THE DAY MY FATHER MARRIED Donia, spring bloomed in earnest across the countryside, verdant leaves bursting bright, birds trilling jubilant choruses from the treetops. It was also my sixteenth birthday, which my father had momentarily forgotten when fixing upon the date—Donia hadn’t let him change it when he did remember.
I rose early, creaking open my tiny window to let in the fresh air, brushing my hair and braiding it. I had a brand-new sarafan that my father had refused to tell me the price of: it was a soft orange brocade embroidered with gold thread down the front and around the hem. I slipped it on over my white blouse, which lay cool and delicate against my skin, and buttoned all twenty-five buttons. I slid into my felt boots and stepped out into the hallway to peer in the circle mirror hanging on the wall. I avoided mirrors as a general rule—I didn’t have one in my room—but that day I stood studying my reflection for quite a long time.
My eyes stared back at me, the deep blue echo of my mother’s. My hair was dark. My scars were white, pulling up the skin of my face so I almost looked like I was sneering.
For the first time since the bandage had come off, I lifted one hand to cover the scarred side of my face, looking at the smooth side, the perfect side. I wondered what my life would have been like if the scars had never existed. If I concentrated hard enough I could see myself: unscarred, untouched.
And then I moved my hand to cover the right half of my face, and forced myself to stare at those ugly white lines. That was what I was. All I ever would be.
“You look lovely, Echo.”
I jumped and turned to see my brother watching me from his room. He looked tall and handsome in his new shirt, embroidered in red, his dark hair combed neatly and the beginnings of his beard shaved clean.
I dropped my hand, ashamed of myself.
We walked together to the brand-new wooden chapel on the outskirts of town, and I couldn’t help but think of the crumbling stone chapel on the hill where my parents had been wed, barely a penny between them. Somehow that seemed more romantic than newly hewn wood, the paint hardly dry.
The ceremony was simple. Donia looked exquisite in her glittering gown and impossibly elaborate veil. I focused on my father’s face, on the joy shining out of his eyes when he saw her.
The celebration that followed filled nearly the whole village. There was food and music and dancing, and the afternoon spooled quickly away. Rodya offered to dance with me, but I didn’t want to monopolize him, and retreated to the outskirts of the festivities. I sat in the grass under a huge old oak, nibbling shortbread and watching Rodya flirt with the village girls and dance with the ones he particularly fancied.
The dancers whirled past me in shimmering skirts, their quick-stepping feet keeping time to old man Tinker’s violin. I wished I was among them, but none of the boys asked me to dance—and why would they? I was little more than the cloud on the horizon no one wanted to see.
I slipped away without wishing my father and Donia well on their honeymoon. I told myself it was just weariness, that I longed for solitude. But really the villagers overwhelmed me, with their whispered words and lingering glances. My loneliness and shame threatened to swallow me.
The afternoon was beginning to turn toward evening by the time I arrived at the cottage. I went to sit on the back stoop, hugging my knees to my chest and trying not to feel forgotten.
The wind teased through my hair, and it smelled of earth and wood and springtime. Ahead of me the forest teemed with life, and away to the west the sun began to slide down the rim of the sky. I was staring into the woods, my eyelids growing heavy, when I caught a flash of movement between the trees. All at once I saw a huge, white wolf staring at me from the border of the forest, and I swear to God in heaven that his eyes met mine, that his eyes knew mine. I had the sudden wild thought that it was the same wolf I had rescued all those years ago from the trap, and I rose involuntarily to my feet.
I took one step, two, toward the woods and the wolf. He didn’t move or blink or even seem to breathe, just watched me. I wasn’t afraid and I didn’t know why—the thought that I should be afraid didn’t even enter my head.
I stared at him, and he at me, and we were frozen there together for one moment of time that seemed to stretch on into eternity.
And then a twig snapped behind me and the wolf jumped and whirled round. In the span of an eye blink, I lost him among the trees.
I turned to see Rodya coming toward me, his hands in his pockets. “Echo!” he said, concern pressing into his forehead. “Are you all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
I glanced back to the wood, straining for one last glimpse of the wolf, my pulse still raging. But there was no visible sign he’d ever been there. I drew in a deep breath and forced a smile for my brother. “I thought I saw something in the woods, but—” I shook my head, “It was nothing. I promise.”
He put one hand on my shoulder. “If you’re certain. Come inside, won’t you? I’ve something to show you.”
I followed him into the house, and tears sprang into my eyes when I saw he’d laid out cake and tea for me on the red rug in front of the fire.
“Happy birthday, Echo,” said Rodya, smiling.
I hugged him tight and then we sat down and ate every crumb of nutcake and drank every drop of tea. Rodya lit a fire, as even in the heart of springtime the nights were still chilly. He stretched out on the rug and fished something out of his pocket that was wrapped in a square of cloth. He handed it to me.
I unfolded the cloth and my mouth dropped open: in my palm lay a delicate clock on a chain, gears whirring and hands ticking softly, all encased in a gold-plated shell engraved with a compass rose. “Oh, Rodya,” I breathed.
“Do you like it? I made it for you.”
I nodded, at a loss for words. I couldn’t stop staring at it. As I watched, the hands whirled around the clock far too quickly and then jerked to a sudden stop.
I glanced up to see Rodya frown.
“It’s never done that before,” he said. “I’m sorry, Echo. I’ll take it back to the shop and fix it for you.”
“No, no, I’d like to keep it awhile, please? I don’t mind about the time.”
He laughed. “Oh all right, I’ll fix it next week. Here.” He scooted behind me and fastened the chain around my neck. The little clock hung solid and cold through the brocade of my sarafan.
“The best part is, if you open it—” Rodya pushed a little pin down on the side of the clock face so that it sprung open to reveal a tiny compass inside. The needle pointed steadily north. “So that wherever you go, you’ll always be able to come back to me. At least that’s still working.”
I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him.
He extricated himself from my embrace, laughing, and asked me if I’d written to the university yet.
When I admitted I hadn’t, he pulled ink and paper from his shoulder bag. “I thought not,” he said gently. “Let’s write it together.”
So right there on the red carpet in front of the barking fire, we composed the letter, and my hope swelled nearly to bursting.
TWO BLISSFUL WEEKS PASSED, during which I was mostly left to my own devices. I kept busy running the bookshop and overseeing the delivery of Donia’s furniture, making sure it was placed in the correct rooms in the proper arrangements as she had specifically instructed me.