Anya settled under the covers that night in her small makeshift bed at the foot of Morozko's.  She stared at the ceiling, her firebird feather hung from the rafters to light the room as if by slow-burning moonlight.  Morozko's breathing was measured, the bannik asleep.

“Kolya?” Anya said.

“Mmm?” he stirred.

“Kolya.”

“What is it?” he said, groggy.

“How do you know if you really like someone?”

Morozko rolled over under wolfskin blankets and yawned.  “I do not know.  I suppose there is a certain ache in your chest.  A feeling of moths in the stomach: night things roused in your gut.  It is a simple thing, really.”

“I do...