Page 91 of One For my Enemy

“Sashenka,” Marya said, “you are not incomplete because a piece of your heart is gone. You are you, an entire whole, all on your own. If you have loved and been loved, then you are richer for it; you don’t become a smaller version of yourself simply because what you once had is gone.”

Sasha nodded slowly, taking it in.

“Is it strange, Masha,” Sasha said quietly, “that I don’t feel smaller at all? I feel bigger, actually. Vast.” She swallowed again, fighting a strain in her throat. “But it’s an empty kind of vastness.”

Marya knew the feeling well. When she had told Dimitri they could no longer be together, she had seen the pain in his eyes, heard the undertones of pleading in his voice. She had felt herself swell up, luminous and cold, larger than she had been before and hollow somewhere, too. A piece of her had carved itself out and left with him, even as the rest of her kept expanding, kept growing, kept stretching out until it was too large for its host.

She’d become a mutant of herself in her pain.

“Strength comes from struggle,” Marya said. “Each time we bid farewell to a piece of ourselves we become different than we were. But each time we rise again in the morning, it’s a victory,” she said firmly. “Keep your memories. Keep your emotions. Keep your pain. Use them,” she advised, taking Sasha’s hands in hers again. “Happiness, contentment, they are dull but persuasive lures. A rosy disposition only means you miss what’s lurking in the trees.”

“Things aren’t much sharper through a fog,” Sasha said, setting her mouth. “I need a new direction.”

“Then take it,” Marya said. “I’ll handle Eric. Consider it done. Do you need my help?”

Sasha stared into nothing for a moment, considering her offer, then shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Not yet. I’ll do this myself.”

Marya nodded; she didn’t hide her approval from her sister, nor mask the victory she felt. She wasn’t Baba Yaga. She was no mystery. She was Marya Antonova, and she was power personified.

“We’ll ruin them, Sashenka,” Marya promised her, “and they’ll be so sorry they ever wronged you.”

“Him,” Sasha corrected, curling one hand to a fist. “They’ll be sorry they wrongedhim.”

That was new, Marya thought, but didn’t argue.

“However you envision it, we’ll make it happen,” Marya assured her carefully, “only make sure you don’t lose sight.”

Sasha nodded.

“Then I know what to do,” she said, and Marya nodded, satisfied.

IV. 10

(Idle Frets.)

“I thought I might see you soon,” Ivan murmured, setting down his beer to glance up at Dimitri Fedorov. “How will you threaten me, Dima? Gently, I hope.”

“Where is she?” Dimitri said, and Ivan shrugged.

“Dead,” he replied. “As I’m sure you’ve heard by now.”

“She’s not dead,” Dimitri said, hovering somewhere between exhaustion and exasperation.

“Hang me out a window, then,” Ivan suggested, blithely taking a sip, and Dimitri’s mouth tightened. “You know perfectly well you won’t find her, Dima,” Ivan reminded him, watching Dimitri’s eyes narrow at the familiar use of his name. “She finds you.”

“Don’t act like you know me,” Dimitri said, though absurdly, he conceded to take a seat, glancing briefly at Ivan. “You have no idea what she is to me.”

“No,” Ivan agreed. “But I know her, so believe me, you’ll never find her. Not until she’s ready.” He rose to his feet, tossing a few bills on the table. “Not even going to try?” he asked, and Dimitri gave him a dispassionate glare.

“The men I came to before you owed me something else,” he said. “Something I don’t expect to get from you.”

“Loyalty,” Ivan guessed, and Dimitri said nothing. “What are you playing at, Dimitri?”

“Children play,” Dimitri replied. “This is business.”

“Maybe so, but people talk,” Ivan advised him. “If you’re collecting men who owe Koschei in the hopes they’ll serve you instead—”

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