Only when supper was over and Ivan stayed in the dining room with his father was Katerina able to ask Mother—for so she already thought of her—just how widely known magic was. "Ivan seemed to know nothing of it," said Katerina. "And yet... he lived in this house."

Mother smiled and looked shyly down at the dishwater in the sink—for the pots did not go in the machine, since the dishwasher could not preserve the charms that made the food in the pots always wholesome and flavorful. "Most are like Vanya," she said, trying to use old words whenever she knew them. "Most know nothing. I had a teacher."

"A teacher, yes. But talent also."

Mother didn't know the word that Katerina used.

"You have it in you," Katerina explained. "Not just learned. It's in you."

Mother shook her head. "I'm nothing special. But we lived in a hard place, in a hard time. I was born at the end of the war, but my mother told me how it was. Terrible things happened. My father and older brothers died when the Germans came through. Reported and taken off as Jews. Only my mother and my sister survived by hiding. Like this."

Mother pulled the bib of her old-fashioned apron up over her face. At once she became unnoticeable. Katerina found it disconcerting. She knew Mother was there, that in fact she was perfectly visible standing by the sink. Yet Katerina had no choice but to look elsewhere, and it was very hard to force herself to continue thinking of Mother, to not allow herself to forget whom she was talking to, and what they were talking about. Then Mother was there again, the apron restored to its place. "I was in my mother's womb at the time," said Mother. "My father's last gift to her. But she taught me. That sometimes the old ways are the only way to stop new evils. So I learned. She died too soon to teach me all, and she didn't know that much, anyway. But before she died, she introduced me to Baba Tila, in Kiev."

I had a Tetka Tila once, Katerina remembered. One of the aunts who modified Baba Yaga's curse. But Tetka Tila lived farthest away of all, and never visited after I was little. She saved my life, but taught me nothing.

"She was very old," Mother was saying, "but even a powerful old witch like her couldn't live forever. I was her last pupil." Mother sighed. "Everyone dies so soon."

"You keep it secret?"

"The Church, the Christians—they killed witches. Rarely the real witches, you understand. Just old women who foolishly muttered something, or people that had enemies who charged witchcraft just to get rid of them. The real witches could hide from their vindictiveness. But it wasn't good, the way people hated the very idea of witches. So we kept it to ourselves. I speak as if I were one of them. Not much of one. Do you even understand me? Baba Tila taught me the old language, but it's been so long, and I've forgotten so much."

"I understand everything," said Katerina. "Or almost."

"Now they don't even believe witches ever existed. That makes it easier. They don't look for us. There are foolish women who call themselves witches and prance around naked—they think it has something to do with talking to the devil! Or some nature religion. They have no idea. They embarrass me." Mother laughed. "But then, at least they wouldn't fear us. My husband... if he knew... your coming here, it threatens to reveal the truth to him."

"I'll keep still," said Katerina.

Mother shook her head. "Too late. Vanya knows, and Vanya will tell his father, meaning no harm."

"Can't you ask him not to?"

"Vanya has no talent for lying or even for concealing the truth. We'll see what Piotr does about it. It's time he knew."

They talked more, about what Mother knew about Ivan as he was growing up. "Only that he was important, for some reason. All mothers think that about their children, though, don't they? Fathers too. Piotr always knew Vanya was something special. Not that he was an easy child. All this running. He wanted to be an athlete. Piotr wanted him to be a scholar. I just wanted him to be good."

"You all got your wish." And Katerina thought: A strong knight. A wise mind. A pure heart.

Mother patted Katerina's hand and smiled. "Oh, yes, praise my child and you know that we'll be friends."

"I tell only what I know," said Katerina. "He is good. I depend on that. It's my hope."

"I was so afraid when he left this world," said Mother. "I didn't know he had found you. I only knew he was gone. But then I saw that he was alive, and so I didn't worry. Whatever need drew him to you—and it has been calling to him, I've heard it, since he was little—whatever need that was, I knew that he would be man enough for it, in the end."

Katerina loved this woman with her simple manner and her deep wisdom, loved her like the mother she barely remembered. Piotr also seemed a good man, though he was so full of his own doubts that Katerina could hardly talk to him. And for the first time in her life, inside this protected house, knowing that Baba Yaga was thousands of miles away, Katerina felt utterly safe and at peace.

She was, in fact, happy. It was not an unfamiliar feeling—she had been happy many times. Standing with her father after a hard day at the harvest, watching the people dance despite their weariness. Delighting in the children, dancing at a wedding, there was often joy in her life. But it was always joy in others, the happiness of a princess glad that her people are happy. Or sometimes it was the momentary peace of confession, of communion, knowing that the God of love had forgiven her and would welcome her to him when her life ended, even if Baba Yaga had found some terrible way to overmaster her beforehand—peace was also a familiar feeling. But here in this house it simply... well, it did not end. She would be happy and at peace one moment, and then, the next moment, she would still be happy, still be at peace. She wanted to cry. When Mother showed her to her own room, not one to be shared with Ivan, and offered it to her, she did cry. "No," she said. "I want to share your son's room."

"He already told me," said Mother. "That you would be more comfortable apart from him."

Katerina shook her head. "No, you don't understand. In this house I am comfortable everywhere."

"Then let me say it another way. He would be more comfortable apart from you."

The two women looked at each other a moment, and then burst into laughter, though for Katerina the laughter was tinged with despair. "All right then," said Katerina. "My own room for now. But I do mean to be a true wife to your son. However we began, I do mean for it to end well."

Mother touched a finger to Katerina's lips. "I know that," she said. "There isn't much time in this world, but there is always enough time, if you know how to use it."

Katerina shook her head. "Not enough time for everything," she said. "Not enough time with my mother."

Ivan's mother reached out and embraced her. "Your mother surrounds you every moment," she said. "I know, because I feel her love for you in my own arms, around you now."

Katerina was weeping as Mother gently closed the door behind her, leaving her alone in the room. And that, too, was joy, for there are tears of joy, and tears of peace as well.

Ruth cried bitterly about the broken engagement, and her mother made sure that within hours every Jew in Tantalus knew that Ivan Smetski had broken his vow to Ruthie in order to marry a shiksa, and the first Ruthie heard about it was at the airport, seeing the girl hanging on Ivan like a goiter. Everyone was properly horrified, which helped Ruth's parents feel better. But not Ruth.

Nor did talking to her friends at school and listening to their almost triumphant response. What do you expect of men? Women as property, men as walking cauldrons of hormones, yadda yadda, she had heard it all before and wasn't particularly glad to have provided the occasion for more triumphant feminism. What she wanted from them was sympathy—because she still felt, or at least feared, that Ivan was a good man and she had lost a prize. But if he was a good man, how could he leave me? So he must not be a good man. But if he isn't good, then why does it hurt so much to lose him? Is it just my pride that's wounded?