He shrugged, not willing to debate the issue; he felt indifferent toward children, especially the ones who didn't talk yet. Instead, he listened to the voices rising all around him. Distracted by Hershel's story, he had missed something important, and now he strained to catch up. It seemed that Elena insisted that a foray to the surface was the best thing they could do, and the only question was who would lead this expedition. Definitely not Pan, Elena said. Pan, long-antlered and sad-eyed, sulked in a corner, his goat legs and human arms crossed in defiance.

It's nothing personal, Viy explained. Last time it was too chaotic, too disorganized. You just don't chase all your minions to the surface and make a colorful appearance that practically assures that you'll be mistaken for a devil or a hallucination. They could've saved more if they'd only sent someone more human-looking.

"Like you,” Pan said from his corner, to the general titter of laughter that fell silent as soon as Viy's attendants moved in with their pitchforks to lift his terrible eyelids.

"Viy does have a point,” Elena agreed, “especially considering that this is a mission of reconnaissance. We should send people. How about you, Fyodor?"

Fyodor did not expect that. “Me? Why?"

"Because,” Oksana said. “You came from the surface recently. And so did I."

"You can take my rats if you wish,” Sovin said. “I would come too, but-"

"It's all right,” Oksana interrupted. “Really, you don't have to make excuses. You can just not go."

"Can I do the same?” Fyodor asked.

"No,” Oksana said. “You haven't paid yet."

One had to pay for everything; Fyodor knew as much. What he didn't realize was that his suffering was trivial, that he was judged and found lacking. His little dull torments were deemed irrelevant, affectations of an essentially wealthy soul, deprived of abuse and true sorrow. He thought it strange to feel so guilty and undeserving, while his entire life was nothing but bleakness and slow descent to the lowest energy state imaginable. And what did he get for it? He was about to be thrust back into the seething gutter he had escaped, only a gypsy girl and a pack of rats for company and support.

"It's not so bad,” Oksana said and patted his hand carefully; suddenly, she was the strong and reassuring one, the one in control. “I'm sure it'll be all right."

"How do we get back to the surface?” Fyodor said.

"I don't know,” Oksana said, and looked expectantly at Elena.

Elena shrugged and looked at Pan.

Pan scoffed into his beer. “You don't want my help, you find someone you want."

"I can get you there,” Father Frost said. Even though he sat quite a long way away, by the bar, his voice boomed, and the top of his red hat was easy to spot. “As long as you don't mind an early winter."

Fyodor thought of the bums and beggars, of the long fluorescent tunnels of underground crossings and subway transfers. “Not too cold,” he pleaded.

"Not too cold,” Father Frost agreed. “But there will be snow."

It was night, and the moon was appropriately full. They walked out of the frozen forest-garlands and flowers and wondrous trees of pure ice, only to look back and see that the forest was just a layer of rime on a storefront window. Fyodor tilted his face upward, watching large wet snowflakes sift through low clouds, backlit with silvery moonlight.

"I missed this,” Oksana said, and shivered, her hands deep in the pockets of her worn jacket with bristling fake fur on the collar and patches on the elbows. “I really did."

"Me too, I suppose,” Fyodor said. He wondered briefly if his failure to be moved by the beauty of the snow and an unusually quiet night-only now he realized that the usual roar of traffic and an occasional drunken shout were silenced by the thick blanket of falling snow. He suspected that this inability to feel things like this was some sort of an inborn defect, and he wished he could do something about it, that he could learn to feel anything but the persistent fear of gypsies and the world as a whole.

The rats surrounded them like a dark puddle-they expanded and collapsed again, pressing close to each other and lifting their pink feet in turn, to keep them off the snow.

"We better get going,” Oksana said. “They're cold."

"Where are we going?” Fyodor asked.

"Where can we hide with a pack of rats? The tabor, I suppose."

Fyodor blew on his fingers. “Do you even know where they are?"

She shook her head. “It doesn't matter. We can go to any train station, see if there are gypsies there.” She looked up, at the skyline. “Kievskiy would be the closest. Let's see who we can find. Or we can try a park, if you prefer."

Fyodor followed her down the snow-covered street. The low wind raised brief vortices of snow; they reared up and fell again, weighted by the heavy thick flakes. Bad skiing weather, Fyodor thought, the snow is too heavy and wet. It would get stuck to the skis in great heavy clumps.

The rats pressed closer to Oksana's feet, trying to find cover under her skirt and the heavy hem of the coat. Some grew bold enough to jump on Fyodor's shoes and squeeze up, under his trouser legs, their fur surprisingly warm and soft against the skin. With a sigh, he scooped up a few and put them in his pockets. Others saw it as an invitation and climbed on his shoulders and under the thick quilted jacket he had borrowed from Sovin, too long in the sleeves and narrow in the chest.

"They like you,” Oksana said, smiling. The white snow settled on her black hair, crusting it with a thick translucent crown as it melted and froze again.

What about you? he wanted to ask, but could never make his tongue turn to utter these words. It was better to wonder silently, than to be assured once and forever that his inability to feel rendered him unlikable; he never tried to ponder the paradox of his indifference and his intense desire to be liked by someone, even a gypsy-especially a gypsy.

Galina dreamt of Masha again. In her mind, she still saw a jackdaw, huge and swollen with disease, but with her human arms, full and smooth just like Galina remembered. “Sister, sister,” Masha cried. “Why won't you help me?"

"I'm coming for you!” Galina yelled, and woke with the sound of her voice still ringing in her ears, her throat hoarse.

She sat up and looked at the frozen forest outside of Berendey's house window. They had decided to spend the night here, but any delay grated on Galina, like a hard shoe against tender skin. Every day felt like a nightmare where she was wading through molasses even though every fiber of her soul screamed for her to run like the wind.

She had spent all night going from one bird to the next, all of them still perching around Berendey's dead body which Yakov had covered with a sheet. Galina looked at every jackdaw, calling her sister's name, but none of them answered; they just watched her with shining black eyes.

"It's no use,” Koschey said. “Get some sleep; the morning is wiser than the night."

She couldn't help but smile at the familiar words-in every fairytale it was true, and the hero woke up to find the impossible task done. Maybe she would wake up too, and find herself back at home, with Masha pregnant and safe and sound; even waking in the hospital bed didn't seem too terrible. To save her sister, she would welcome such an outcome. She loved her enough to trade her own sanity for Masha's safe return.

The morning came, and she was still in the forest underground, cramped from sleeping on the floor of Berendey's kitchen. God, she whispered, I swear to you, if you let Masha be safe, I won't mind spending my whole life in the hospital and I swear I will never complain.