When the house had burned to ashes, her grandmother trapped inside it, Katerina had grieved them both. She had been so small, then, tears streaking her face as the waterwitches tried in vain to douse the flames and her mother wept in her father’s arms. Yet here the house stood. It was just as she remembered: runes of protection, foresight, and loyalty carved into the windowsills and purple pansies blooming in the window boxes. The door stood open, and from inside came the crackle of a fire, bringing with it the aroma of roasting meat. Enticed, Katerina stepped forward, onto the cobblestone path that led inside.
With every step she took, she felt more at ease—as if the cottage existed in a bubble time and evil could not touch. She paused, placing a hand against the pale, dappled bark of one of the six birches that flanked the path. Her grandmother had prized these trees for their strength, their beauty, and the curative powers of their sap. She had named each of them, one for her dead husband, one for her sister, who’d died before Katerina was born, and four for her children, lost to a terrible fever which only Katerina’s mother had survived. It was her grandmother’s deepest belief that her loved ones’ souls lived on within these birches, watching over her. When her grandmother died, the birches had survived the fire but shriveled to twigs, thick sap weeping from their trunks as if they, too, mourned her loss.
“For your life,” Katerina whispered now, “that we may live, we are thankful.”
Beneath her palm, the flesh of the birch thrummed, as if in answer. She lifted her hand, peace coursing through her veins, and continued down the path, toward the arch that framed the open door. On the stoop, a woven basket held three items: a glass jar filled with amber honey, glowing like captured sunlight; a stone jug of fresh milk; a loaf of black bread, still warm from the oven. She puzzled over them for an instant, then knelt, looping the basket over her arm.
“Come in, child.” The voice came from inside the cottage, cracked but strong. Summoning her courage, Katerina stepped across the threshold.
The cottage was just as she’d remembered it, its walls whitewashed and its rafters draped with braids of garlic and bunches of dried herbs. It had no ceiling; the velvet night itself spilled between the rafters, infinite and deep, studded with stars. Otherwise, this was her grandmother’s home, as it had been before it burned.
“Come, child,” the cracked voice invited again. “You are welcome here.”
Katerina took another step inside, her eyes roving over the room in disbelief. In front of the hearth were three rocking chairs, and in each of them sat a figure, clad in flowing white. The first was young and beautiful, her red hair flowing to her waist and her green eyes bright. The one in the middle bore the marks of a life well-lived, a small, crescent-shaped scar on her chin and the faint beginnings of crows’ feet around her eyes. And the third was as wizened as a dried apple, her red hair gone to silver but her eyes still sparkling with intelligence.
Each of them bore the face of her mother. One as she must have been before Katerina was born; the other as Katerina had last seen her; and the third as she would have looked had she had the opportunity to grow old.
Katerina fell to her knees on the wooden floorboards. “Mama,” she breathed.
The last time she had heard her mother’s voice had been in the tunnels to the Underworld. Was this the same? A cruel joke, meant to ensnare her?
But, no. It was only a dream. And so, there was no need to be afraid.
“Stand, child,” the woman in the middle said, extending her hands. “Give us your offerings, which we accept with gratitude and grace.”
Trembling, Katerina obeyed. In the hands of the maiden, she placed the honey. In the hands of the mother, she placed the milk. And in the gnarled hands of the crone, she placed the bread. Then she stepped back, hands knitted together, and spoke.
“How are you here?”
The crone laughed, the creak of a door in need of oiling. “We have always been here,” she said, “waiting for you. See?”
Katerina could have sworn that she’d never looked away. But when her gaze fell on the three women again, her offerings had vanished. Instead, the maiden cradled a spinning wheel, looped with golden and black threads. The mother held the thread in her hands, as if weighing or assessing it. And the crone held a pair of silver scissors, engraved with runes. At their feet sat a Firebird in a gilded cage, its eerie, black gaze fixed on Katerina’s.
“You are the Rozhanitsy,” Katerina whispered. “The Fates.”
Her grandmother had told her these stories, too. The youngest Rozhanitsa spins the thread of life. The second measures it. And the third cuts it. The longer the thread, the longer your life will be. But the Rozhanitsy can knot the thread, Katushya. And it is up to you to untie it, or fall victim to your fate.
The Nauznitsy dedicated their lives to studying knot-tying, in homage to the Fates. But Katerina had never heard of anyone who had seen the three women themselves.
“Is this a dream?” Her mouth was so dry, she could barely force out the words. “Or is it real?”
The women ignored her question. “Your thread is a curious one,” the maiden mused. “Once golden to its core, now intertwined with ebony. Yet still beautiful. Your future forks, Katerina Ivanova. Much rests with you.”
“I—I don’t—” For once, Katerina was at a loss for words. “Why do you all look like my mother?” she said at last. It seemed both a ridiculous question and the most important one.
The crone smiled. “It seemed a gift we could give you, here in this place you loved so much. After all, I did have to snip your mother’s thread far too soon. A shining light, she was. A brave soul. She didn’t wish to leave you, you know. She never blamed you.”
Katerina swallowed back tears. “She isn’t trapped in the Underworld, is she? When I went to save my Shadow, I heard…”
“No.” It was the maiden this time, her firm tone leaving no room for doubt. “Her Fate unwound as it was meant to. It is your Shadow who has thwarted his destiny. And you.”
Squaring her shoulders, Katerina gestured at the ebony skein interlaced with the golden one. “Is that his thread, then? Woven with mine?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The maiden plucked at the golden and ebony threads in turn. “Your Fates are intertwined, to be sure. You must act, Dimi Ivanova. You must choose.”
“Choose what? I don’t understand.” She’d already chosen Niko, had pledged her life to his. “I am a warrior for the Light. I will never abandon my vows, even if my village and my kind have cast me out. And I refuse to believe choosing my Shadow means acknowledging allegiance to the Darkness. I seek only answers?—”
“You will find them.” The crone’s voice was grave. “And then you must choose. The gift rests with you, Katushya, as it has always done. The choice is yours and yours alone.”
