Winter turned to spring, spring to winter, and round again like a carousel until Anya entered her sixteenth year.  She ripened like an apple, rosy-cheeked and freckled with curves that her sarafan clung to.  Her hair reached her waist, a thick black rope perfect for braiding, or perhaps for hanging a man by his own liar’s throat.

Baba Yaga glanced up from her simmering chicken kiev, surveyed Anya, and clucked:  “Annushka, you are not so little anymore, no longer a dumpling, more like a choice cut of elk.  Like a sprouting white birch, you have grown too fast.  Soon cherti will come seeking your magic rich blood.”

“Whatever do you...