Anya grew like a spring shoot, twelve harsh Russian winters old.  The winds molded her into a birch: tall and slender, with skin pale as the white tree's bark.  Her hair came to her waist, black as onyx, and Elizaveta took to braiding it with blood red ribbons.  It swung so beautifully as she danced the khorovod, a circling peasant dance of song and turning seasons, with village youths.  She was like a fishing lure cast into a valley of dreams: one had to watch their feet lest they step on Anya as she ran mad-dash through the world. 

It was the anniversary of the dozen year truce between Tsar...