Chapter 42: Ivan Tsarevich

Morozko was on the shadow-side of Saint Petersburg, in Buyan’s reflection of the metropolis.  He rode the train aimlessly, smoking cigarette after cigarette.  All of his searching had turned up ash.  Dirt.  Nothing.  There was no sign of where Kosti had disappeared to, and the fear of what had happened to Anya was a bird freezing in its cage in his snowy ribs, where his heart would have been, if Anya was in his arms.  Instead, she had flown away, because he had been foolish enough to make his wish on a firebird girl.

Morozko caught his reflection in the dark window.  There were his lips, a dark blue, and his cheeks sunken in like a junkie’s.  His hair was hardened with ice.  He could barely smoke cigarettes now: the cold of his mouth put them out.  He cursed his new form under his breath.

Morozko touched the window’s glass and traced Anya’s face in the oily smudge.  Just her eyes, really, a