Under the Willow Root

Chapter 11

"Sasha."

"Mmf."

"Come, kitten, you must wake up."

"It's only five-ten," I mumble, pressing my face into the pillow. "I have until fifteen."

"It will take you five minutes to get out of bed," Baba Nadia points out, flipping on the light.

"Babulya! Don't old people need sleep?"

"Not much, no. Out of bed, kotik."

"Mm-hmm."

"Breakfast in ten minutes."

"Mmm."

Baba Nadia sighs and leaves, flicking the light on and off a few times on her way out. I reset the alarm on my phone to give myself an extra three minutes—like three minutes is going to make a difference—and pull the covers over my head. I'm just slipping back into the drowsy warmth of Snooze when I'm jerked out of sleep so suddenly I'm halfway to the door before I realize what woke me up.

"Baba Nadia!"

I sprint down the hall, desperately hoping that the awful crash I heard wasn't what I think it was. I pause for a fraction of a second at the top of the stairs, fear holding me immobile, until my grandmother's hair-raising moan of pain pulls me forward. I almost fall down the stairs in my haste and drop to my knees next to my grandmother. My hands flutter helplessly over her body, tracing her limp arm and horrifically crumpled and twisted leg without daring to actually touch her.

"Hold on," I gasp. "I—I'll call--"

I lurch to my feet and run for the kitchen phone, cursing myself for leaving my phone next to my bed like an idiot. I dial 911 with shaking fingers and stammer an incoherent plea for help to the woman on the other end. I can barely put two words together, English and Russian spilling out in a flood of jumbled syllables. Somehow the woman—bless her—pieces it all together and assures me that an ambulance is on its way.

I sit with Baba Nadia for the eternity it takes for the ambulance to arrive, holding her hand and babbling complete nonsense while she tries and fails to hold back the most terrible noises I've ever heard. When the ambulance arrives, I barely make it into the truck. The ground jumps and spins beneath my feet, making me stumble.

I sit on the tiny seat with my head in my hands, trying to take deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth, just like Baba Nadia always said. She seems to be doing the same, or trying. I think they've given her some medicine. Her good hand waves feebly in the air and I take it gingerly, afraid I'll hurt her somehow.

"Don't worry, Sashka," Baba Nadia whispers. "It's alright. I'm alright."

***

My eyes open and I stare blankly at the ceiling, trying to place myself. It takes several minutes to remember that Baba Nadia has died, that the ambulance ride happened months ago. Tears stream from my eyes as I sit up, clutching the thin but soft blanket to my chest, and look around. I'm alone, and my robe from yesterday seems to have disappeared. I get up and wrap the blanket around myself before opening the door and peeking out into an empty hallway. After a brief hesitation, I set off in search of Dove, or better yet, the kitchen.

I don't find Dove. Instead I find some kind of servant who shouts at me until I run back the way I came. I try to find my room again, but I must have taken a wrong turn because I'm hopelessly lost. I creep along, clutching my blanket and hiding behind corners whenever I hear footsteps. It would be funny if I weren't so scared and upset from my dream. I must look like a complete psycho.

Eventually Dove finds me and drags me back to my--or I guess it's our--room. I sit meekly on the bed, doing my best to project contrition. With a snort, Dove opens a trunk next to the bed and takes out a length of fabric that turns out to be a loosely fitted dress that falls to my ankles and leaves my forearms bare. It's plain compared to the embroidered silks and gauzy shawls my mistress wore, but I can tell my dress is made of quality material, and it's a very pretty if subdued gray-blue that matches my eyes. I sigh. Too bad I look like Gollum.

It feels wonderfully soft against my skin, but I feel like I'm missing something, even when Dove gives me a pair of slipper-shoes and a veil to cover my shaven head. Finally, I figure it out: I don't have any underwear. For a moment I almost want to ask for some, but then I consider the charades and miming that would require and decide it's way too embarrassing to be worth it. Instead, I remind myself to be grateful to have clothes of any kind.

Dove turns to the vanity and takes up one of the pots, which turns out to be the salve she put on my cuts yesterday. As she gently dabs the stuff on my face, I look into my own horrified eyes reflected in the mirror. Even aside from the nasty, jagged cuts, I look awful. My eyes are sunken with dark circles underneath, and my lips are dry and cracked. Blue and purple and black bruises seem to drip from the cut on my eyebrow down my temple and onto my protruding cheekbone. I lower my veil and gasp at the bald, grotesque stranger staring back at me. I look like an alien.

Dove replaces my veil and firmly turns me away from the mirror before finishing up with balm from a different pot for my lips, then leads me away through the halls. At first I think she's taking me to get some food, but as my surroundings begin to look fancier, I realize that's not the case. Dove finally knocks lightly on the door and slips in, tugging me after her.

The rich lady—my owner—looks up from her seat in front of an enormous mirror and smiles. She rises and takes my hands, spreading them out so she can look me over. She gently touches the bruises on my face and laughs, saying something to Dove. The rich lady points to herself and says her name. I frown and dart a quick glance at Dove. The lady realizes I can't talk, right? What does she want from me?

She says it again, slowly: "Ismeni."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dove make a gesture with her hand. I copy it, and Ismeni beams at me. She gazes thoughtfully at me for a few moments, then taps me on the chest and says another word. She touches my bruise, my eyelid, my dress. She shows me a sapphire pendant. She points at me, and goes through it all again. I look helplessly at Dove. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.

Dove whistles and points to herself, then back at the sapphire, then at my dress, then at my face. Finally, it clicks: my mistress is naming me. My name is Blue? I think? For my matching attire, including my bruises, I suppose. Hah, hah. Like I need the reminder.

But no, I have a name. My name is...I'm Sasha. I shiver at the slight hesitation, the microsecond of doubt. I want to try to tell them somehow. I want to hear someone else say it. Then I remember how Dove hit me yesterday when I tried to write my name. I don't think they'd like it if I tried again. I'll just have to remember it myself. I'll tell myself over and over again, just like I did before. I won't forget.