"Don't worry about your appearance, Snegurochka, no one will be wearing their finery to an event such as this."
"I wasn't, starosta."
"Oh…well, that's good then! Shall we?"
"Are you certain you are warm enough?"
"Yes, yes. Hmph, to think me to fall ill because of an early December flurry? I'm not that old yet!"
"Yes, starosta."
He opened the door and they ventured out into the snow. The magic of that first night, four days ago, was gone now, the road trampled into a slushy, dirty mess, and everything else ground level a jumbled mess of black, brown and grey.
It didn't matter to Varya, all she had to do was briefly close her eyes and she was there once more, dancing in the snow, lost to all the worry, and woe, and concern.
She had never felt so close to her Father as she had in that moment, and when she had returned to the starosta's house she was pleasantly surprised to discover that quiet happiness did not fade away. It was a reassurance she had desperately needed, and it was her dearest wish that it would be a sturdy enough foundation for her to figure out what she was to do next. Leave the village and go on to the next, or find some pretext to remain nearby so she could continue her mission.
The sadness plucked at her, but she refused to let it have its way. The snow whirled up inside her and put paid to the emotional tumult, and it quieted once more. It would not last, she would have to confront it, but her snowscape helped.
"You seem to be feeling better, Snegurochka," the starosta said to her as they carefully made their way down the road.
"I am, starosta. The snow is very soothing to me."
"That is good, as we get so much of it. You will be very soothed this winter!"
"Yes, starosta, now save your breath for the walk. It is slippery."
He grumbled a bit, but left off, and she was glad of it. He had been starting to wheeze a bit. Eventually they made their way to the village hall. The exterior had been liberally decorated with lanterns, and despite the trampled snow it was a cheery site with warm yellow light spilling through the windows, whose shutters had been thrown open for the occasion.
The warmth was not an illusion, judging by how they were greeted upon their entrance. They were swarmed with beaming faces, peeling away the many layers of coats and shawls and scarves and taking their shoe covers. All but pushed inside, hot drinks were placed in their hands and they were shown here was the music and dancing, here was the table groaning beneath the weight of savory dishes, and here was where to simply sit and enjoy it all.
The starosta was instantly whisked away, and Varya was left to her own devices. She was more than content to take a chair against the wall and simply observe. The one she chose was quite back and out of the way, easily overlooked. She hoped no one would see her. She had no desire to dance with flesh and blood. The snowflakes had been enough of a partner.
Despite the respite provided by the snow, her thoughts did tend to circle endlessly around her problems, and it was into these she once more she fell into, when the sound of loud female voices caught her attention. It sounded like five distinct girls, but their lamentations were so similar Varya lost track of whom was speaking.
"…and he is so rude. If my babulya wasn't forcing me, there is no way I would be serving that man! Popiy or no Popiy!"
"I agree!" another shrilled. "I swear, if he complains about my tea once, he complains about it fifteen times! 'Why can't you say it like tovarichka?' It's enough to drive you mad!"
"Not only that," yet another joined in. "He is always so grumpy during the Hours. I know them, I do, and I chant them just fine, but it is never good enough. 'Why can't you do them like tovarichka?' he is always asking me! The nerve!"
Gavril? Varya thought to herself. Rude? How is that possible? He never scolded me over such simple tasks, although I know I performed them ill, particularly in the beginning…
"How that man can be seen as a proper priest is beyond me. He has changed since he came here. He used to be so pleasant!"
"It's all Snegurochka's fault," the complaint was loud. "She's the one who ran away. He is a man, and as such needs to be handled delicately. When she ran away from him she all but told him he wasn't good enough for her!"
"I think she ran away with gypsies. You know how they're always skulking around the village, but they can be very handsome and charming. She's so naïve, she probably got entrapped by one."
"But isn't she still in the village?"
"Pooh. She's hiding at the starosta's. My babulya told me. She probably ran off with her Roma lover, and then when he told her he was done with her, she came crying back here!"
"Atela! Shame on you, speaking so!" This was followed by guilty giggles.
"I don't care. I'm so tired of hearing about her. Tovarichka this and tovarichka that. How could he still be so devoted to that miserable cow?"
Enough about me, talk more about him! She mentally urged them. They did not immediately comply.
"Does he tell you about the dreams," one asked with dramatic emphasis.
"Oh, the dreams! I am so tired of hearing about those!"
"Me too! All she does is walk around in them! I know he is supposed to be a Popiy, but they are so boring! The least he could do is make them romantic!"
"Oh no, there's more now. A new dream."
"Ooh, a new one? Tell us!"
"Well, it seems a few nights ago, the night it snowed? He dreamed of her…dancing in the snow! In her plain skirts!"
"Dancing in the snow? Is he insane?"
He saw that? And there are other "dreams"? How many nights has he seen me? This is terrible!
"I didn't think so, but I'm changing my mind. Do you know he was out chopping wood again the day before yesterday? In this weather? Now, mind you, I'm not untruthful enough to say I don't mind seeing him without his shirt on, but that is too much! If he is this much trouble when he is well, how much more trouble will he be when he is sick?"
"Oh, he's trouble all right," one intoned ominously. "It's already started. He could barely make it through Hours today, but when I tried to help him to his bed, he all but pushed me away! I was just trying to get him out of that sweaty cassock he was wearing!"
"This is going to be impossible," another groaned. "He's already so difficult."
"Well, when I left him he was lying in a miserable little heap in his bed, feverish and shivering and trying to sleep. Perhaps he'll be so exhausted he won't be able to—hey!"
"Wasn't that her? Snegurochka?"
"Where is she going?"
Blindly she ran through the room, not seeing or feeling the multitude of people she bumped into trying to claw her way to the door. Finally a voice she knew stopped her.
"Snegurochka? What is this?"
"Starosta! I must go."
"Go? Go where?"
"He is ill, and he is alone. I must go to him!"
"Snegurochka—wait—"
"I cannot!"
A grip that was stronger than it should have been clamped onto her arm, jerking her headlong flight.
"Snegurochka! In the earthenware jar next to the stove are herbal remedies. They were made up for me. Take them, they are labeled."
She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to understand what he was saying. When it sank in, sudden tears sprang to her eyes and she hugged him fiercely.
"Thank you! Thank you! For everything!"
And then she was gone.
He smiled and sipped at his horilka. It was the first time she had ever seen any kind of display of affection from her. He was glad. It was good for her.
She flew through the streets back to the starosta's house and barged inside. Quickly she grabbed her meager belongings and the jar and ran back out, not bothering with coat or shawl. Down the street and out of the village she ran, as fast as she was able. Which was, in actuality, very fast indeed.