The woman’s hands are wrinkled, the skin hanging like melting wax. She holds her hand in the air. “She is this high”
The village seems to be marked by sorrow. The small houses have sagging roofs, as if pummeled by a fist come down from heaven, and the ground is frozen and hard. The men walk with bent-over backs and there are few children here.
“A spiritless place,” Emmy says.
But when they arrive at the address, a neighbor of Chasya’s cousin, the door opens to the smell of apples and cinnamon. The walls are draped with handiwork, and the woman who bustles them into the house — strangers, without an invitation, with no forewarning — wears a headscarf that is embroidered with daisies. The white petals seem to gleam.
Felix blinks. Is this Sarah the matriarch, bringing guests into the house without thought, without plan or …?
It is only when they have eaten and drunk that she asks them. “And now how may I help you?”
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