Page 64 of The Salt-Black Tree

Dima smoothed his expression; it took more effort than he liked. “I said keep it for me,devotchka moya. In English, even.” He tapped up a fresh cigarette. “Put it on, so I see pretty thing before I go. I drive you all the way across country, I keepthose who eataway. You owe me that much.”

She tilted her hands, letting the chain slip underneath, playing with the light caught in the gem. “I will,” she said quietly. “But not because I owe anything.”

“Now you talking like thief,zaika.” There was a click; flame popped into life. Smoke burned down into his empty chest, yet another pleasant sting. “Hope for you yet.”

She smiled, a soft secret curve. The chain slid around her neck. It didn’t need a clasp—it melded together painlessly, and the bright gleam vanished under her dress’s draped neckline. The Heart’s steady throb was almost a stranger now, but that was what happened when you found a different home.

The old one receded, and you were left right where you needed to be.

“So.” A god of thieves took another step back, cocked his dark head. “You repair house, make it nice and snug? Maybe I come back, have tea.”

“I’m going to travel for a while.” Half-surprised, as if she’d just realized it. Her fingertips tapped against scaled iron polished to silver brightness, then brushed at the lump under silken green. “But when I do come back, I’ll pour you some vodka. Very cold.”

He nodded, and stood for a few moments, smoking in silence. The wind was soft, a moment of deeper thaw, and tinged with jasmine. “So,” he repeated. “See you.”

Dima didn’t wait for a farewell. He merely turned on one heel, stalked away. Plowed snow creaked and shifted; he stepped through the newly made aperture and the engine of his black car roused.

He didn’t look back, for he always had business elsewhere. A heavy door slammed, his chariot dropped into gear, and tires bit the slush-heavy roadway.

Nat Drozdova watched a pair of angry red brake lights vanish up South Aurora, listening to the hiss of steaming snow melding with the fitful return of mortal traffic. Behind her, the ruin of the little yellow house creaked as it settled deeper, losing any last purchase on wholeness. After a short while she bent, scooping up her backpack. It settled on her shoulder, a welcome weight.

Another engine-sound approached. This one had a much sweeter purr; Nat didn’t look back at the dead garden or fallen walls. Still, as she closed the resisting, groaning garden gate her hand shook just a little. The necklace, warm against her breastbone, pulsed with a slow even rhythm.

Maybe even thieves were reliable, in their own way.

Nat whistled, a low melodious note. It had barely left her lips before a slew of slush pushed to either side from Baby’s gleaming tires. The blue car halted, settled into an idle, and Nat used Dima’s passage burned through the snowplow mountains, her sandals balancing on soggy slickness. She dropped onto the now-familiar leather of the driver’s seat with a sigh, her backpack curling up on the passenger side like a tired dog.

The Drozdova resisted the urge to look at the wrecked house again. Maybe when the real thaw came she’d want to return, but she doubted it. Instead, she reached for the radio knob, turned it with a click. Joe Cocker was singing bye-bye to a blackbird. Both Mama and Leo had liked that song.

Natchenka L’vovna.So Dima knew, too. Maybe one day she’d ask him how.

Nat curled her hands around the steering wheel. She’d wondered, for almost all her mortal life, what it would be like to really, truly leave.

It was time to find out. Baby’s gearshift clicked, the orange bar settling over a capitalD, and she pulled away from the curb. Slush made a low sweet sound; a place no longer home receded. At the end of the block, Baby turned left, and even the rearview was clear of the past.

A deeper gold crept into sunshine; the days were lengthening even though nights still froze solid. No, winter wasn’t over, not yet.

But Spring was on her way.