Scarlet in the Snow (18 page)

‘How?’ I whispered.

‘You must work for me for three days and three nights. Do exactly as I say and do not complain once or ask me a single question during that time. In fact, you are not to speak at all. If you do as I say, you can leave and I will help you on your way. If you do not and you break even one of those rules, you will remain here for ever.’ She gestured at the bones. ‘Do you understand?’

A hundred questions trembled on the tip of my tongue. A hundred questions I swallowed back at once. From the
old stories I knew two important things. First, Old Bony was usually a fearsome enemy but, in rare cases, she could prove a surprising ally. You could not predict which; it just happened. And second, she always kept her word
if
you kept yours. I nodded, mutely.

She gave a tiny smile, and I saw that I’d done well not to speak. ‘Very well. Come.’ Touching the gate, which creaked open with a sound unnervingly like a thin moan, Old Bony ushered me through.

Macabre as its setting was, with the skull-lit path and the fence of human bones, the cottage was surprisingly cosy inside, even if dimly lit and untidy. Unblinking points of light in the dimness soon resolved themselves into the eyes of three large cats – a red one, a white one, and a black one – which purred around Old Bony’s legs as she came in.

Old Bony sat herself in a chair by the big stove and lit a pipe while the cats settled down around her. ‘Take off your coat and fetch the parcel by the back door,’ she ordered.

I did as I was told. It contained nothing more remarkable than some shabby clothes: a large apron, a dress of patched brown wool and some clean but coarse-looking underclothes. ‘They’re for you,’ said Old Bony, in the tone of one granting a great favour, and I couldn’t help a small bitter smile as I thought of the beautiful things
I’d been given at Luel’s. ‘Now put on the apron and cook me supper.’ A tremor ran up my spine, as I could imagine only too well the horrors I might be expected to dish up.

But when I went to the kitchen, I discovered a simple basket full of mushrooms, onions, garlic, a bunch of herbs and a knob of butter. Mushroom soup, I thought, with a little inward burble of laughter. What indeed could be more fitting for a fearsome forest witch than a good big pot of homemade mushroom soup?

I chopped and sliced and fried, then I fetched water from the little spring that bubbled out by the back door. All the time I worked, Old Bony smoked her pipe and watched me through half-closed eyes. When the smell of the simmering mushroom soup wafted around the cottage, making my own stomach rumble, the cats sat bolt upright, watching my every move. ‘They will have some too,’ said Old Bony, when I was ladling the soup into her bowl. ‘Set three places for them at the table.’

When it was all ready, the cats sat on chairs at the table, their tails curled around them, and elegantly lapped the soup from their bowls. Old Bony drank her soup noisily, with much slurping, and when she finished she belched loudly, making me jump. I was so hungry by this stage that I felt almost faint, but I knew I must not complain or ask for anything. I watched as they ate and ate till all the soup was gone.

‘Now you can wash the dishes and clean the house,’ said Old Bony. ‘Then go and get some wood for the fire. When you finish that, you can start on the mending.’

There was nothing for it but to do just that. I washed the dishes under their combined unblinking scrutiny, and was about to swill out the water when Old Bony said, ‘That will do for your own supper.’

I bit back my anger and disgust and, fetching a bowl, filled it with the dishwater. I closed my eyes and drank it down. It was quite as disgusting as you might expect, and I had trouble keeping it down, the faint taste of mushroom soup sharpening my nausea. But still I said nothing. I washed the dish and put it away, and while Old Bony and the cats snored by the stove, I cleaned the house.

Afterwards, I went outside and found a rickety wheelbarrow by a woodpile. I set off down that horrible path to fetch twigs and small branches. When I spotted a small patch of half-withered berries growing on a bush a little distance from the path, I longed for them as though they were the finest delicacies in the world. But I did not pick them for fear of angering Old Bony. Three days was surely not too long to wait, even if I had to go hungry. You would not die of hunger in three days. Thirst, maybe. But she was clearly not intending me to die of thirst, even if it was dishwater I had to drink.

Back in the house, I went to find the basket of mending. To my dismay I saw it was piled with old stockings as full of holes as colanders. For once in my life I wished I’d paid attention to sewing lessons. I sat there pricking my fingers and wincing as I tried to wield a big blunt needle and rough coarse thread in and out through the many holes, my lumpy repairs looking more
like small misshapen potatoes than anything. When I happened to look up at Old Bony, I saw she had woken and was watching me with a little smile on her face, as if she knew precisely what I was thinking – which, of course, she did.

I sat there mending stocking after stocking till it was dark as pitch outside. Yet it seemed that the more I mended, the more unmended stockings there were at the bottom of the basket. As I sat there, thumbs stinging and bleeding from the repeated jabbings of the needle, tears of rage and frustration pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I fiercely blinked them away. How could I weep over such a small thing when it was for my sake that my love had delivered himself into his enemy’s hands? My sacrifice was tiny compared to his. I was only bound to Old Bony for three days while he was bound for life. Instinctively, I put a hand to my breast, where the rose petal lay, the only link I had with Ivan.

‘You have done enough,’ came Old Bony’s voice, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Put the basket away and have a slice of bread and a glass of milk.’

And there on the table by my elbow was a loaf of bread, as fresh and fragrant as though it had just come out of the oven, though I knew for a fact it had not. Beside it was a pitcher of foaming milk and a glass. The unexpected kindness nearly undid me and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. But I swallowed back both tears and the words trying to escape my lips. I cut a slice of bread and ate it, then I poured myself a glass of milk and drank it. They were both so delicious that I wanted more. But Old
Bony had said only one slice and one glass, so when I had finished, I did not touch them again.

‘Good,’ she said, ‘you are learning.’ Old Bony clapped her hands and the bread and milk vanished from the table. She got up and her cats rose too, arching their backs and purring, their yellow eyes fixed on me. ‘We ride tonight but you stay here. Whatever happens, do not take one step out of this house while it is night or you will be lost. When day breaks it will be safe. Do you understand?’

I nodded, though in truth I did not really understand. She left then, with the cats, and as I looked out of the window, I saw the skull-lined path light up again, and in that light I saw the cats grow in size and change shape till they were exactly like the three wolves that had brought us here. They
were
the three wolves that had brought us here, I thought, as the sleigh materialised at Old Bony’s command and she jumped in. A crack of the whip and they were off, not into the sky but straight into the denseness of the forest, where I soon lost sight of them.

I was alone, with the night pressing against the windows. Everything was very quiet. Though it was not a peaceful quiet but an expectant, breathing silence, as though the house itself was alive and waiting for me to make a move. The wrong move. The move that would see me trapped here for ever as Old Bony’s servant. She’d left her ears and eyes behind, I thought with a shiver. This house was an extension of her, and she’d know exactly what I was doing.

Well, if she did, I wouldn’t be doing anything wrong. Not snooping in the house. Not looking through her
things. Not trying to find a way to trick her, to get out of my promise. No, I would sit here at the table and wait for her return, and try to think about what I would do once my servitude was over and I could set off in search of Ivan. It was only then I remembered the book I’d rescued from the enchanted mansion – the book with the scrap of paper sticking out of it. A scrap of paper I’d recognised, for it had my own handwriting on it:
Till we meet again
. I’d left it there for him when I’d returned home. Now my heart leaped with a wild hope. For maybe, just maybe, he might have written a message on it for me. Or Luel may have. Something that would help me find him . . .

The book was one of the P–T volume of that dull encyclopedia. I leafed through it feverishly. But the scrap of paper was no longer there. No! I could not have lost it! I rummaged desperately in the pocket of my coat but found nothing. I shook the coat, turned it upside down and felt under the lining. Nothing. I wondered if I had dropped it outside when we’d arrived. Perhaps it had fluttered out and was even now lying by the side of the path, glinting faintly in the light from the skull-lanterns. It was so vivid a picture that I was instantly convinced. It could not wait. I had to go out there at once and look for it, for I was sure it contained a message for me.

My hand was on the door handle and I was about to turn it when I remembered what Old Bony had said.
Whatever happens, do not take one step out of this house while it is night or you will be lost
. But I had to. I must . . .

No. I must do as she says, I thought. She was my only chance. I had to stay inside. I had to.

There was a whisper at the door. ‘Natasha, oh my Natasha . . .’ I froze. It sounded like Ivan’s voice. I couldn’t shut my ears to the desperate plea in it. I had to get that scrap of paper and read the message he’d left for me. Yes, it had to have been from him, not Luel. For strength, I put a hand on my breast where the rose petal lay, and with the other I reached out for the door handle . . .

I was suddenly jerked back, flung away from the door. Over my heart, the rose petal pulsed against my skin while the voice out in the night whispered and sobbed, and I knew then that it wasn’t him but something else – something cruel and watchful, something I must not give in to. The rose petal does not lie. The rose petal was my only true link to him. No, it was our only link to each other. Through the rose petal, I knew he was alive and that it would lead me to him.

I sat at the table, shaking like a leaf, and little by little the desire to rush outside left me. The voice died away and the petal stopped pulsing to lie still and quiet again. It was a test I had passed but I could hardly feel glad of it at that moment, for hearing Ivan’s voice had hollowed me with such yearning that I felt only numbness, and time seemed not to exist.

Presently, I stirred. Picking up the book I’d left aside, I opened it and began to read to calm myself, to stop myself from thinking of the presences prowling around the cottage and of the breathing silence of the house. The book was quite as dull as I remembered it to be, and after
a short time, I felt my eyelids closing as utter exhaustion began to claim me. Soon the book slipped from my nerveless hands onto the floor, as I pillowed my head upon my arms and fell fast asleep.

I woke with a crick in my neck, a furry tongue and a nagging sense that I’d missed something important. I looked around the quiet house. Grey daylight shone through the windows, but I was still alone; Old Bony hadn’t returned. The book lay fallen at my feet, and I picked it up and put it on the table, then went to the window and looked out. The bone fence glimmered in the dawn light, the skulls unlit. There was not a sound from outside. I remembered Old Bony’s words.
When day breaks it will be safe
.

First things first. I was in need of a good wash and a change of clothes. I warmed up some water in the kettle, stripped, washed, then put on the clean underclothes Old Bony had given me, which were quite as itchy as they looked. I then washed my own underclothes, set them to dry by the stove, put on the shabby brown dress, which was surprisingly warm and soft, and after carefully
brushing the dress I’d been wearing, to rid it of the caked mud on the hem, folded it and put it away.