An evening storm blasted Ovchinin Island with snow, and Vika huddled inside her cottage by the pech. She wore her thickest sweater, a scarf, and a hat Ludmila had knit for her years ago. On top of that, she’d wrapped herself in Father’s favorite blanket, a fraying thing he’d brought back from one of his scientific expeditions to the Kamchatka Peninsula, and it seemed that the memory of Sergei was one of the only things that kept Vika from shivering to death.
The storm grew angrier and shook her house. Its bitter wind suddenly found every exposed crevice in the walls and howled its way in. Without thinking, Vika snapped her fingers to seal the cracks near the windows.
The bracelet immediately seared her skin.
“Agh!” Vika crumpled on the floor, clutching her arm while also calling off the enchantment on the house. The cuff stopped burning.
But because she could not use magic to heal herself, Vika didn’t stop hurting. Tears streamed down her face as pain continued like hot irons on her skin. She curled on the rug, teeth clenched as she tried to bear the lingering heat.
I’m just an ordinary girl now. Vika nearly choked on the thought, and she curled more tightly on the rug, attempting to hold herself together.
And the pain wouldn’t go away. She hugged her singed arm against her chest and sucked in short breaths through her teeth.
“Vee-kahhh!” Ludmila’s singsong call cut through the storm outside. “I brought you supper, my sunshine.” Her ruddy face, wrapped in a fur-lined hood, peered in through the window. “Oh my goodness—!”
The baker shoved open the front door and rushed to Vika on the floor. She tossed aside the parcel she carried and gathered Vika into her bosom. “What happened?”
“Burnt . . .” Vika forced herself to release her arm from her chest and show Ludmila her wrist. It was covered by the bracelet, but Ludmila would know what she meant.
Ludmila cradled her arm. “Did you cool it with water?”
Vika shook her head. Cool it with water? Was that what normal people did?
The horror of being ordinary slammed into her again, as viciously as the storm pummeled everything outside. She slumped.
“Wait here.” Ludmila gently laid Vika on the rug, grabbed a large mixing bowl off the counter, and hurried out the front door. A minute later, she returned with a bowl full of snow, which she set on the floor at Vika’s side. She added some water from the pitcher on the kitchen table. “Now give me your wrist.”
Ludmila plunged her arm into the bowl. The icy water rushed all around Vika’s singed skin. She gasped at the cold.
But slowly, the pain gave way to a chilly numbness, and she could breathe more fully again.
“Better?” Ludmila asked, as she dabbed at Vika’s wrist with a towel.
“Yes, thank you. It still hurts, but it’s better.”
“It will probably scar.”
Vika’s unharmed hand went to her collarbone.
Ludmila’s eyes widened. “Oh, my sunshine, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right,” Vika said, even though it wasn’t. The crossed wands of the Game had been when everything not all right had begun. “I’m just glad you came when you did.”
“Me too. I’m also glad I brought you food.” Ludmila got to her feet and picked up the brown paper parcel she’d tossed aside when she first came in. She offered her hand and helped Vika up and to the table.
“I thought a fresh Borodinsky loaf and sausages might cheer you up. And it’s a good thing I brought oreshki cookies with me, too. You could certainly use some of those.” Ludmila unwrapped the package and laid supper out before them.
Just listening to the warm, musical lilt of Ludmila’s voice felt like a breakthrough of sunbeams, however weak. A hint of a smile touched Vika’s mouth as she settled in at the table, tenderly resting her burnt wrist on the tablecloth. She picked up one of the walnut-shaped confections, its two halves stuck together with rich caramel, and nibbled at it. The sugar touched her tongue and then went straight through her veins to her wrist. Or so it seemed. Cookies really were the best medicine.
“I can’t believe you trekked all the way up here,” Vika said.
Ludmila kissed her on the head.
Vika melted.
“Will you be all right if I leave you? One of my customers’ nieces is getting married tomorrow, and I still have to bake all the sweets for the wedding. If you need me, though—”
“I’ll be fine, thank you. Now that the worst of the pain is past, I can make a poultice for the burn using one of Father’s herbal compounds. But really, truly, thank you. You’re so busy, yet you still traipsed through a storm to bring supper.”
Ludmila shrugged. “I love you, my sunshine. And that’s what happens when you love someone. Sacrifices stop being sacrifices simply because they make you happy. Caring for you makes me happy. So it’s not a sacrifice. It’s what I want to do.”
Vika set the rest of her cookie on the table and threw her arms around Ludmila. The melting snow on Ludmila’s cloak pressed cold and wet against her, but Vika didn’t care. All she wanted was to hug this incredible woman, who was not her mother but was, Vika realized, better. Ludmila had been here Vika’s entire childhood, as had Sergei. Perhaps this was why, even after the revelation that Sergei was not her biological father, Vika hadn’t felt the need to know or search for her supposedly “real” parents. Ludmila and Sergei were more real than anyone else could ever be.
Vika buried her face against Ludmila’s soft chest. “I don’t know who I am without magic.”
Ludmila stroked the black streak in her hair. “We are not defined by what we can do, but by what we actually do. You’re a fierce, smart girl, Vika, and you will find a way to make your mark even without magic in your veins. I know who you are. And I think whatever happens next will help you see who you are, too.”
Vika lingered in Ludmila’s embrace, comforted by her caramel-scented warmth. Vika still felt hollow inside, but at least she knew this was home.
A moment later, she released Ludmila. “I suppose I ought to let you return to the bakery. Bolshoie spasiba for helping with the burn, and for supper.”
Ludmila flicked a finger under Vika’s chin. “Hold your head high, my sunshine. Remember, it’s not magic that defines you. It’s you that defines you. That’s all the truth that there is.”
Vika watched as Ludmila left and hiked back down the snowy hill. Thankfully, the storm had slowed to a flurry. When she was gone, Vika returned to the kitchen.
Her wrist hurt, but not as much anymore. She made a poultice with herbs from various glass jars Father had kept in the cabinet, and wrapped the cool bandage around her forearm and bracelet. Then she sliced the Borodinsky bread Ludmila had brought, heated a sausage, and made tea.
Vika sat down near the pech, warmed by the fire, and took a bite of her bread, chewing thoughtfully.
She might not have been able to use magic, but Ludmila was right—she wasn’t powerless, either. I am who I make myself to be. She finished her bread and sausage and sipped at her tea.
Then Vika smiled, picked up an oreshki cookie, and popped the entire thing in her mouth.
It was time to figure out what, exactly, she was going to do, and who she was going to be.