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light was seeping through a crack. Her thoughts began to drift, and the Mongol again began to take them over. Katerina fought him, pushed him away as she had in the snow. “I won’t allow you to . . . I won’t let this happen. I’ll think of other things, things that please me and make me happy. I’ll think of the steppe when I was a little girl, and my father. My father and me . . .” It was working. For now, she was a five-year-old running through the high grass of the plain. She saw herself playing in the fields of flowers that grew there: pale blue, indigo, and lilac cornflowers, the yellow broom and the white meadowsweet. Millions of blossoms that turned the vast expanse into a shimmering, waving ocean of breathtaking color. In her mind, she became a bird taking wing, soaring to the heavens and looking down from the sky, reveling in what God had created.
    Not until she was full grown and seated upon her horse was she able to see the great distances the grasslands covered. Every Cossack on the steppe knew the flower stalks grew taller than any child and the high grasses could swallow up a man on his horse so he became invisible to the naked eye.
    As a child, Katerina loved playing in the fields. Vague images of her mother looking for her as she hid came floating back. Hard as she tried, she could not see her mother’s face. If only she were alive. But she had been killed by invading Poles soon after Katerina’s fifth birthday. They had cut down her mother and older brother as if they were sheaves of wheat. If they were alive, they would be with her in the mountains and she would be . . . safe. Just the thought of that word, and the Mongol wove his way vividly into her mind. Katerina shook her head fitfully to clear his hateful face from her tortured mind. Her eyes drifted to the wooden icon hanging on the rough plank wall. She prayed silently, the familiar words giving her some small measure of comfort.
    You must get up, an inner voice whispered. You’ve got to keep busy. You must work so there is no time to think. And when your body cries out for rest, then you will sleep. In sleep, you’ll be able to forget.
    Quickly, before she could change her mind, Katerina slipped from the cozy bed and dressed hurriedly. She splashed water on her face from the wooden bowl that Stepan had placed near the hearth and felt ready to confront whatever the day would bring. Woolen underclothing, a wide-sleeved Cossack blouse, snug-fitting trousers, and fleece-lined boots would keep her warm, yet would not hamper her while she worked. Satisfied with her appearance, Katerina left the crackling fire and started the short walk to the Prokopoviches’ house.
    Stepan waited impatiently, his round blue eyes full of concern. Katerina was late. Breakfast, always served at the first sign of dawn, had been over two hours ago. His round, childish face puckered up in thought. Should he go after her and make sure she was all right?
    He turned to his mother, who was standing near the oven, and waved his arms in agitation.
    Olga Prokopovich placed the ladle she held in a heavy wooden bowl and looked fondly at her son. She shook her head, jostling a strand of dark hair loose from under her kokoshnik. “She’s tired, Stepan. She’s probably still sleeping.” Olga laid her head in the crook of her arm and closed her eyes, demonstrating, so the boy would understand. She laid a plump hand on his muscular arm and looked up at Stepan with twinkling blue eyes. “Put the bowl and the cup on the table for Katerina,” she said, hoping to take his mind off the time. Stepan nodded happily. Olga’s glance met her husband’s, and they smiled. How they loved this man-child. In their opinion he was as strong as any Cossack fighter. He was their son and they loved him unashamedly.
    A cold draft of air swirled and eddied about as Katerina entered the room, stamping the snow from her boots. “I know