❝ Anitchka, Anitchka, will you not invite me in? ❞
In which a girl is indebted to a wintry demon for saving her life, and the gold from her fingertips is a magic whose price she must repay tenfold. Unless she guesses his name first.
| loosely based...
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SHE IS SURE THAT THIS ISN'T what the Count had in mind when she urged him, the goblins, and Dmitri into the carriage. It is unusual for them to make a passage at a time other than the night. But perhaps what strikes them as odd is the presence of the kikimora in the coach. It flashes a dark smile at Anitchka, chuckling every now and then.
Dmitri is particularly displeased. "I'd much rather head to the palace for that delicious feast."
"Food again, is it?" The Count frowns. "You couldn't move after that either."
"Details like that can be overlooked."
Helga claps her hand over her mask as Olga laughs. "You are supposed to be able to fly."
The bat grumbles under his breath, annoyance seeping into his voice. "And Bones, why is that with us?" His beady eyes fixate on the unexpected occupant in the carriage. "I remember you waking up with it in your room. They're not creatures to trust."
"I am right here, fly," the kikimora warns, mossy tendrils fluttering around its ragged form.
A gasp of betrayal echoes from Dmitri, and he turns to the goblins. "So, which one of you was it?"
"The kikimora must have heard us talking," they both answer amidst his complaints. "It's not our fault that they keep sneaking around the mansion."
"Anna," the Count says softly, "I think I do agree with Dmitri here. Kikimoras are fickle minded, and can turn on you whenever they see fit."
She exhales, fingers twitching. "They also know a lot about this land."
His tone is incredulous, bordering on offence. "I know everything that happens here too."
"I happen to know more," the kikimora points, scratching its head. "We happen to go around a lot."
Dmitri bristles. "Disturbing."
Avoiding their curious looks, Anitchka breathes in the grey skies; a reprieve from the dark night that she has grown accustomed to. As they head closer to the forest, she sees some creatures and people in the distance. But the sight that draws her attention is the familiar hair of the baker's wife. It is faint but traceable, especially as the coach nears the edge of the spring touched woods. The Count follows the trail of her gaze. "It's the land of the dead, Anna. She won't remember you even if you meet her."
It is the kikimora that breaks her thoughts. "Now, if the Master and the human girl are done having their little moment, what is expected of me?"
Immediately, they inch away from each other, and the Count says, "I would like to remind you that I'm still the Collector."
They enter the tall branches of the woods, the greenery almost harsh in the winter. It is a world of its own, brimming with life and fruit laden trees. "You'll have to be cruel to be a Collector, and that's too unlike you."
