The Egg, the Note, and the Skull

Stepping around, you squint into the dark.

Something screeches and black feathers block your vision. Wind flings hair into your face and you rake it back to see a bird swooping for your eyes. You fumble in your pocket and grasp a coin, flicking it into the air. Each rotation seems to turn in slow motion. Distracted, the raven's talons miss your face and snatch the coin. It retreats to a branch to examine its treasure.

You take a moment to breathe and rub your hands together, faint clouds forming from your mouth as cold claimed the night.

There is no house—none that you can see. You lean against a trunk and scan the area, your breath catching in your throat. You blink, recognizing the mortar and pestle from Orya's sketches, so conspicuously large you don't know how you had missed them right in front of you. They rest unattended, though recently used if the scrapes in the dirt beside them are anything to go by.

Branches sway in a sudden breeze and leaves stir around your feet. The tree at your back groans. You flinch away as it shifts, its "roots" more like a massive chicken's foot as it lifts over your head. It stomps. You dodge, tripping over your own feet.

Arms held up in defense, your gaze travels up the leg, one of four, supporting a shack.

"That Russian scent again!"

Instinctively, you clutch the egg in your pocket, heart beating madly. The voice is loud, annoyed, and sounds like gravel.

Clamoring comes from inside. The door slams open and you backpedal, already reconsidering your life decisions.

Warm light from inside the house highlights an old woman with tangled hair, a long nose, and stick-thin limbs. Her teeth are sharp and cast from iron, each like miniature daggers. Though hunched, her stance suggests nothing but power.

The Baba Yaga.

"And this one has stolen my broom!" Baba Yaga points at you, her nails hooked like claws.

You fight back a shudder. Something tells you that if she had aimed a gun at your head instead, you would feel no more targeted than you do now.

"Do not try to hide unless you can outwit her; she can scent a lie a mile away."

Or a Russian, for that matter.

Though intimidated, you tighten your grip on the broom handle and argue, "It is not stolen; it was a gift from a friend of mine. I'm afraid it can't be yours."

Baba Yaga grinds her teeth in a sneer, the motion making screeching noises like too many blades on a whetstone.

"I came to ask a favor." You swallow your nervousness. "I'm looking for the bones of a woman who came here a few days ago. It won't be any loss to you; I assume you've eaten her already. I'm willing to do a favor in return."

Baba Yaga stops grinding her teeth, a dangerous smile replacing the scowl.

"As long as there are tasks to complete, she will spare you another day."

Holding the broom to your chest, you peer over Baba Yaga's shoulder into the hut. Not much could be seen; your eyes have not adjusted to the difference in brightness.

Baba Yaga steps inside.

The hut is a single room with a large stove at one end and a spinning wheel in the center. You step over the threshold and stumble, the legs of the hut straightening into position.

"If you want her bones, then start by making a stew." Baba Yaga gestured to the pot hanging by the stove. You get started immediately, looking in the cupboards for ingredients. But they are bare.