Page 132 of Devil's Deal

There is no Wiosna here to tell me I can’t do this, so I decide to fix my ripped blanket with magic. I take it in my hands, put the torn sides together, and focus.

Power swirls in my chest, a familiar warmth. I smile, certain it will work this time.

“Be whole,” I whisper to the blanket. “Be new.”

The magic rises and froths in my chest, whirling faster and faster. I try to push it out, funnel it into my intent. When Woland’s blood was in my body, it came effortlessly. His magic flowed where I told it to.

Yet mine doesn’t. The familiar pain of the magic shattering against a wall makes me bend in half with a choking gasp. My stomach heaves, my legs shake, and I fall to my knees. The blanket remains torn, and I can’t hold back from cursing with the foulest words I know.

And to think that after everything that happened yesterday, I can’t even have this.

It takes me a few minutes to put myself together, and when I do, I decide time for feeling broken is over. I go into my herbal garden and weed it, the sun beating against my back. The sensation is unpleasant and reminds me of the long hours I spent in full sun, wounded and dying.

And yet, I grit my teeth and do it. I desperately need control in my life, because it feels like even my body isn’t my own. So I work on my garden, leaving the rows of herbs meticulously weeded. I water them carefully so as not to spill water on the leaves. Wet leaves get sun damage so easily.

If someone passes my cottage, I call out, telling them to spread the news. The poludnica is gone. It’s safe to work through high noon. People cheer and ask me what happened, but I wave them away, grumbling about the state of my garden.

It’s another thing I learned from Wiosna. I’m turning into her.

When I’m done, I prepare a few smudging bundles and go over to see Sobiemir in his carpentry workshop. Smudging the space is a lengthy process, and I spend it thinking about dying and the things I regretted the most.

And the thing is, my biggest regret wasn’t failing to avenge Bogna. It wasn’t losing against Woland, and it wasn’t my failure to unlock my magic. I wasn’t sad because I’d leave my community and whispering post behind—that didn’t even cross my mind.

What I regretted the most was not saving my twelve-year-old self.

I pause for a long time after I make that discovery, the smoke thickening around me. I feel like I’ve been so misguided, so utterly foolish.

Somehow, because of Woland’s games, I lost sight of my greatest, most important goal, and it killed me. If I had focused on the right thing, I would have done everything differently.

I failed myself—the current me and the one from the past. And yet, there is still hope. I got another chance, and this time, I’ll make things right.

As I pass the smoking bundle over Sobiemir’s tools resting on a bench, I decide I’ll start by taking Woland’s trade. It might be a trick, but my mission is too important not to try. Besides, what is there to lose? My mouth doesn’t feel like mine, anyway. Might as well put it to good use.

By the time I’m done, and Milka invites me to dine with them tonight, I’m back into the swing of things. And even though both she and Sobiemir shoot me long, curious glances, I pay them no mind. Most likely, I just look more tired than usual.

I accept the dinner invitation with a smile and go back home to pack a basket. While I haven’t come to terms with my death and don’t expect to be done working through it for a long time, I feel better now.

Having a goal centers me.

Many fields surround the village, and I do a full circuit, stopping by every worker to check on them. Some haven’t covered their heads, and I tell them off until they do. Some look half-delirious from the heat, and if they are able-bodied, I order them to sit in shade and sip chicory brew for a few minutes before they go back to work.

If they are too young or frail, I order them to go home. Those who look unsteady, I assist. Some people shoot me curious looks, so I keep wondering if there is some dirt on my face. But when I feel it with my fingers, there’s nothing sticky or crusty. I finally decide it only feels like everyone is staring because I’m so uncomfortable in my body.

It’s late afternoon by the time I reach Darobor’s field. It wasn’t a conscious choice to leave this place for last, but it makes sense as soon as I see the damned pear tree. Hot and cold shivers go down my spine, and my legs feel leaden with reluctance to approach.

I hate this place. If I could, I’d burn this entire field to the ground. And yet, I am also curious, and so I finally come over, looking for any signs of what happened here.

But there are none. The wheat should be trampled and bloodied where I fought the poludnica. And if the nature of my death and rebirth were to be marked here, the ground should be still wet with my blood.

And yet, there is no sign. Just like my body, the field looks untouched.

Darobor raises his hand wielding the sickle to shade his eyes when he sees me come over. His wife and children work further up the field, and I go over to him first.

“Lotta’s boy did his rounds this morning,” he calls out when I walk closer. “He said the poludnica was gone, so most people stayed in the fields. And look, no one’s dead!”

He grins. I do a double take because I’ve never seen him smile widely like this. But as I stand in front of him, smiling back, his expression sobers, his brows furrowing. He reaches out, his finger stopping shy of touching my chin.

“Jaga, what the bies? Did she brand you?”

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