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By morning, Minchka was running a fever. Her small
body felt dry and empty to his touch, a husk. Her lips cracked as
though she’d swallowed dragon’s flame.
“Papa,” Minchka said, shivering, “it’s so cold inside. Did
the fire burn out” He piled blankets on top of her and patted her
back.
“No, the fire is still in the hearth. You are sick. It will be
better by night.”
But it was not. The fever burned so hot it was painful to
touch her skin and Minchka cried out when Aleksandr brushed
a lock of hair from her face. Her covers were soaked with sweat
and her lips so dry they bled. He dribbled snow between her
clenched teeth but it did no good. The fever would not break. Late
in the second evening, she slipped so far into sleep, he could not
wake her. Aleksandr shook her and shook her but she would not
open her eyes. He slapped her cheeks and yelled, he rubbed her
back and cajoled. She never stirred, breathing only shallowly. He
slumped down, resting his head on the bed beside her, counting
each halting breath. His eyes were wet and he felt desperate and
wild. Helpless. Hopeless.
“I’ll do it,” he whispered, reaching up to touch her cheek.
He sat up and shouted the words at the bare walls, “Do you hear
me, Sinivushka I will do it! I will give you our daughter. Only
stop this. Let her live.” The words cracked and broke apart. Ice
was slipping into his chest and wrapping around him, it choked
his voice and made it hard to talk. “I will do it,” he whispered
again. “Let her live.”
There was nothing left inside of him, just a hollow place
where he’d stored up all of Minchka’s laughter and smiles. He
shivered and lay his head down beside her, counting her breaths
until his own slowed and he fell asleep.
A butterfly’s wing fluttered against his cheek and tickled
him. Aleksandr dragged his eyes open, wincing at the river silt
that felt lodged beneath each eyelid. Minchka watched him.
“Papa,” she rasped, “I’m thirsty.” The butterfly’s wing
touched his cheek again and he saw it was her fingers, lightly,
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