around, and caught him peering out from behind the butcher shop, way on the other end of the square.
When Ivan saw them looking at him, he ducked behind the shop wall for a moment, then peeked out again. “Hi, Sasha!”
Sasha waved a little, confused. “Hi, Ivan?”
“You look—” Ivan’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “You look well. Today. Sasha.” He slowly scooted behind the butcher shop again. “I dropped something over here, no need to help me look for it, bye!”
And then he was gone.
Anya rolled her eyes so hard, the backs of them hurt.
Sasha scratched his arm. “I guess he must have dropped something really important.”
“He must have,” Anya said.
Anya and the Nightingale Page 2