He started to twirl her round the room again, even though the music had stopped and there were voices shouting outside. He kissed her on the forehead and she inhaled quickly to capture the scent of him. A single shot rang out. A scream outside. Instantly Vasily was pushing her to the floor and bundling her underneath the chaise longue. She could smell old horsehair and the acid tang of her own fear.

‘No, Vasily,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, Anna. Lie still. You must stay here. Do you hear me?’ He was on his knees, leaning sideways to peer into the low gap between the floor and the seat. The lines of his face had changed, sharper now and suddenly older than his fourteen years. ‘Whatever happens, Anna, don’t come out. Stay here.’ He took her hand, kissed a fingertip, and was gone.

But she had no intention of being packed away like a china doll and immediately started to back out from under the chaise longue. She scurried across the floor on her hands and knees, feet catching in her hem, to the window, where she placed her hands flat on the icy pane, nose pressed beside them, looking out. Why was there a pool of cranberry juice in the snow? As though someone’s cold fingers had dropped a jar of it. But next to the pool lay Grigori Dyuzheyev. He looked asleep.

Tivil July 1933

‘Rafik.’

Sofia leaned closer. The gypsy’s answering murmur was faint. His slight figure lay unmoving under the bedcover, a fragile disturbance of the gaily coloured patchwork. At times his eyes seemed to glaze over as they stared up at the ceiling with its moons and planets and its all-seeing eye. The black of his pupils had changed to dull ash-grey.

‘Rafik.’

Gently she took his hand in hers. She couldn’t understand exactly what had happened to make him so ill, and Zenia was no help. When Sofia asked what the problem was, the gypsy girl averted her eyes, looking suddenly younger, and said, ‘You must ask Rafik.’ But he was in no state to answer anything. Though his hand was small and narrow-boned in hers, it felt unexpectedly heavy and possessed a heat that seemed to come from deeper than just skin and muscle. She ran a finger over its knotted veins, willing them to keep flowing.

‘Rafik, my friend, you don’t look so good. Can I give you more…?’ She waved a hand at the murky bottle beside the bed. She hesitated to call it medicine.

Zenia had left the strange-smelling liquid for him before going to work for the day, with strict instructions for a mouthful to be taken every few hours, more if his head pain worsened. But Rafik had sent Sofia to the Dagorsk apteka specifically to fetch something stronger. The pain must be bad. Sofia feared for him as she spooned the white powder on to his tongue. When he closed his eyes his lips continued to move silently, as though his dreams were too powerful to ignore.

She leaned so close her hair brushed his. ‘Stay,’ she whispered. ‘Stay with me.’

A heavy knock on the front door made her jump. She told herself it was most likely some villager seeking Rafik’s help with a horse, but when she opened it she was surprised to find the broad figure of the blacksmith on the threshold.

‘May I come in, Comrade Morozova?’ he said without preamble. ‘I want to speak with you.’

She suddenly remembered the axe, the one she’d stolen. Was that what this was about? She watched his eyes. That’s where she knew how to spot danger. But no, the blacksmith’s were solemn, no threatening ripple disturbing their dark surface. She stepped back and allowed the big man to enter.

His collarless shirt was undone at the neck, revealing thick corded muscles. He was still clad in his leather apron that smelled of grease, but his manner was polite and his voice soft. It was as if he knew his shaven head and massive size were intimidating enough without needing to add to it. The carefully trimmed spade of a beard revealed a touch of vanity that sat oddly with him, and she wondered if there was some woman in his life he was aiming to please.

‘So, Comrade Pokrovsky,’ Sofia said, ‘what can I do for you?’

His brown eyes narrowed as they studied her. ‘I’ve come with an offer for you.’

‘An offer? What kind of offer?’

‘A job.’

‘You’re offering me a job?’

‘Yes. Zenia told me you were looking for one. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’m here to offer you one.’

‘I’m not at my best with a hammer and bellows,’ she said with a smile.

He frowned, then opened his mouth wide and roared with laughter. The sound almost took her head off. ‘Not in the forge. In the school.’

Sofia folded her arms and said nothing. This didn’t feel right.

‘Well?’ the blacksmith urged.

‘Why you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why have you come to me with the offer? Instead of the schoolteacher herself?’

‘Oh, she’s busy with the children – she lost her other assistant. Anyway she…’ He paused, his heavy beetle-brows pulled together, and Sofia wasn’t certain whether the look he gave her was one of annoyance or embarrassment.

‘Go on,’ she said softly.

He drew a deep breath, filling his barrel-chest until it stretched the seams of his shirt. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘she wants my opinion.’

Sofia blinked. ‘Of me, you mean?’

He nodded, studying her closely.

‘But I spoke to her only last night at the school,’ she said.

‘I know.’

A small silence grew between them. Sofia was the one to break it.

‘Elizaveta Lishnikova must have considerable respect for your judgement.’

He shrugged. ‘She has made mistakes in the past. She’s not good with us… peasants.’ He showed his big teeth in a smile. ‘Like the last teacher she employed. He’s gone now.’

‘So what will you report back to her?’

He chewed ponderously on his beard, the way a bull chews on the cud. ‘That you have a smile that would keep the boys in order. A soft voice that would comfort the little ones. That your eyes are sharp and trust no one, but you’re the kind of person to have at your back in times of trouble. Unless,’ his eyes narrowed to slits, ‘unless you’re coming with a knife, that is.’

Another silence landed between them.

‘Comrade Pokrovsky,’ Sofia said after a moment, unfolding her arms, ‘would you care to join me for a cup of tea?’

They didn’t talk much. Just sat at the table holding their cups and eyeing each other with interest. Sofia could feel the suspicion in the room as solid as a third person, but neither seemed to mind it much. They were used to living with it, breathing its fumes, and both were careful not to mention what went on in the village the previous night. She looked at his hands. Scarred and lined, the forge imprinted in the shape of every massive nail and knuckle.

‘Have you always been the blacksmith in Tivil?’

‘All my life. And my father before me.’

‘The village must have changed a lot.’

‘It has.’

He clamped his lips shut and said no more, but his dark eyes were not so cautious and a deep anger sparked in them. She looked away to give him a moment to hide it.

‘So you’ve known Rafik for many years?’ she said.

‘I have. He’s the best man you could wish for when handling a horse.’

‘And when handling a mind?’

He leaned forward, fists on the table, making it creak. ‘Seen him do it, have you?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s frightening, isn’t it?’

‘What is it he does?’

The smith’s hand stroked the smooth skin of his head, as if unconsciously protecting the contents of his skull.

‘It’s gypsy enchantment,’ he growled.

‘What kind of gypsy enchantment?’

‘Chyort! How would I know, girl? An ancient power of some kind, I suppose.’ Sofia watched him spread his arms out wide, taking in the whole baffling breadth of the universe. ‘It might be,’ he added in a lower voice, ‘drawn from the black arts, for all I know.’