Father Frost raged and promised early and cruel winters, and the leshys ventured to the surface woods, to lead away and confuse the invading armies. And Gamayun was the one who screamed and hissed and promised fire, and she was the one who disappeared on the day Moscow burned and smoldered, and Napoleon took the city, then not much more than a handful of cinders.

"And now there's a Napoleonic bayonet and birds,” Galina said to Zemun. “Do you think there's a connection?"

Koschey sneered at her from his considerable height. “Did you think of it all by yourself? Or do you really think that stating the obvious is somehow helpful?"

"We didn't know about Gamayun,” Yakov said. “If it was so obvious to you, why didn't you mention it?"

"Because it's not obvious,” Zemun said. “I haven't thought of this in a while."

Galina turned to Yakov; even though she doubted his overall competence, he was her main hope in finding Masha. “What do you think?” she said.

He opened his mouth but Sergey the rook interrupted. “You all jump to conclusions too quickly,” he said. “Napoleonic bayonets? You can buy them; so many people collect antique weapons nowadays. Why do you think that everything has something to do with your private obsession?"

Galina swallowed and fell silent. Sergey was right, she thought; she had seen everything as a sign, as a personal message that would lead her to her sister. She was no different from the people she'd seen in the hospital, the ones who received secret communications on TV and saw every minor event as a coded message meant for them alone. She remembered a woman who always sat by the TV every Saturday, waiting for the announcement of winning lottery numbers. She never bought any tickets as far as anyone knew; but she wrote the numbers down anyway, and deciphered them, her brow furrowed and her lips moving in tortured concentration. Galina was just like her, and once again she looked at Zemun and Koschey, wondering whether they were really there.

Yakov touched her hand, his fingers rough and leathery. “Don't listen to him,” he said. “What does he know?"

"I watched the same TV show as you,” Sergey the rook said. “And they always try to make you think that you understand how it works, and you rely on it, and it always backfires when you need it to work the most."

"Will you three just stop that?” Zemun said, her usual docility broken. “Stop trying to guess; it's not a game. There are no rules. It's about our lives too, and they are as important as yours."

Koschey nodded. “You people always think it's all about you. Like we're here just to entertain you. You haven't thought that Berendey was my friend, have you?"

"You didn't seem too upset,” Sergey squawked.

"Most of us are dead,” Koschey said. “At some point, histrionic displays just run out. It doesn't mean that one isn't mourning."

Galina looked up at the rust-colored leaves-winter had ended, either due to Berendey's passing or Father Frost's absence-and fall foliage spread yellow and orange as far as the eye could see. Squirrels, their tails as bright orange as the leaves of oaks and ashes, ran up and down the trunks, stopping only to screech and chitter their disapproval at the travelers passing by.

There was a rustling in the branches of the tree they were passing under. Galina looked up, only to meet the gaze of a pair of incredibly large and yellow eyes slit by vertical pupils. A tiger, she thought. While she didn't expect to meet one in this climate zone, she was underground, where stranger things were common. Still, she wasn't sure if the thing in the tree was dangerous, and she remained standing.

"What's the holdup?” Yakov said once he realized Galina wasn't following.

She pointed wordlessly, and Zemun looked up and laughed.

"That's Bayun,” she said. “Come down, cat, and tell us what you've seen."

The Cat Bayun descended from the tree in two graceful leaps. He turned out to be considerably smaller than a tiger, but much larger than a housecat-as big as a collie, Galina decided. He arched his striped back and yawned, his claws digging at the ground, as if plucking invisible guitar strings. His gaze never left Galina's, and his lip hitched up, exposing long sharp mother-of-pearl canines. “I haven't seen nothing,” he said in a husky, almost adolescent voice. “What are you looking for?"

Galina had heard about Bayun before, but she could not remember whether he was supposed to be good or evil. While Zemun explained the situation to him she tried to figure out whether she should be afraid of the strange talking cat-he seemed menacing. “Excuse me,” she whispered to Yakov. “Do you know anything about Bayun?"

"Not much,” he answered. “I think when he sings he can put you to sleep, and he is supposed to live in Thrice-Ninth Kingdom."

"He's also related to Scandinavian myth,” Koschey said. “His children are the two cats that pull Freya's chariot; at least, according to some sources."

"I hadn't realized Russian fairytales were related to other religions,” Yakov said.

Koschey laughed. “You're kidding, right? Most of Russia's pagan gods were borrowed from elsewhere-Scandinavia, Phoenicia, Greece, Egypt… you name it. There's very little original folklore here."

Galina thought it strange that mythological creatures were capable of discussing their own origins. But then again, why wouldn't they be? “Is it true that he can put people to sleep?” she asked Koschey.

He nodded, and picked up a robust, rust-colored leaf off the ground, twirled it between two fingers. “It is not just the sleeping,” he said, and smiled a wan smile. “It's the dreaming you should be interested in. He can make your dreams… worthwhile, to say the least."

Koschey was right. Galina's dreams were unusually powerful and vivid, and as she dreamt she really believed that she was back home, in their small apartment, with grandmother in the kitchen doing something to the cabbage to make it smell. Their mother was at work, and Galina was getting ready to go to the night classes she'd been taking during her rare periods of lucidity. Masha was still in school then-she sat in the living room, oblivious to the blaring of the TV, her elbows propped on the windowsill, the open book in between them.

Galina felt guilty then, because she was a bad big sister-absent, distant, frail and unsure of what was real and what wasn't. She wanted so desperately to be there for Masha-so young, so pink, so brimming with health and hope. She wanted so badly to connect. “Homework?” Galina said.

Masha looked up from the book, her gaze momentarily snagging on something outside before turning to meet Galina's. “No, just reading."

"What?” she persisted, admiring the round contour of her sister's cheek. How old was she, anyway? Eleven, twelve? Something like that.

Masha consulted the cover. “Hamlet,” she said. “Do you know that one?"

Galina smiled. “Yes. How're you liking it?"

Masha made a thoughtful face. “They all speak in verse… but I do like it. Especially the part about forty thousand brothers… that's a lot of brothers, isn't it?"

Galina nodded. She understood the quiet awe in Masha's voice-none of the kids they knew had large families, and a girl was lucky to have a big brother. It was a generally accepted truth that brothers were better than sisters-they could be strong and protective, and they were the closest thing to a father for a girl who didn't have one. Big sisters were generally useless, because they moved out and had children, and couldn't protect one.

"You wish you had a brother, don't you?” Galina said.

Masha looked guilty for a moment, but then smiled. “I would like a boy to live with us. Wouldn't you?"