Page 104 of Devil's Deal

“Licho take you,” I swear through clenched teeth.

He turns away, his shadows gathering around him, tightening for a moment into a shape of spread wings, too wide for the cramped interior of my cottage. Woland looks at me over his shoulder.

“You give me no choice.”

Before I have time to ask what he means, he vanishes. There is a knock on my door.

Chapter thirty-four

Rodzanica

“I’ll be right out,” I call and quickly wipe my legs. Gods, this is beyond messy. I really should spend the day lying in bed, like always.

I do my best not to look tormented with pain when I open the front door. Darobor is outside, and he touches his fingers to his straw hat.

“Good day, whisperer. I wanted to offer my services helping you move. Our hay is all but done, and we have some time before the hemp is good for harvest. I can spare a few afternoons.”

I blink a few times, desperately wracking my brain. Does it mean Czeslawa is gone already? Does he want me to move to her cottage? Or… Am I being banished? Has Ida said something despite her promise? Oh gods.

“Move?” I ask finally, hoping he will clarify.

Darobor strokes his mustache. “Well, yes. Czeslawa left this morning, and you’re the only other whisperer we have. Unless you want to stay here?”

I hope the relief isn’t too obvious on my face. “Yes, certainly. The day after tomorrow? Would that be good for you?”

He touches the rim of his hat with a small bow. “As you wish. I’ll get my girl to help, too. Might do her some good, seeing a whisperer’s cottage and whatnot.”

I nod dumbly, not commenting on the daughter remark for now. “See you then. Thank you,” I manage, and he bows again before he leaves.

I close my door before I sink to the floor, burying my face in my hands. And then I cry. I cry long and hard, my entire body shaking with sobs, my womb hurting worse and worse, just like it did when I laughed.

And just like when I laughed earlier, I can’t stop. My hands are wet from tears, my face hot, eyes stinging, and I only weep harder. The last time I cried like this was five years ago, when I found Wiosna cold and lifeless in her bed.

Even though I know she’s in Nawie, safe and well, it’s like I’ve lost her all over again. I grieve and mourn, and I’ll probably feel like crying for weeks to come. It doesn’t help that I hurt so much, my body at its lowest.

This is all backwards. I should celebrate. Czeslawa left, just like I wanted. I am the whisperer now, and everyone will come to me with problems big or small. I will finally be safe in my community. They won’t cast me out now, despite suspicions and gossip. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, and it feels hollow and fake.

Now that I know gods and demons are real, now that I know for certain there is life beyond death, the quiet life of a village whisperer isn’t enough. I crave all the things Woland seduced me with. Magic, travel, and power.

On top of it, I can’t stop thinking about how woefully unprepared I am. I thought Wiosna would be with me, supporting me through the transition. But now, Woland is planning another nasty thing, and I am all alone, responsible for everyone in the village.

I have the knowledge and skills, but what if I have to face another bies or licho knows what?

Finally, I get up off the floor with a curse. I bring in another bucket of water from the well, clenching my teeth hard not to moan in pain. I’ve cried my quota of tears and sobs for the next five years. That’s enough weakness.

So I wash myself, braid my hair, and make my herbal brew to keep myself functional.

And then I start planning.

Woland doesn’t appear over the next two days. I spend them mostly in bed, arranging everything for the move in my head. It distracts me from the pain.

It rains both days, and I know people are happy and probably thanking the zerca for praying well. The crops desperately need water now that the hay is made. I welcome the cooler temperatures and the fresh, humid quality to the air. Rain after a drought always smells divine.

The day Darobor is supposed to come, I’m well again, the bleeding almost over. I pack my meager possessions and cut off the herbs drying under my roof so I can take them with me.

As we walk through the village, all my possessions in a cart drawn by Darobor’s donkey, his daughter, Sara, keeps pelting me with questions as she skips around the muddy puddles.

“Is it true you were in the sacred circle on Kupala Night?” she asks, her blue eyes sparkling with interest over plump cheeks.

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