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hopes of raising the dead. Not a happy creature, not a happy parting, and, Sasha had thought from long before they had put the roof cap on, certainly nothing he really wanted to provoke to anger. It surely must have been glad, as Pyetr had said, to find some more cheerful establishment to haunt, say, down in Kiev—if (and this was the most substantial of his fears) repairing the bathhouse had not by some law of magic called it back against its will. He recalled he had thought about that possibility, that day.
    They had talked about Kiev. He had gotten quite light-headed from the heat—had been quite, quite giddy when he had thought about the horse. They had had to go outside.
    God, he thought, what was I thinking then? About banniks? Or was it remembering the bathhouse at uncle Fedya's that made me think of the horse?
    Vojvoda. Pyetr and Volkhi and the butter churn-He rested his eyes against his hands, elbows on the table, thinking himself: Or was I worrying about Pyetr? Was I afraid he'd go off to Kiev and leave us and not come back once he saw the gold and the crocodiles and all? Or was I thinking about him and 'Veshka—because I'm afraid I am messing things up with them? Maybe I really should build that house on the hill over there.
    But if I'm not right here with them when they argue, to say, 'Veshka, don't wish at him—then who's going to say it? He won't always know until it gets really plain—and she does it, damn it, she doesn't mean to, but she does it all the time.
    But maybe my not wanting to leave the house is a wish too, and maybe that's why things are happening that shouldn't, maybe that's what's putting things out of joint.
    God, why am I so confused?
    Uulamets' teaching said, uncompromisingly: Write down everything you don't understand, —fool.
    He certainly had enough to write tonight, about Missy and the black and white cat, along with, the god forgive him, shapeless, resentful, thoroughly dangerous thoughts about his aunt and uncle...
    He squeezed his eyes shut a moment, got a breath and concentrated deliberately on writing a simple reminder to himself: Unwish nothing. Start from where you stand and trust only to specifics—with a shivery thought toward all the peace they had here, balanced on Eveshka's resolve to forget all too many grim things, his, to grow up without foolish mistakes; and Pyetr's, to be patient wit h two wizards trying their best to keep their wizardry and their hearts out of trouble.
    For most of three years he had found one excuse and the other not to rebuild the old bathhouse, for fear of banniks—for fear of one showing them the will-be and might-be in the life they had chosen here, so long as Eveshka was still so fragile and it was still uncertain whether wizards could really live with each other at all. But Pyetr had kept after the matter till it had begun to seem silly and inconvenient not to have it. So one particularly frozen, icy day he had given in.
    But what was I afraid of? he asked himself, pen in hand. What specifically was I afraid of learning?
    Of seeing myself alone? Or Pyetr changed?
    Eveshka wanted Pyetr to herself, of course a new wife would— but 'Veshka was not just any wife, Pyetr had a right to his friends, too, damned if he should build any small, lonely house up on the hill and live in it in exile.
    He had a right to have something to love him.
    Was that why I wanted the horse?
    Everything was perfect, Eveshka said.
    At least Eveshka was happy ...
    Or at least—we got along.
    Dammit.
    He did not understand his own temper. He did not understand why he had a lump in his throat, but he intended to have no patience with it. He rested his elbow on the table, his chin against his hand, and kept writing, merciless to himself and his notions: Having a heart is no protection against selfishness in that heart-mine or hers.
    I don't know yet what I should do to help the situation. I don't know how much is my fault, or how much I dare try to help, or even how much