Book of Nadezhda and Marina

Nadia was still locked in Elle’s arms.

“Elle,” she wheezed, “just FYI, I can’t breathe; you’re squeezing the Okroshka out of me. What is wrong?”

Elle didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her arms were iron around Nadia’s ribs, and her eyes were fixed on the figure standing at the edge of the forest—right where Elle had crawled months ago, bleeding and half‑dead, toward the lake.

Nadia tried again, voice thin. “Elle, please, you’re going to pop the top off my toothpaste. This is not fun.”

Elle didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She was frozen in a terror so old it felt like it had been waiting for her.

The woman stood in the path like a misplaced century. Her dress was long, heavy, and soaked through—water dripping from the hem as if she had just climbed out of the lake. Her skin wasn’t human-pale. It was moonlight-pale. Her hair hung in wet ropes. Her eyes glowed faintly, catching the porch light like a cat’s.

She took one slow step forward.

Elle stopped just short of the porch, still crushing Nadia.

The woman spoke in a lilting brogue, cheerful and horribly out of place.

“Hey, you two. Sorry to interrupt. You make a fine couple.”

Both Elle and Nadia snapped, in perfect unison, “We are not a couple.”

Elle released Nadia at last. Nadia staggered, hands on her knees, trying to pull air back into her lungs.

The woman smiled warmly, as if they were neighbors chatting over a fence.

“It’s fine if you were. I myself love a fine woman. Have you seen my love Mary Willis around by any chance? This is her house.”

Elle opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her throat was locked, her voice gone.

Nadia leaned toward her, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, “Did you steal someone’s lucky charms?”

The woman tilted her head, water dripping from her hair onto the porch boards.

Elle felt a cold slide down her spine—like a hand made of river water pressing against her back.

Out of the corner of her mouth, Elle whispered, barely moving her lips, “She’s a ghost.”

Nadia, still recovering from the rib‑crushing bear hug, blinked rapidly. Her hearing was excellent, but her lungs were still rebooting. She was distracted.

“She’s a host?” Nadia whispered back. “Are we having a party at this hour? Who is Mary?”

Elle’s terror spiked with irritation. She tried again, louder, sharper.

“She’s a GHOST.”

Nadia frowned. “I am sorry, Elle; English is my second language. How can someone be a ‘most’? What is a ‘most’? Why are you whispering like a broken accordion?”

Elle gave up. She pressed her palm over her face, fingers trembling.

The woman on the path—dripping lake water, dress clinging to her like a second skin—answered for her.

“She is saying I look like a ghost, love.” Her voice was warm, lilting, almost musical. “I get that a lot. Henry was playing a prank on me, I think. He pushed me in the lake.”

Nadia straightened, offended on behalf of a stranger she couldn’t even see. “Oh, he sounds like a complete dick.”

Mae’s smile widened.

“Why don’t you come in and dry off,” Nadia continued, gesturing toward the porch. “We can start a fire. We can figure out who you’re looking for over some cocoa.”

Elle made a strangled noise—half warning, half despair.

Nadia ignored it entirely.

Mae stepped closer, water dripping onto the porch boards in slow, steady taps.

“You’re so sweet,” she said, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “That sounds perfect.”

Elle’s stomach dropped. Nadia had just invited something into the house. Something that wasn’t supposed to be able to cross thresholds.

Mae lifted her foot to step onto the porch.

The night seemed to lean in.