1330 hours. Siberia.


He must be about seven, she thought, watching the little figure climbing up a slope that led away from the stream by The Cottage grounds. The boy wore a Dolgan fur coat, no doubt hastily procured by the witches who looked after the squibs - they had no clothing for small children. With the hood pulled up she couldn't even make out his face.

It was cold but not as cold as it would be in the coming months, when winter would arrive in earnest and the frosty earth would be covered by a thicker layer of snow. Ira stood at the edge of the woods and watched her son walking in her direction.

Feliks did not seem to see her standing there, camouflaged as she was in a beige and white furs that complimented her slender shape. What was he doing out here alone? Little boys should not wander so far alone.

His father[1] also possessed that one fatalistic flaw. Ira had left Britain to briefly handle business in Moscow but she found herself drawn here instead. Settling in London had meant reconnecting with the Spectre wizard; and reconnecting with Balfour had reminded her of the little zaychik[2] who lived his days out amongst the powerless children of the Almasy.

The small figure passed her - not even three meters away, into the trees with their frosted, glimmering leaves. She turned to watch him and then followed, light of step. Why was she following? Still he didn't notice her, his covered ears muffling the world.

He entered a clearing. Once, there must have been a great tree here. Now there was only a large stump surrounded by forest. Ira paused as he dusted snow off the stump and climbed on to it. There was suddenly a great shuffle of papers and he took out some parchment.

His breath came out in misty clouds and he pulled down the hood. Ira breathed in sharply. His shock of red curls, the white pallor of his skin. He heard her.

            "Hello?" the voice called out in soft Russian, pale blue eyes searching. "Sister Masha?"

She made an impulsive decision, and stepped out into the clearing as well. Her own red curls were pulled back severely. Feliks tilted his head to the side.

"Privyet." Ira approached, her stateliness belied by the way she walked - like a wolf, like the boy's father. "I did not mean to disturb. I am only passing through."

1.	July 2007 - Open Your Arms and Pray
2.	Literally "little rabbit", Russian term referring to children.

Feliks stared at the strange woman. She was very tall, taller than any of the Sisters, and her skin white as his own. Her hair, too, though it looked finer and lighter. Was she also an Almasy? There were, he knew, Almasys who came to visit their squib children.

"You're not disturbing," he told her politely, and then held up his open scroll. "I am drawing a map."

He had read a book in The Cottage library, about map making. It would be nice to make a map, an outdoor hobby that did not require him to try and talk to the other boys and girls who were all older.

The woman came close, hands behind her back as she leaned forward to look at the map. "Ah. A clever little zaychik you are," she smiled - though the smile did not look right on her face. Feliks blushed. Nobody ever called him little rabbit.

"Are you visiting someone? At The Cottage?" he asked and put down the map, eager to talk. It was rare for him to be able to speak to strangers.

           "No," she smiled wider, as if laughing at something. "No, I am here to hunt. There is a wolf, you know. You must not wander into the woods alone."

Feliks blinked, eyes opening wider. A wolf? He heard wolves some nights but their howls came from very far away - somewhere across the wintry landscape, where the world seemed more like a fairy tale. This witch also seemed like something out of a fairy tale.

"Are you going to kill it?" he was curious, and did not move away when she sat on the edge of the stump.

            "Yes," she reached out and smoothed his hair back. "But you must still be careful. One day, if you grow big and strong, you can also hunt."

Her touch made him want to shudder, skin prickling at the back of his neck. Feliks met hunters passing through The Cottage before but they had all been wizards; grizzled, tough. None of them were like her. How could she kill a wolf? So thin, like a ballerina, and elegant?

"You're not scared?" he yawned, feeling tired for some reason.

Ira raised her eyebrows, as the boy yawned again and again. His eyelids drooped wearily.

"No. When you grow up," she slipped her hand around his shoulder and coaxed him to lay down, his head on her lap. "You cease to be afraid of anything at all."

It was only a little thing, to pry open a child's mind and lull him to sleep. Feliks kept fighting the urge to doze off but he was lost to a world of half-dreams already. He tried to look up at her; his eyebrows drawn together in concern, confusion.

            "Did we meet before?" he murmured whilst she brushed her hands through his soft hair.

"Yes. But you don't remember," she smiled more softly, the distant memory of looking into an ancient crib. "Like you won't remember this, zaychik."

Ira gazed down thoughtfully, humming. His eyes closed and his countenance relaxed, at last surrendering to the siren call of slumber. When he woke later, he would be alone, believing he fell asleep all by himself in the middle of the woods. But she didn't leave him just yet, continuing to stroke his head and watch his face.

What a soft, gentle face. She despised it.

If anyone had stumbled across them in the middle of the woods, they would have heard her sing the only lullaby she would ever sing to her son.