It took me a long time wandering, dazed, through the fog to lead Semchik back to the camp Aleksandr Artyomovich and I had made. We didn’t speak much. I knew Semchik was mad at me, but I ought to have been happy. This was what I wanted in the first place: to hunt with Semchik and keep him safe. I’d stumbled ass backwards into setting things right. I couldn’t understand why I felt unsettled, disappointed even.

Without Aleksandr Artyomovich’s supervisory eye, I wasted a lot more myortva, and with a day left before the week was up, I had to hunt a squirrel to suck out its quivering, nervous energy.

I tried to get Semchik to tell me what they had been fighting about, but he remained tight-lipped on the subject, which led me to believe that I was somewhere at the root of their quarrel. I couldn’t imagine why. We might not have gotten along, but I’d spoken to Ratty no more than was required of me since that night at the high table.

When the week was out, we packed up my things and Aleksandr Artyomovich’s things, and a cart picked us up at the nearest watch tower. The cart did not pick up Aleksandr Artyomovich and Ratty, so there was no chance of concealing our party rearrangements from Yelena. Thus: a chance to see Aleksandr Artyomovich get in real trouble.

As soon as we arrived at the Watchman’s Palace, Semchik went in to warm himself and get something to eat. I posted up on a barrel on the barn side of the barracks, gnawing on a long-since cold bun with goat meat, and watched with interest when I caught a glimpse of Aleksandr Artyomovich’s gleaming hair bobbing in the back of an approaching cart.

When Semchik and I arrived, Yelena’s assistant, Mariya, had been checking the hunters’ equipment and getting reports from them, but by the time Aleksandr Artyomovich and Ratty pulled up, Yelena herself had taken over the post.

I dared not get any closer lest the blame rebound on me, so I couldn’t hear anything after, “Aleksandr Artyomovich, I did not expect to see you with Filipp Artyomovich,” which Yelena called out before they even climbed off the cart. Ratty shied away from her anger like a skittish horse, but Aleksandr Artyomovich calmly collected his things (Semchik’s things, rather) and met Yelena where she stood at the back of the cart.

He bowed to her, for fuck’s sake.

They exchanged a few quiet words, nothing like the fireworks and beating I was hoping for, but then Yelena threw a glance over her shoulder. I decided that was my cue to make myself scarce, but I hadn’t gotten five feet before she called, “Iyu Aksanevich!”

There was no outrage in her voice, but there was a command. I glanced around at the exits, but there were Gorakino guards and veteran hunters milling about everywhere. I could run quickly enough that it would take them by surprise? Then I’d just be stuck in the cold somewhere, which sounded worse than a beating. There was no choice but to take it standing up.

I turned around and answered brightly, smile on my face. “Yes, Yelena Artyomovich?”

I could almost see her eyes roll at fifty paces. “Come here, please.”

I dragged my feet only a little bit as I walked over to them. Aleksandr Artyomovich stood there beside her, tall and straight, hands clasped behind his back as though he weren’t about to get his hide tanned, too.

When I fell into place beside him, Yelena crossed her arms over her chest and looked down her nose at us. “How did your hunt go?” she said eventually.

“It went well, Yelena Artyomovich,” I said, and then wished I’d let him talk first. I’d like to see how he tried to explain it.

“Well?” She raised her eyebrows at me.

“Yes, we killed many ghosts and suffered only—”

“That’s enough, Iyu Aksanevich. Aleksandr Artyomovich. Speak.” She gave him a nod.

He took a slow breath. “It was as Iyu Aksanevich has said. For four days, it was such.” He sounded like one of those mountain gurus in the stories. Speaking in riddles. Speaking like every word used myortva, like he was half-asleep to conserve physical energy. His half-lidded eyes shifted, I could have sworn, to me for only half a second. “On the fifth day, as we hunted, we heard cries for help and followed them. We found Filipp Artyomovich and Semyon Aksanevich there.” He paused.

I seized the opportunity. “They needed help with—”

“Thank you, Iyu Aksanevich; I’d like to hear from my brother on this matter.”

“They were fighting. Iyu Aksanevich and I became involved.”

“They were having a disagreement, and we helped them resolve it!”

“They were in the midst of a physical altercation, which Iyu Aksanevich and I joined. I ended the physical confrontation and determined that the safest course of action would be to separate Semyon Aksanevich and Filipp Artyomovich to prevent further violence.”

“Oh, you determined that, did you?” Yelena Artyomovich said.

“It was nothing,” I said. “They just needed to cool off. You wouldn’t think anyone could need to get cooler out here, but—”

“Filipp Artyomovich?”

He, having partially hidden himself behind Aleksandr Artyomovich, poked his head out to say, “Yes?” in a very small voice.

“Is that accurate?”

“It was Semyon Aksanevich’s fault,” he said. When Yelena did not look away, he added, “But yes, generally, that is accurate.”

“Go get Semyon Aksanevich,” she said. “I’ll deal with the two of you separately.”

Once Ratty had scarpered away, Yelena turned her gaze back to us.

She did not speak immediately, and I could not take her silence, so I said, “It was just a little argument.”

“A little argument, and the four of you decided to disobey my direct orders?”

“No, Yelena Artyomovich,” I said. “I mean, yes. Maybe I did, and maybe Aleksandr Artyomovich did, but Semyon Aksanevich and Filipp Artyomovich didn’t have direct orders from you. They only ended up together because their original partners were no longer available.”

“That’s a mistake I won’t make again,” she said. “You all should know you are not to leave your partner for any reason—so long as he is still living—while on a hunt.”

“Yes, Yelena Artyomovich,” we said together (well, nearly together. I spoke a lot faster than Aleksandr Artyomovich did).

“You two, as Iyu Aksanevich so graciously affirmed, did defy my direct orders, and based on that story, you didn’t even have a very good reason for it. Fights are bound to happen between hunting partners, Aleksandr Artyomovich, you should know this well.”

That pricked my ears, and I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, but his face was as stony as ever. When we both kept quiet, she continued. “I’ll put it to you. What punishment do you think you deserve?”

He looked like he was really thinking about it. Surely he wouldn’t say anything too terrible. After all, he was going to be punished, too. “I would consider either a night on the spire or an immediate return to the hunt to be appropriate,” he said finally.

“You can’t return to the hunt now. We don’t have the goats to spare,” Yelena said.

“We can hunt with our swords if we must.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Sashenka. But a night on the spire.” She looked thoughtful.

“What’s the spire?” I asked.

***

Aleksandr Artyomovich was trying to kill me.

Sure, this would be easy for him. He grew up in this miserable wasteland, frozen past the point of habitability, but I was of a more delicate constitution.

The spire, as you might imagine, was the tallest tower on the Watchman’s Palace grounds. Inside it was a watchtower. On top, there was nothing but a hatch and a flat, wooden roof. By the time we pushed through the hatch at twilight (with no supper, mind you), the wind was already whipping, pulling my hair out of its binding and pushing me with cold hands.

For a punishment to be both proper discipline and a deterrent for the others, it had to be a visible punishment. So all the other hunters still at the palace had to come to the base of the tower. I stepped as close to the edge as I was comfortable stepping and gave a wave and a smile. I could see mouths moving down below, but no one spoke loud enough I could hear over the bellowing wind.

Aleksandr Artyomovich had abandoned the showmanship he demonstrated by throwing Semchik and me halfway around the world and sat down on the snow-dusted roof, legs crossed and back straight.

“You’re making me colder just looking at you,” I said, and this time, when he didn’t look at me, I couldn’t tell if it was intentional or if he just couldn’t hear me.

I blew a raspberry and hopped in place to warm up, which was a bad sign. I had been out here five minutes, and already I couldn’t take the cold. “How do you do it? Aleksandr Artyomovich?”

I spoke louder this time, and he looked up at me without moving his head. “You are meant to take this time to think about your misdeeds.”

“What misdeeds?” I said. “I didn’t suggest we split up. That was all you, Sashenka.”

He shut his eyes, and I understood perfectly the rage contained by that action. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“No, you told me not to call you Sasha.”

He exhaled slowly from his nose, an act I was coming to understand as his refined version of a groan.

“Okay, not Sashenka, either. I guess only your sister gets to call you that. But what am I supposed to call you, then? Aleksandr Artyomovich is a mouthful.”

When he, predictably, neglected to respond, I said, “You can call me Yushechka.”

He could not contain a snort at that. “I will not.”

I grinned. “Why not? We’re friends.”

“We are not.”

This was the longest conversation I’d ever engaged him in, probably, and irritating him helped distract me from the cold. “What am I going to call you now that we’re such good friends?”

“Aleksandr Artyomovich.”

“It takes a year of my life to say that whole thing!”

“Then you don’t have to refer to me at all.”

“Aleksandr Artyomovich, that’s unfair. I’ll want to talk to everyone about you, so I can tell them of our great friendship.”

No response.

“Okay, okay. I’ll sit with you and think about my crimes.” I sat down close enough to him our knees were nearly touching. Though we were not actually touching, I swore I could feel him stiffen in the boards under us. If he moved away from me, that would be petty of him indeed. Unbecoming. But still, sitting this close seemed to physically pain him.

Unfortunately, sitting at all physically pained me. “Sashka—”

“No.”

“Aleksandr Artyomovich, how can you stand it? Or sit it, rather.” I laughed at a joke even I would not have made for any purpose but to annoy him. “The roof is so cold, if this is what we have to do all night, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to have children by the time we’re done.”

No response.

“Seriously, Aleksandr Artyomovich, when you stand up, are your balls gonna stick to the roof?”

At that, he stood up abruptly (apparently taking his balls with him) and moved to the other side of the roof.