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.Snake was not sure what he was up to or what kind of trap it was, but Snake thought curiously— Will you not?Sasha wanted something then.Strongly.Snake did.Pyetr felt it going on, and said, out loud, the only way a plain man was sure things were heard: "Sasha, it's all right.Snake's all right.He's just—"He felt pain, sudden drowsiness."—Scared," he said, "aren't you, Snake?"—straight to Snake's pride.Snake felt Sasha behind him, saw him standing in front, Snake felt surrounded and vulnerable and Snake had made that arrogant, foolish bet with him, in giving him his heart, Snake had said himself—It can go the other way.Walk the roof, Snake? Walk it drunk and blind with me?Chernevog's face was ghost-white and grim.But he laughed, then—at least life touched that grimness, his eyes lightened, a dark amusement pulled one corner of his mouth."I'm ever so much older, Owl.Ever so much older than that boy.""So am I," Pyetr said.There was, in truth, a smile—most appalling, a grin.Chernevog gave a twitch of his shoulders, laughed softly and still laughing, walked away from them toward the fire."God, Pyetr," Sasha said.Pyetr wondered that he was not more shaken than he was, and put a hand to his heart, asking himself if that cold spot did not feel a little less uncomfortable.Chernevog sat down at the fireside, poked up the embers, looked up and grimly beckoned Sasha, not him, Pyetr understood.To him, Chernevog said, a silent voice he could quite well hear."Ever so much older, Owl.You can't imagine."He watched Sasha walk away to that fireside.He stood there thinking there was nothing he could do, and sank down on his heels and watched them there, in that silent conversation—about Eveshka.He thought, What about her? What's she done? What's going on? He thought if there were any good news they would not be talking like that, without looking at him, and Sasha would reassure him.But Sasha was not inclined to lie to him, Sasha would not tell him a lie that important, that much he was sure of.That Sasha had said nothing at all about Eveshka, and evaded his thinking and wondering and worrying about her—meant it was not good news he had found.He thought, She doesn't like to do magic.What's this messing with sorcery? She wouldn't do that.Surely she wouldn't do that.He recalled how she had kept him about the house, how she had worried and fretted over him, near smothered him with her worrying—And loved him.He was sure she did.She loved him, as far as she was able—one got used to Snake, and one could understand a little more how very careful she had been.Ever so much older, she might say.Like Snake.Ever so much older, Pyetr.You can't imagine.I can't be rid of the dreams.Eveshka had written.And, with chilling accuracy, I dream about wolves.Wolves tearing me in pieces.1 dream of water.And being wider it.Chernevog turned the page, thinking,Draga.He looked up into Sasha's face—a jarring thing still, to see this boy looking at him with such frankness, the way only 'Veshka had looked at him, and he never had trusted.He was afraid now, to take this boy on Pyetr's judgment, Pyetr knowing so little beyond the natural world, so damnably little, and trusting the world worked by what he saw.Pyetr he could believe in, the way he believed in trees and rain and sun.Pyetr was exactly what one saw, and exactly what one believed—and he had relied on that when he had had to rely on something.Pyetr had not failed him—he believed that at least from moment to moment, more than he had ever believed anything.He thought, How do I know anything? Draga deceived me from the beginning, down to this very day she could lie to me—I could see her die, and not know she was still alive.He had seen Eveshka die—in dark water, drowning, the way he had died in his own dreams, in Draga's house.He gave that thought to Sasha, the whole ugliness, to stop Sasha's intrusive staring at him.Sasha said, I know.And said further: Uulamets knew.He lived with her.He had not given those dreams to Pyetr, had not hurt him to that extent.Sasha knew that, too
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