Page 5 of One For my Enemy

“Yeah, see you—”

Sasha watched, dismayed, as the other three proceeded to exit the classroom, Eric winking outrageously at her over his shoulder before catching up with the other two. She grimaced, clenching a fist (her mother wouldnotcare for it, and frankly, in twenty-two years Sasha had never really been the bar-going type), and slowly made her way out of the building, wrapping her scarf loosely around her neck before bracing herself for the late winter chill.

“Sasha!”

She paused, catching the familiar sound of her eldest sister’s voice, and turned to find Marya walking in her direction, their heftily bundled two-year-old nephew Luka’s mittened hand clutched tightly in hers. Luka was their sister Katya’s son, but as often seemed the case these days, Marya was stooped slightly to walk beside him, unwilling to release Luka’s insistent fingers but equally unwilling to stop wearing her signature stiletto heels.

“Sasha,” Marya said again, finally abandoning her efforts at walking and hoisting Luka up in her arms, sitting him on one hip. Immediately, he wrapped his chubby fingers around a clump of her hair and gave what appeared to be a painful tug, though Marya didn’t seem to mind. “I thought I might find you here,” she told Sasha, nudging Luka’s hand away. “Heading back to the store?”

“Yes, of course,” Sasha replied, shivering momentarily before giving little Luka an enthusiastic wave in greeting. “I know the deal, straight to work after class—”

“Are you cold?” Marya asked, frowning. She shifted Luka to the left side of her hip, beckoning for Sasha’s hand with her right. “Here, come here, give me your hand—”

“Don’t do magichere,Masha, people can see,” Sasha hissed, giving her sister an appropriately cautioning glare as Marya reached out, catlike, and snatched at her fingers. “No, Masha—Masha,stop—”

“People only see what they want to see, Sashenka,” Marya said in her brusque, matter-of-fact way, shifting Sasha’s recalcitrant hands in hers and blowing softly across the tops of them, enchanting them with warmth. “There. Better?”

“Don’t ‘Sashenka’ me, Marya Maksimov,” Sasha sighed, though she did feel much better, her knuckles no longer creaking with the air’s biting chill. Marya seemed to know as much, giving her sister a smug, berry-tinted smile of victory.

“I’m an Antonova, same as you,Sashenka,” Marya replied irreverently. “A Maryovna, in fact,” she clarified, referencing their mother’s name and Marya’s own namesake, “though that sounds stupid.”

“Fine,” Sasha sighed, shaking her head and turning in the direction of their mother’s store. “Is Galya there now? I’ll need her to cover for me tonight. Just for an hour,” she added hurriedly.

“Oh?” Marya asked, curious now. She had the same sharply inquisitive eyes that belonged to their mother, only they became softer, more sympathetic when she looked at Sasha, the baby of the seven Antonova daughters. “What’s tonight?”

“Nothing. Just a stupid group project,” Sasha muttered, as Marya arched a brow, doubtful. “It’s for school.”

“Well, Galya won’t be happy,” Marya remarked. “She’s got another date tonight, I believe. Nothing that will last, but you know our Galinka.”

Sasha made a noncommittal noise of agreement. “Well, I can’t get out of it. One of the guys in my class is one of those terrible douchebags that will happily push me out of the way rather than admit I have a brain, I can already tell.”

“Ah, can’t have that,” Marya agreed, glancing down at their nephew. “You won’t be a card-carrying member of the patriarchy, will you?” she asked him. “I’d be frightfully disappointed.”

In response, Luka merely babbled incoherently, placing his mittened fingers in his mouth.

“Luka’s right, you know. You could use a spell,” Marya suggested, nodding sagely at their nephew as if he’d contributed something helpful. “I’m sure Mama and I could make something to enhance this douchebag’s listening skills. Or, you know, simply curse him into oblivion so that he’s no longer a problem.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you, Masha,” Sasha sighed, “but somehow, I think I should just get used to it. We can’t curse all the men in the world, can we?”

“Not in a single day, at least,” Marya replied, “much as I try.” She glanced sideways at Sasha as they stopped at a light, waiting for the many egregiously agitated taxis to pass. “I’ll cover for you, Sashenka, don’t worry. But don’t tell Mama it’s for school, okay?”

Sasha sighed, not needing to ask why. “You’ve already done your time at the shop, Masha, it’s fine. If Galya can’t stay, then I can just be a little late, and—”

“No, you can’t,” Marya corrected firmly. “You need to be there to make a fool of him, Sasha, or I’ll never forgive you. Besides, school or no school, it doesn’t hurt to know how to deal with men like him. Heaven knows Mama and I encounter them often.”

“Well, I suppose not all men are Stas,” Sasha agreed wryly, referencing Marya’s husband Stanislav. “But thank you, Masha.”

“What are sisters for?” Marya replied, shrugging. “Poor Luka,” she added, shifting him in her arms so that he stared, wide-eyed, at Sasha, flapping a hand towards her. “He’ll never know what it is to have six sisters trying to borrow his clothes.”

“Well, maybe he will,” Sasha joked. “Katya says she wants more, and maybe one day you’ll have seven daughters of your own.”

“Please, don’t curse me today, Sashenka,” Marya sighed. “I’ve had a very trying morning, and I simply cannot bring myself to imagine such a dystopian future right now.”

Sasha caught the sound of her sister’s exhaustion, abruptly registering its source. “You met with the Fedorovs today, didn’t you?”

Sasha knew little of her sister’s day-to-day activities (a consequence of Marya’s sheltering more than any lack of interest by Sasha), but there was no forgetting even the smallest mention of their family’s primary rivals. Any meeting with the Fedorovs had to spell trouble, and certainly no small amount of it; theirs was a name rarely spoken in Baba Yaga’s house, except with undertones of cursing. Sasha had never met any of them, but she imagined them to be old and cruel-eyed and fierce, like Koschei the Deathless himself.

“Hm?” Marya replied reflexively, looking lost in thought. “Oh, it was fine, Sashenka. Nothing to worry about. I took care of it.”

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