So one supposed that Sasha and Eveshka knew the horse was there and that they had wished it safely out of the vegetables.
And one supposed that if they both knew it was there, one of them had wished it to be—and if one of them had wished it to be, then one could surmise on the instant it was a certain rascally young stableboy-now-wizard who liked horses.
Damn, it looked like Volkhi, it truly did, and the sight reminded Pyetr what he had lost when he lost that horse.
Still, Babi’s behavior did give Pyetr a chill thought of shape-shifters, too, some insidious attack getting into the house past Sasha and Eveshka, and this—creature—standing here only to lure him in. There was the smell of baking honeycakes on the breeze, but lies came with utter plausibility, if wizardry was in question, and traps came baited with things one most dearly wanted, whoever was doing the trapping.
“Babi,” Pyetr said, quietly, “don’t bother the horse, if it is a horse. Go to ’Veshka, there’s a good Babi, go into the house and see if it’s all right. “
Babi went, growling, ducked through the hedge and shambled in plain sight and with a good many looks askance at the horse, up the slanting wooden walk-up to the porch of the cottage.
So it was safe. Babi knew.
And if the black horse did look like Volkhi—and since Babi had not startled it off outright as an imposter—
Pyetr picked up the basket Babi had left, squeezed through the same gap in the hedge and walked up to the horse, which stood watching this noisy traffic with ears pricked and nostrils working.
God, absolutely, it was Volkhi. He knew every line of this horse.
Babi popped into the house without using the door, a very put-upon and disturbed Babi, meaning, Sasha was sure, first, that Pyetr was back, second, that Pyetr had found the surprise, and third, that the surprise had found Pyetr—and indeed by the time Sasha had walked outside there was loving tryst in progress.
Sasha put his hands into his pockets and stood on the porch watching, earnestly hoping (but hoping was perilously close to wishing) that he had not done something wrong or dangerous.
Eveshka walked out and stood beside him at the porch rail, dusting flour from her hands onto her apron. He felt a very powerful wish from her side of a sudden: and Pyetr looked up, startled, as the horse shied off.
Sasha knew, perhaps because Eveshka did not truly exclude him from her wish, that Eveshka wanted attention from a husband coming home, wanted it, quite conscious of her selfishness and quite justifiably angry at a boy’s thoughtless interference in their lives.
“Don’t,” Sasha whispered, not looking at her. “Eveshka, you promised. Don’t wish at him like that.”
“Everything was perfect,” Eveshka said to him in a small, hurt voice; she wanted him to know she did entirely understand her own shortcomings; and his.
With which she turned and went inside, violently wishing him and Pyetr to leave her alone for a little while.
People in neighboring Vojvoda and maybe Kiev would have felt that one.
A disappearing flurry of skirts and hip-length blond braids, definitive slam of the door; and Pyetr stopped with his hand on the rail of the walk-up.
“What in hell’s going on?” Pyetr asked, he thought quite reasonably, with his wife in tears, his long-lost horse in the garden, and his best friend looking as if he would gladly be elsewhere.
Sasha walked slowly down to him, and Volkhi tossed his head up and shied out of the cabbages: this assuredly meant (Pyetr understood these things by long experience) that someone’s attention had slipped and come back again.
And a man used to wizards could equally well reckon that the slammed door, Volkhi’s arrival, and the rueful look on Sasha’s face were not entirely coincidental.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Sasha said, looking more boy than young man at the moment. “I brought him. I wished him here. Eveshka’s mad at me: she really didn’t mean to wish you just then. “
Pyetr looked up at the door, where, despite the upset of his stomach, he could reckon that Eveshka must be getting a stern hold on her temper.
But a man hated to feel obliged only because his wizard-wife had not wished him in the river; and hated to be angry at Sasha for probably meaning the best and kindest things for him in all the world.
Give or take horse theft… because Volkhi, sleek and well-fed, had surely acquired another owner in three years and more.
“I was thinking how to make you happy,” Sasha said in a small voice, “I truly was. I thought you probably missed having a horse, and I must have been thinking of this one. “
“Who said I wasn’t happy?” Pyetr muttered, wondering if he dared go into the house just now. “—’Veshka! Come out here! What have I done, for the god’s sake?”
On second thought he did not want to go up to the porch right now. He did not want to open that door and talk to his wife, because she was not being sensible at the moment: she was mad at herself for being selfish enough to be mad in the first place. In rusalka-form, she had done terrible things. Nowadays she had a body as well as a heart to trouble her, and sometimes she did not deal well with surprises and things that went against her wishes. Most of all she did not deal well with an eighteen-year-old boy who confused himself with her father—all of which came at Pyetr in half a blink and with a force that left him short of breath. His wife was decidedly upset.
“God.” Pyetr rested his head on the rail of the walk-up while Sasha blithered on about how he had no idea why the part about the horse had worked and the part about him being happy had gone so terribly, awfully askew.
“It’s not your fault,” Pyetr said, looking at the twilight above the woods, the hedge, and black Volkhi snuffling wistfully in the direction of the garden. “It’s none of it anyone’s fault— unless some boyar comes looking for him with his guard. Who knows who bought him, after me? I left a lot of creditors.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Sasha, I swear, I’m glad about the horse, I don’t know why anybody’s upset, I don’t know why I can’t go inside and have supper, and I don’t know why my wife isn’t speaking to me, except the cabbages.”
“I don’t know,” Sasha said miserably. “Pyetr, I’m—”
“—sorry, I know. —For what? What for the god’s sake is anybody upset about? I’ve got my horse back. What’s she mad about?”
“Because you don’t know what could happen!”
“Because you didn’t mean to want something.” Sometimes a rational man felt his sanity in question. “And it trampled Eveshka’s garden.” He shouted up at the house: “Eveshka, for the god’s sake, everybody’s sorry about the garden! I don’t mind you wanted me to look at you first, it’s not a crime, Eveshka, I’m not mad, I swear I’m not, I’m sorry I didn’t notice you! I would have, except I didn’t expect the horse!”
Silence.
“’Veshka, it’s getting dark and I want my supper, dammit! Open the door!”
There was no answer of any sort. His wife was jealous of a horse. And in the gathering dark, Pyetr sighed heavily, let the basket and the sack of mushrooms to the ground and sat down on the rim of the walk-up, under the rail, that seeming to be where they might both spend the night.
“It’s me she’s upset with,” Sasha said, settling on the split logs beside him, while Volkhi came up to investigate the contents of the basket at Pyetr’s feet. “She just wants to think. To figure things out. A wizard has to—”