•••

RED WAS A BEAUTIFUL COLOUR, rich and vivid, a thousand spring blossoms all at once.

At least, it usually was, until one had seen so much of it that they felt ready to scream if they ever saw the colour again.

The day's work had drained all of Yaga's affection for the hue out of her heart, and she found herself shutting her eyes for minutes on end purely to escape the sea of red spread out on the table in front of her. Her fingers, calloused yet gentle, clenched around the edges, smoothing out the cloth in order for her to be able to poke the needle through.

The rhythm was that of an endless beat, a drum without a melody, just a mindless thump, droning on and on. Regardless, she remained standing, reminding herself that she was lucky enough to have mastered the craft at a young age - either way, she didn't have much of a choice.

At least she didn't prick her fingers. Blood on the seamstress's fabrics would have resulted in an encounter that Yaga shuddered at the very thought of. It wasn't that Gospozica Arelova was a cruel woman - in fact, she was the opposite - kind, and always praising her apprentice's work. But she still managed to seem far taller than she was, and crackled with an energy that weakened Yaga's already-weary knees.

Mirroring the steady rush of the river outside, behind a thicket of undergrowth and dark leaves, the needle wove in and out of the fabric, leaving a perfect trail of golden thread. Yaga exhaled lightly as she slipped the needle into a leather sleeve, setting down the length of cotton and neatly putting the coloured threads into their places.

The tailor's shop was a place that sang with life, brimming with colours, warmth, and the comforting smells of fresh baking and hearty winter stews. A fire crackled merrily in the grate, new cloths that hadn't yet been turned into something more hanging from the ceiling, casting a vibrant glow over the entire room. In this room, magic existed, real magic that swirled in clouds from threads, that ebbed from colours, not meaningless tarot cards. Instead, it was as if an enchantment had drifted down from the heavens and laid to rest, nestled in their skin like cloaks hanging from shoulders.

A sudden voice caused Yaga to jump, snapping out of her dreamlike trance. Gospozica Arelova leaned against the doorway of the fitting room, her wiry little body wrapped in layers upon layers of thick mountain wools.

"Yaga, why are you still here? Aren't you meant to be dining with Dimitri today? You are to be married, of course. Shouldn't you be getting to know him better?"

Yaga swallowed uncertainly. The rush of the river shifted in her veins.

"Gospozica, I...it's not as serious as you think. Anyway, I don't have much of a say in it, do I?" she barked a somewhat bitter laugh. "He is like the other boys, seeing a pretty face and thinking of little more. Besides, I know him well enough. We've been friends since childhood, have we not?"

"Yaga, you are the most desired girl in this town." The older woman patted her apprentice's braid of amber hair, wisps of it unfurled in waves trickling down Yaga's neck, and the girl stiffened. "You must settle down soon. A girl like you, beautiful, sweet, a seamstress and a cook - men fight over you, my dear. After all, you will be a woman in a few months' time, eh?" She cast Yaga a sudden sharp look. "I do hope you stay with me, not run off to the city and become a common maid."

Her voice was light, but edged with venom; a hidden dagger. "Or even worse, whore yourself out to the Czar."

Yaga smirked, holding back a laugh. "No, I haven't thought about it," she said, wondering whether that was a truth or a lie. Behind her back, her fingers were twined together in an anxious whirl, her foot tapping on the worn flagstone floor. "Staying or leaving, I mean. I'm not a planner." She scoffed, freckle-beaten cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

With the materials scattered everywhere and the blazing fire, the room was swelteringly hot, a rosy blush burning on Yaga's pale complexion.

Arelova began bundling a stack of silks into her arms, nodding. "Yes, I remember when I was a young girl, like you. Blinded by the stars." She sighed, almost breathlessly. "Saints knew I would end up here." Waving her arms around awkwardly whilst trying to keep the fabrics balanced, she clutched them to her chest, eyes sparkling.

"This is a beautiful place, don't you see, Gospozica? Look at the sky, the trees. Watch the children play in the streets. It's a beautiful life we live, and if we must be blinded by the stars as you say, we all will be."

"If you say so, girl." She rested against Yaga's worktable. "Yaga, if you are indeed seeing Dimitri, could you make a round to Baba Jana along the way? She wanted a cloak. It is getting cold, isn't it?"

"Yes, I'll try my best. How much is she paying?"

Arelova shook her head, her expression distant. "It's the middle of winter, Yaga. She's an old woman, I won't make her pay. She can barely stand up, let alone afford a cloak or a loaf of bread - I won't let her freeze on top of it all." She held a finger up, briefly disappearing behind a veil of cotton. A few moments later, Arelova emerged once more, face distorted by an almost opaque layer of steam billowing up from a pot in her hands.

"I made Andrei a soup, but he went off to play with the children. Give this to Jana if you can. She needs some warming up, Saints bless her poor soul."

Yaga smiled. "Very well, as you wish, Gospozica."

"May the Saints be with you." The seamstress squinted out of the window. "It's getting dark. You don't need to, Yaga. I didn't realise how late it was. Have you been here all day?"

"Yes. I needed to catch up," Yaga said, folding a few bolts of silk on the tabletop.

Her mistress scoffed, but said nothing.

"I'll take it to her, it's no inconvenience. It's on the way, anyway." Forcing a tight-lipped smile on her face, Yaga pulled her winter furs over herself, covering Jana's woollen cloak with it, and clutched the soup under her other arm.

It would be a struggle, but years of carrying the tailor's supplies on horseback had guaranteed a steady hand - besides, it was only a few hundred metres down the street. The old woman could use some company, after all. Yaga was hoping that a certain friend of hers would be waiting outside, as Dimitri often did, frequenting the apothecary for supplies for his family's business.

If he was, his carriage couldn't be far behind.

"Belobog be with you, Yaga."

"You too, Gospozica," she called, feigning concern, only focused on getting out of the workshop as quickly as she could to escape the stifling heat.

By now, the cold seemed far better than the warmth inside, which had caused to sweat to spike at her skin and hair, wind rattling the door as Yaga stepped outside. Hastily, she closed it, fingers numbing around the doorknob, and she had to fight to tear her skin away. It was a cold evening, though, as she looked around, it became apparent that snow wouldn't come for some time; instead, icy winds and dry air pressed into her lungs like a thousand choking fists.

"Yaga!" A familiar voice called her name, and she whipped around, almost falling into a tall figure, equally heavily dressed.

"Zdravosti, Dimitri. Arelova asked me to deliver Baba Jana a cloak and a soup. It's on the way. That won't be a problem, will it?"

Without waiting for an answer, she set the two gifts down inside the carriage, folding her arms over her chest as she leant against its wooden outside. Casting her an amused look, Dimitri shook his head, smiling to reveal white teeth. Broad-shouldered and dark-haired, he was her parents' favoured option for their daughter's husband - the doctor's brilliant son. Privately, he, too, was the only one that Yaga had even brought into consideration, despite her lack of feelings for him. They'd been friends for as long as time, and he was one of the only people that she genuinely liked, without having to pretend.

And that was certainly a feat.

But, still, she didn't love him.

She wondered whether there was something wrong with her - after all, all the other girls fawned over him, and when the other apprentices had heard that their families were intending to marry them, they'd practically fainted from giddiness.

Dimitri Sorenov, so close to us. Yaga, do you know what this means?

She did not.

"No, no, Yaga. Let me help you. The carriage is here, anyway. I'm sure you realised that, though," he grinned.

"You know me so well."

She raised her head to see two magnificent colts, glossy black with long-lashed glassy dark eyes and even more pristine manes, adorned with colourful fabrics. Reaching out, she let the horse nuzzle against her hand, taking Dimitri's hand to help her inside the carriage, more to tease him than anything else.

"You're going to have to get used to this," he muttered, eyes trained on the floor as he sat down.

Yaga sat on the edge of the seat she'd taken opposite him, nodding somewhat uncertainly. "Yes, of course." Her nails dug into her palms - she enjoyed the expensive things that she experienced at Dimitri's side. As he closed the door of the carriage and the driver began to navigate the horses through the smoky streets, the only sound became Yaga's hastened breaths and the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves.

Leaning back into the plush velvet seats, she knitted her fingers into a tight clasp, not bothering to put on her gloves, despite having made herself a pair of fur-lined mittens for the cold months. The window was nearly pressed up against her face - she felt like a child, distorting their features behind a pane of glass - as stupid as she felt, it was undeniably fun.

The view of the street was equally distorted, an opaque film of her breath covering most of the window, the rest looming shadows and crooks of gabled roofs, gleaming in the dusk.

"There isn't much of a view," Dimitri said, and Yaga snapped back to reality, taking her hand away from the glass.

"Yes, I agree. There is a much nicer outlook in summer, though." She unclasped her hands, fingers fiddling with the knot of her amber hair. "When the skies are blue and the birds sing."

"When they sing of sweet solaces and forgotten vows."

Yaga stifled an exhale of surprise.

"I never imagined you as the poetic type, Dimitri."

He arched an eyebrow. "What did you imagine me as, then?" It didn't seem malicious, a boy's mere curiosity.

"Black cloaks and suits. Mint and nettles. Medical journals and encyclopaedias. Not poetry."

A laugh hung on his lips. "I like those things, too. But I like poetry. I'm not as sullen as my father," he admitted.

"Doktor Sorenov is a good medic, though he's not the best man I've met. He saved my life when I was born, apparently."

"I suppose. But he is too wrapped up in his work. A good medic, not good at much else. Not good at socialising, that is guaranteed."

The carriage came to a halt, and Dimitri unlatched the door, stepping outside. The wave of cold hit Yaga like a thousand bullets raining down, piercing through her skin. Baba Jana's house was a rickety little structure, tall and narrow, looking as if it were to fall over at any given moment.

Dimitri held out his hand to help her step off, and she took it, shooting him a smirk, her cloak nearly brushing against the cobbled street. The wind sent ripples of ice down her spine, rattling her bones, and she clung to the warmth of the old woman's wools, mind frozen.

Doors weren't meant to look that way, so withered and ancient. It resembled its owner in a way, veiny and rotted, but with glimmers of its former glory flickering throughout, in shifts of the light. Yaga knocked, finding the door to be unlocked - as usual, since Jana believed that if her time was to come, it would come - and she wouldn't fight it.

Safety wasn't a precaution in this home.

"Babo? Are you here?"

Yaga pulled her cloak over her shoulders, shivering as the door closed after Dimitri. She strode into the parlour, where a bony figure sat, shrivelled, in a heap of blankets, impossibly ancient eyes staring into the fire.

Whereas in the hallway it was numbingly cold, here it was swelteringly hot, sweat spiking at Yaga's forehead as she pulled her lips into a tight-lipped smile. "Zdravosti, Babo. I have a cloak for you."

"Hello, child. May the Saints be with you."

Her voice was a croak, a hollow tree howling in a storm. Dimitri set the soup down on the rickety dining table.

"You too, Baba."

"Sit."

Yaga didn't argue, resting on the chair. It groaned as she sat down.

•••

BABA JANA LIKED TAROT. That was one of the first things that Yaga had learned about her, back when she'd been brittle and wiry, with the bent posture of a circus acrobat.

Jana had given her the nickname Iskra. It simply meant spark, because that was how the old woman viewed her - a small, bright burst of light, the first act of what a fire would billow into.

Yaga liked it.

It made her feel stronger. More powerful. It put a slight spring in her step, knowing that she was special, at least for a moment.

Now, Jana laid the tattered, dog-eared deck on the chipped wooden table, the firelight causing angular shadows to creep over her sharp, bony cheeks. Her long nails tapped on one, and she picked it up, smiling a smile that revealed bleeding gums and rotted teeth.

"The Magician, Iskra. You have magic in your bones, girl, whether you like it or not."

Yaga clenched her fist around the edge of the table. The mention of magic always rattled her, the thought of something that defied all laws, shattered all expectations. It was simply unnatural. And she wasn't the only one to think so, though she was one of the least opinionated on the topic.

People hated magicians - they burnt down their houses, cast them out, despite the acts not being explicitly illegal, they were taboo. Magic wasn't spoken of on the streets - it was defended against from behind closed doors, behind clouds of smoke and out of reach of the moonlight.

She could remember one incident from her childhood that had haunted her ever since. Years ago, the baker's daughter had been discovered as a magician. But they hadn't called her that - she was known as a diabel, a demon, an abomination. And she'd been Yaga's friend, a mere child.

And that was when a small bit of the world's light had been extinguished when she'd been exposed to the fear and hatred that was usually locked away, out of earshot. She still remembered how the girl's parents had called the priests, begging them to take away the force that had consumed their daughter, asking why the saints had bestowed upon them such a monster.

The girl had been eight years old, and bent water.

That had been her crime.

"We all have magic. But some are more magical than others, weave the extraordinary from the ordinary. That is their gift," Jana was croaking as Yaga faded back into their crooked reality.

"I am not a mage, if that is what you mean, Baba."

Jana gave her a rare smile. "Are you sure of that, Iskra?"

Yaga realised that Dimitri had left the room, probably waiting in the carriage. He was always perturbed by the eccentricity of Baba Jana's home, and she didn't blame him. It was only after a decade that she'd stopped feeling that way every time she entered.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Really? Then watch."

And Yaga did exactly that, watching as the woman flexed her fingers, a strange, serene expression on her ancient face. The fire in the grate went out immediately, without smoke or ashes. It just disappeared.

A shiver went down her spine.

Not possible. She can't be-

She didn't know what to do. So when Jana grabbed her wrists, and her eyes flashing, she ran out of the room. Out into the street, away from the madness. She didn't speak for the rest of the journey, only greeting the Sorenovs as they drew into the smaller street where the more well-off townspeople lived.

They lived in a large townhouse, far larger than Yaga's own home, opposite the tailor's, where her parents worked, usually. Though Gospozica Arelova was her supervisor, she was still employed by the Izevs, the tailoring house that had survived the creation of the town, and Yaga's ancestors.

It had been that way for as long as she could remember, servant after servants, in a smooth, elegant cycle like the silk scarves around the arching angles of her mother's neck.

The Sorenov house loomed up in front of them, crafted from ivory and marble, embedded with shining cuts of sapphires that glowed in the moonlight. But the Doktors had a power that the Baron could only dream of - an iron grip over who lived and died in the town.

Enemies could be incorrectly medicated, signed off for an amputation when all that was needed was a bandage. All in the Saints' stars, they said, taking more bottles of poison from the apothecary shelves and stuffing them hastily into drawers.

All in the Saints' stars.

If it truly was written in the stars, it was in a tongue of lies and sharp blades, points of daggers whispering into flesh, singing a savage song like a lullaby.

"Yaga? By the Saints, tell me you haven't laid to slumber quite yet." Dimitri's voice once more interrupted her train of thought, as did the sight of Gospozica Yelena, with her onyx eyes and bronze skin, impossibly pristine.

"Majko Yelena."

•••