Winter Lost

Interlude

There was a whole lot of nothing for miles in all directions. No, that was a little bit of an exaggeration, Tracy LaBella thought, getting out of her bright green Maserati SUV and stepping into sand that immediately tried to swallow her five-inch stiletto heels. Tried.

The ground wallowed in hillocks as small as her SUV and as large as a mountain, providing homes for small creatures in its meager plant life. Tough creatures survived—thrived, even—in this barren landscape. Tracy respected tough.

The dwelling—calling it a hut would have been insulting to…one or the other of them—blended in with the landscape so well that someone less observant might have driven right by it. As she got closer, she noticed the fit of the untreated, age-grayed wood was surprisingly tight in this hot, dry climate. The temperatures here sucked the moisture out of most wood, shrinking it in the first years so that gaps should have formed. There should have been repairs for that, and there weren’t. This building had been here a long time. The wind and sand had scored the surface, but it was largely unchanged from the day it had been built. Assuming, of course, it had been built.

Her own home, her first and oldest home, had been hatched.

The porch in front, covered to provide shelter from the sun, was larger than the whole of the building. She stepped onto it to knock at the door.

A rough piece of wood moved and an eye appeared briefly before the wood returned to its place. Nothing happened.

Tracy knocked again. “Grandmother, grandmother, grandmother.”

“That rot doesn’t work with me,” an amused voice answered her. “I’m not fae. And to that end—I don’t speak with liars.”

Tracy contemplated that. Heaved a sigh. “Really?”

Silence answered her.

She shrugged. “Very well.”

Dropping her magic and her illusions, Baba Yaga dusted off her heavy skirt and snapped the steel of her teeth together a couple of times because she enjoyed the sound.

The door opened, and a wizened old woman with Native American coloring and features came out, a tray with two cups of hot tea in chipped mugs in her hands. One mug read Proud Parent of a Valedictorian at Morris Middle School. The other one read #1 Witch. The old woman crossed the porch and walked around the side where a small table and a pair of cheap metal chairs awaited.

They seated themselves, and the old woman handed Baba Yaga the cup that read #1 Witch and took the other for herself with a contented sigh.

“What brings you here?” the old woman asked.

“A mutual friend who now owes me a favor.”

The old woman smiled, and the wrinkles in her face deepened. “Oh, that scoundrel,” she murmured. “Better that you don’t collect favors from him. They don’t turn out quite the way you expect.”

“He says that you’ve been bored. He said, ‘Perhaps she might consider decorating a fae tavern for the season. The green man who runs it has agreed—and something interesting might drop in her web.’ ”

“Well, now,” said the old woman.