“You see, Father,” a girl’s voice said calmly, almost cheerfully, “I told you I’d master it today. Fight fire with fire, not water or ice.” Then she whistled a short tune, and the fire on her arms, her torso, her skirt, snuffed out. The only flames left were on top of her head, a wind-tossed mess of loose red curls, and one lock of black. She whistled again, and the fire on the fallen trees went out as well. Pasha stepped backward onto a leaf. It crunched, ever so softly, but the girl whirled around. “Who’s there?” Nikolai and Pasha stood frozen, and not just metaphorically. She had iced their
...more
