Over the next weeks, I didn’t see much of Aksana except at dinner, where I sat far enough away that I couldn’t talk to her.

This would have been fine, but for the fact that every morning, after I felt the sun on my face and rubbed the sleep from my eyes and my consciousness settled into reality, a cold feeling of dread crept over me. I told myself that there was no reason for Vasilij to say anything now if he hadn’t already, but I couldn’t tamp down the dread.

I beat it back by bothering Yuliya whenever possible—at least that first morning, I had an excuse; she still had to fix my ankle—getting her to explain the manacles and anything else she knew about the returner. She was as impatient as ever with me, but she couldn’t help being excited by her discoveries, and once she forgot about me and focused on them, she could talk for hours. I took notes. They still weren’t sure how to get more, or how to counter the retuner’s effects, though.

The returner bottles were in a pouch on my belt now that I couldn’t reasonably wear a coat everywhere, and whenever they clinked together, I felt like everyone in a ten-mile radius could hear.

There was lobelia and mariweed in the hills north of Whitecap City, and I liked my chances of making the emetic much better than I did my chances of making a pair of manacles, so I packed for fishing and took a walk, telling Alyoshka to stay at home because I wanted a hot bath ready for me when I got back. (He was relieved. He’d never say so, but accompanying me on fishing trips had never been his favorite activity.)

I busied myself with these things, but the second I had a quiet moment, the dread came back.

I itched to send Sanya a message, but I didn’t know what to say. It would be read first by someone else. That’s if it got there at all. Aksana hadn’t said anything about the one I sent her. Maybe I wasn’t strong enough.

In the end, I sent a message that said, “Aleksandr Artyomovich—I’ve made it to Khorizova. It’s much warmer here. How are things in Gorakino? –Iyu Aksanevich.”

Anyone else who read it would just think I was irritating and frivolous. Sanya would, too, but if he wrote me back, at least I’d know he hadn’t been… I don’t know, arrested or mysteriously killed on a hunt. He’d know that’s why I was writing, right?

Sanya. Sanya! Please don’t be locked up or dead.

Why was I being so stupid? Of course Sanya wasn’t in jail; it sounded like Artyom didn’t know anything about Vasilij’s suspicions (yet), and Vasilij couldn’t just go arresting the knyaz’s nephew without questions being asked. So, if anything, Sanya had met with an unfortunate accident and wouldn’t be answering messages from anyone anymore.

It wasn’t until my third day back at the palace, already buzzing with undirected nervous energy, that I finally cornered Semchik. I had to wake up earlier than I ever wanted to, but I caught him in his rooms, tea still brewing.

As was so frequently the case with servants around here, Semchik’s—Oleg—was reluctant to let me in, but Semchik (reluctantly himself, I was sure) waved him off.

“Semchik!” I threw my arms open at him.

He accepted a tentative hug, his undershirt still hanging open. “Yusha. It’s good to see you.” His voice was warm in my ear, and I was gratified to find that I was catching up to him in height, though not yet in breadth (not ever in breadth, as it would turn out, but I still had hopes, then).

“It’s hard to get a moment of your time these days,” I said, flopping down on the foot of his bed. “You’re very big and important now. And I do mean big. Physically.”

He turned to the bronze mirror on a stand to continue dressing. “Mama needs a lot of my time now.” He paused, then added, “It’s exhausting.”

“I guess being a knyaz must be. You know, growing up, I could never figure out what they did. I’m still not entirely sure.” I lounged back. The bed was still unmade, still held traces of his body heat.

“I spend all day with her, and I don’t know, either.” I could hear the hint of a smile more than I could see it in his blurry reflection.

I sighed. “At least you look the part. What do you do all day, then?”

“Whatever Mama tells me to.”

“What does she do all day?”

“Trim her toenails. Is this what you came here at the crack of dawn to ask me?”

“No, I came here at the crack of dawn because that’s the only time I can see you, apparently. If I’m supposed to be your right hand when you’re knyaz, I ought to see you occasionally.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said absently as Oleg brought him his shirt.

I sat up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stopped Oleg from helping him into the shirt. “Nothing, just—I know Mama’s always had it in her head that’s what things are going to be like, but…”

“But what?”

“You don’t have to act like you want to do it. You’d never want to sit through all the boring, administrative stuff that has to be done. All the flattering and appeasing.”

“I’m good at flattering! And I want to help you. Maybe I could if Mamushka would let me tag along with you.”

“You could have if you didn’t get yourself kidnapped and then start acting weird and defying Mama at every turn. I hoped Gorakino was working for you, but now you’re back here, so it can’t be going that well.”

“I’m back here to see my family,” I said.

“Yes, you ran home on a broken ankle in two days just to see us.”

“It’s been over a year. I’ve done well there for over a year; you can ask Mariya Artyomovich.”

“I’m trying to tell you I don’t mind. It’s not… It’s never been in your character to sit and…” His hand churned the air, looking for the words. “Consider. And that’s all we do all day.”

“Okay, so you do the considering, and I’ll do what you tell me.”

“Following orders has never been in your character, either.”

“I can do what you ask me to.”

“It’s okay, really. I know you don’t want the responsibility.”

“I don’t want the responsibility?” I scoffed.

“Of course you don’t. Who would?” He finally turned to face me. “You can just live your life. If things are going so well there, you can go back to Gorakino and hunt ghosts with Aleksandr Artyomovich and be happy.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No, it’s not what I want. I want the old Iyu back, the Iyu from before Veliko and Gorakino, and all of it. But even then, Yusha, even then, do you really think you’re cut out for a lifetime of serving me? What a stupid idea. Who could want that, but out of everyone in the world, you must want it least of all.”

“I want to help you, Semchik. You’re my brother. I love you.”

“Do you? You want to help me now, but the second I’m out of your sight, you’ll forget all about me. You’ll find something else to care about.”

I sat there stunned.

“You’re upset,” he said, his heavy brows softening. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings; I’m trying to set you free. Go do what you want. You don’t have to worry about me.”

I looked up at him. Though he towered over me from this position, with his eyebrows in those sympathetic curves, his face still rounded with the last vestiges of childhood, he looked like a boy still. He still looked like that boy I’d been raised knowing it was my duty to protect.

“Semchik, do you ever want things to be different? When you’re knyaz. What would you change?”

“Change? I have no idea. I’m still trying to figure out how things work the way they are.”

I nodded.

“Please don’t start—please—see, this is what I’m talking about. You say these things, and they sound innocent enough, but then I think about it, and after everything, it starts to sound sinister.”

Sinister! I stood up. “Are you ever gonna trust me again?”

“I want to. I don’t know, maybe it’s just gonna take time.”

“You know… I was the one who was kidnapped. I’m the one who should have problems trusting.”

“You do. Ever since Veliko you don’t trust any of us to know what’s right anymore, and I don’t know why. I’m not the one who took you, and neither is Dasha, or Mama. None of us are responsible for that.”

“I know that, Semchik,” I snapped. “It’s been made very clear to me that it’s no one’s fault but my own, and that I still need to be punished for that.”

“You don’t—let’s just give it time, okay? If you still want to help me, do what you said you would do. Go finish in Gorakino. Go finish something.”

***

I didn’t feel like getting slapped in the face more that day, so I left after that. I didn’t storm out; I told him I didn’t want to keep him from his business and excused myself.

I wondered, on the way back to my rooms to go back to sleep, how much of that conversation was going to be common knowledge around the palace, via Oleg, by the time I woke up again.

After that, it was a struggle every day not to leave, but it was a struggle easily overcome with enough yasno. I knew three weeks could fly by that way, and I knew I was going to stay the three weeks. If I left before then, Aksana would know something was wrong. Once I left, I’d have a few days before anyone in Gorakino noticed I wasn’t back. Sanya told me to stay in Khorizova, but it was clear I couldn’t do that. Maybe I could have gone back to Gorakino, but what could be done there, now, with Vasilij breathing down our necks? I couldn’t walk back into a trap I’d just escaped.

And Sanya?

He had not responded to my message, if he indeed received it. Perhaps sending anything at all had been a mistake. Perhaps it was best if he could pretend he barely knew me. He had no idea what I was doing. He said it was a dream. He said they would always win. He said it was time to wake up.

I had to trust him to take care of himself. He was safer if I weren’t around. What could Vasilij get from him without me?

If I couldn’t go back to Gorakino, and I couldn’t stay in Khorizova, there was only one place I could go.

No, that’s not true. There was another option. I thought, at night, when I tried to drink myself to sleep, about going up the coast, into those hills north of Whitecap. I didn’t remember how to get to my mother’s home, but I felt certain that I would recognize it when I saw it. I’d recognize those hills, the little window between them where we could see the sea, the dead tree hanging off the slope.

But what could my mother do? I hadn’t seen her since I was eight. But I knew if I suggested teaching her myortva—I could see in my head as clearly as if it were yesterday, the blackberry wine flying across the room, cup smashing on the wall by my head. The splash of it on my cheek, sticking out my tongue to lick a drop of it, sweet and sticky.

She wouldn’t see me, anyway. She wouldn’t even recognize me. Would I recognize her? In my memory, she was the biggest person in the world—very nearly the only person in the world: tall, dark hair in a long braid down her back. I thought she was very old then, but how old was she, really? The picture in my mind, I could add and subtract wrinkles at will and didn’t know where to stop. I could only settle on high, broad cheekbones. Sunspots across her nose, a square, angular jaw. Quick, bony hands fast enough to catch me no matter how sneaky I thought I was being.

All of that was just idle daydreaming. Even if I would recognize the hill and the house, I didn’t know how to find it, and it wouldn’t do anyone any good, even if I could. If my mother were interested in seeing me, I’d know by now. If my mother could do anything about anyone’s problems, I never would have been taken to Whitecap in the first place.