Yvgenie (25 page)

Wishes in that house had been directing their lives from generations before she was even born or her father or Sasha had ever come to live there. Magic in that house was all about her, attached to the china, the doors, stitched into the clothes she wore—magic there must always be more convolute than she knew, different than she could possibly understand. She could feel it tonight reaching even into the woods—and most of it was her mother's, she knew that now. All her life her mother had told her not to use magic, but her mother had been doing it all along, so subtly no one could catch her. Her mother had expected evil of her; her mother was afraid of anybody who wanted something in the least different than she did, that was the trouble with her mother: her mother wanted every living thing in the world to do what
she
wanted forever, to live all their lives as
she
wanted—that was how her mother's presence felt in the house, now that she had felt its absence.

Her mother did not want to be known, uncle had admitted to her: her mother would never give her heart to a child, in any sense—because, for one thing, no one
ever
did anything good enough for her mother. No one could: her mother trusted no one. Her mother's magic would strangle her, snarl her in its tangled threads and smother her father and her uncle
if they tried to protect her, unless she could find somewhere a place those wishes had never reached—

Don't trust her, papa, don't listen to her, she's so scared, and so strong, and she
wants,
papa, she
wants,
stronger than I can deal with—stronger even than uncle can deal with—

The mouse could never hurt anyone. But her mother had always believed she would hurt her father—and now, dammit, mostly thanks to her mother, she had done that, in every sense. Beliefs, she meant to write in her book, can come true like wishes, when you put them on people.

But her father and her uncle had refused to listen to a child. They had only worried about her mother's feelings, and her mother's hurt, and never, ever thought their fifteen-year-old daughter might understan
d a danger everybody older had f
ailed to see.

The mouse was running away now, because she could not s
t
ay the mouse anymore, not after her mother had wanted her father to kill an innocent boy only for being near her. A wish like that could come true years from now, and they would never, never know when, or how, even if her father might
like
Yvgenie and never want to harm him: he could
st
ill, within that wish, be responsible for an accident.

She would find her Place, she would make a house of her own, the way her uncle had had his house on the hill (and
still
that had not proved safe). She had no idea whether her mother had had anything to do with that storm, but she had
her
suspicions and she meant to keep a further distance than her uncle had if it w
as only a lean-to in the woods. She would
have
this boy and Babi and Patches and the white mare, and
once
things were settled and she was sure her wishes were
str
ong enough
to protect them, then her father and her uncle
could
visit her house and say how well she was looking; and
he
would cook supper for them, yes, and ask how her mother w
as
, and whether her mother was speaking to her yet—

He
r mother was loosing the cable that bound the boat to
the
dock. Above the steady creak of saddles and the jingle of
bridle rings came the sinister lapping of water and the groan of old timbers—

Ilyana, come out of the dark and the silence,
Ilyana
, you're wrong.
Listen
to me while you still
can
listen. You're making wrong choices. He's already led you to hurt your father.

She didn't
want
to hear. No! She made her silence back again, but anger was a flaw, wondering about her f
a
ther was—

Your father trusted you, and now he can't believe you: that's the first thing you've done. You hurt him and you hurt your uncle, who could have been seriously hurt, young miss, and you're not thinking about anything right now but your own way. That's wrong. Look at what you're doing. Are you acting like the daughter we taught?

‘
No!
’
she screamed aloud to the dark, struggling to keep her wits about her, and not to hear the river or the reproach in her mother's voice.
‘
You don't love anything! You don't care! You're the one that's selfish, mother, you're the one that's taking over everything and killing everything! I'd talk to you if I could, but I can't, I can't trust your promises! If I came back we'd fight, and that wouldn't be good,
would
it, mother, because
somebody
might stop you from having your own way,
somebody
might tell you how you've hurt my father and my uncle all my life! Papa can't laugh with you. But he can with me, mother!
Stop wishing at him! Don't tell me who's hurting him!'
'

‘
God,
’
Yvgenie whispered, as the wind skirled round them and caught at the horses' manes and sifted leaves down through the branches. Patches sidestepped and Ilyana held her in: her mother called that wind and wanted the horses to take fright and leave them. Her mother wanted harm to Yvgenie; but she wanted
not.
Patches was
hers,
Yvgenie was
hers,
the white mare was
his,
and her mother could keep her distance.—Dammit, just let us alone! Give me time! Give me
room,
mother! If you ever want to hear from me again, give me room! Patches shivered under her. The smothering feeling went
away, like a cloud passing the moon, and Owl glided close, making an entire turn about them.

‘
Yvgenie, it's all right. It's all right. Don't worry.
’

‘
I'm not afraid,
’
he said, and added, with a stammer,
‘
except of wizards. And ghosts.—Can your mother really hear you like that?
’

‘
She can hear me,
’
she said.
‘
But she's not listening.
’
She wished not to shed the tears she found in her eyes.
‘
She never listens.
’

Yvgenie said, faintly,
‘
Maybe we should go back and talk with your father. Even if he's not happy with me right now.''

‘
No!
’
She shook her head and wiped her eyes and lifted her chin.
‘
Someone's needed to tell my mother no for a long time. Papa can't. Uncle can't. But I have. And by the god I will.
’

‘
I don't get a sense of where they are at all,
’
Sasha said as Pyetr came down from the porch with the baggage. Eveshka was already down at the shore—well away by now, Pyetr was sure.

‘
Fine,
’
he said, handing up Sasha's baggage to him on Missy's back.
‘
In the woods. That's where they are. Going north, with a long head start.—Where are the leshys? What's Misighi doing, for the god's sake? If she's holding a silence out there, haven't they noticed?
’

‘
Not that I can tell. But I did hear her—just a moment ago, and I don't think she intended that. I don't really get the idea we're unwelcome to follow her, either. It's a very odd feeling. A spooky kind of feeling, to tell the truth.
’

‘
It's her mother she doesn't want to meet,
’
Pyetr muttered. He flung two of their heavier bags up onto Volkhi's back and tied them down tight.
‘
I can't say I blame her, all things considered. Sasha, if you get another chance, tell her
I’ll
come ahead and talk to her, myself, alone, no magic, nothing of the sort—
’