“Who are you?” she whispered. “Say my name, daughter. You know who I am.” “Widow Likho.” “What is my name, Marya Morevna?” the crone roared, her black voice bending the windows and rattling the books on the shelf. Marya quailed, shrinking away into the upholstery. “Widow Likho! Comrade Likho! Comrade … oh … oh. Likho. Bad luck.”
