“Take it,” sighed Koschei. It weighed so heavy in her hand: a black egg, embossed in silver, studded with cold diamonds. “You rolled this over my back. To soak up my nightmares.” Marya stared at it, how it caught the light. “It is my death. Oh, my volchitsa, don’t you see? I have always been in your power. I have always been helpless.” “What about the butcher in Tashkent?” The corners of Koschei’s mouth quirked. “He sends his regards.” Marya turned the egg over in her hands. The diamonds pricked her; blood welled. Down in the dark of her, a door opened. She stood, her eyes blank, imperious, as
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