C. Cherryh - Yvgenie

“She’s wished—” Sasha stopped for another breath, and there was such fear in Sasha’s expression his heart went cold. “She’s left me to make the decision with Ilyana. She says I’m the only one—and she’s the unstable point—I don’t know how she knows that. —Eveshka, dammit—”

She was gone. She wanted him to know in parting—he heard her speaking clear as clear—

I love you, Pyetr. I can’t come home till things are changed.

Come to me if there’s no other hope. But Sasha will be gone then, and your life and your soul will be in danger.

Most of all, don’t rely on Ilyana. Don’t. You don’t imagine what she can do to you.

Warn Sasha—

What? he wanted to ask her. Warn Sasha of what?

But her heart had left him by then.

Waking up was like any morning at first, with the birds under the eaves, and all, but that was only for a breath or two.

Then Ilyana realized that something was weighing down her bed on one side and she remembered—

Her father was sitting on the edge of her bed. Her father looked tired and sad, and he brushed her hair away from her face and asked:

“How are you, Ilyana?”

He almost never called her name unless she was in trouble; no one did, except her mother; but she was in trouble with her mother so often she could never tell what her mother meant.

She was certainly in trouble with her mother now. Mother and father had had a terrible fight, so bad uncle had had to hold her—

She did not even remember going to sleep. But her father was all right this morning. That was the important thing. She was glad he was all right.

She could not tell about her mother. Her mother was being very quiet this morning. That probably meant she was mad.

And her friend was gone. Her mother had banished him. Maybe forever.

A tear rolled down her face, just spilt, without her even thinking about it.

Damn.

She wanted not to cry. That stopped the tears, but it did not cure the feeling that lay cold as a stone in the middle of her chest.

“Ilyana?”

“Mother’s mad, isn’t she? I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad you’re sorry, mouse.” He touched her under her chin. “Fact is—I want you to be very calm now and don’t wish anything—”

That always meant something terrible. She wanted him to say it—fast and plain.

“Your mother’s left, mouse. She’s gone out on the river.”

“There’s a vodyanoi!”

“I know it. She knows it. But the greater danger’s here.”

“Me.” Things were her fault, they were always her fault, dammit!

“Mouse, I want you to think as kindly toward her as you can. And be very honest with me—please be honest. Do you promise?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Her father patted her hand. “It’s all right.”

“What are you saying, that I made her leave?” Her father was mad at her. Her father was treating her the way her mother did when no one cared what was right, her father had his opinion, and that was her mother’s doing, dammit, no telling what her mother had told him except it was Ilyana’s fault, everything was always Ilyana’s fault—her mother arranged it that way.

Another tear spilled, plop, down her cheek.

“Don’t cry,” her father wished her. But her wishing had to stop it. He gathered her up, covers and all, and held her und rocked her, while she laid her head on his shoulder dry-eyed and thought how she wanted—

No. She mustn’t think bad thoughts. Mustn’t want people hurt.

Even her mother, for trying to take her father away from her for good, and for pulling a tantrum and making him blame her, when it was all her mother’s fault.

Her mother never wanted anybody to like her, her mother never, ever wanted her to have anybody, and if she had not fought back and if it were not for uncle Sasha, her mother would have made her father mad at her forever and driven him away. As it was, she was just miserable, and upset, and she wanted—

—wanted her friend back.

Mouse, her uncle reprimanded her. No!

Uncle Sasha believed she was wrong. Everyone did. All the time.

Even when she loved them. Her mother took everything she ever wanted away from her and nobody was ever on her side. She had no idea why her mother wanted her to be alone or why everyone thought she was a fool or why they always protected her mother.

Her uncle said, inside her head, Mousekin, don’t think like that. Absolutely we’re listening to you. But you have been wrong a couple of times in your life. Haven’t you?

She had to admit yes, but she still refused to believe it tin time. She told her uncle: I’ve been seeing my friend every spring, every spring since I was little. And he’s never hurt me. I don’t know why he would now.

She embarrassed her uncle. She caught something about her being grown-up now and grown-up girls being an entirely different question with a rusalka.

If men can be rusalki: that thought came through the confusion, too. Her uncle was not entirely sure that was possible.

So maybe you’re wrong about what he is. So there, uncle. Who’s not listening, now?

That was impertinent, her mother would say. That would get her sent to her room if her mother were here. Which her mother was not, this morning. And she was already in her room, with her father stroking her hair and saying:

“Dear mouse, don’t give me trouble, please don’t give me trouble today. Your mother’s gone away so you’ll have some rest and quiet. And we’ll talk about it, if you like—”

If I don’t like, too…

“But mostly, right now, mouse, I just want you to dry your eyes and come have breakfast and let’s not worry about it.”

He can only come here a few days more. And then it’s another year. And I can’t even talk to him—

Not wise, her uncle said.

Leave me alone! she wished him.

But she did not completely mean that. She really did not completely mean that.

“Breakfast?” her father asked.

She nodded against his shoulder. And wished her uncle not to be mad at her, which he was kind enough to tolerate.

“I’ll make breakfast,” Sasha insisted; and Pyetr decided to help—

Cleverly, he thought, because Ilyana needed something to take her mind off the situation—and two men trying to find essentials in her mother’s carefully arranged shelves had her off the bench in short order, had her protecting her mother’s things; and perhaps, a devious man could surmise, beginning to want her mother back when it came to overdone cakes for breakfast, because two men who very well understood campfire cooking were not going to put off breakfast-making on a child who had not been well, no, absolutely not. They could make breakfast, they had done it before.

And of course they would clean up.

Babi sulked about the cakes. Babi still had extras and got tipsy on vodka. And the batter spilled across the hearth would eventually clean away, even though it had cooked on, between the stones, where no mop could reach it.

The domovoi complained, too, about the smoke.

And Ilyana sat at the table with her chin on her hands and watched, back and forth, back and forth like a cat.

“You’re trying to make me want her back,” Ilyana said.

“It wouldn’t be nice to spy on your father,” Pyetr said.

She said, chin on fist now, frowning, “I didn’t.” And winced and shut her eyes as pottery clattered. “Uncle—”

“It didn’t break,” Sasha said.

“Mother’s going to blame me. She always does.”

“Nothing’s broken,” Pyetr said. “And your mother won’t blame you. I take all responsibility. Why don’t you run down lo the stable and bridle up the horses?”