“There are many animals on the island where I live,” Vika said. “They bring me their stomachaches and broken bones.”

“To heal?”

Vika nodded, eyes still on the eagle in the sky. “I can do it if it’s not too complicated a wound. A clean break or a straight cut.”

Nikolai shook his head. “I didn’t know enchanters could also be faith healers. I’m impressed.”

She shrugged. “I don’t think I’m a faith healer. They work with shifting energy, right? But what I do is different, and certainly based in magic. I imagine it’s a bit like sewing. Matching up the fabric and the threads. Lining up the flesh and the veins. Although I’m wretched at creating clothes.”

“Your masquerade gown was not wretched.”

“It also wasn’t fabric.” She smiled.

Nikolai had to concede that she was right.

They watched the eagle as it soared farther across the plains. Vika turned her head to follow it. “I like this dream. The eagle hunting is stunning. This bench may be your best one.”

“Thank you. There’s actually an old Kazakh proverb that says, ‘There are three things a real man should have: a fast horse, a hound, and a golden eagle.’”

Vika wrinkled her nose. “And what about a real woman?”

Nikolai laughed. “A real woman should have those things, too.”

She watched as the eagle continued to glide over the steppe. “How do you know all this? How did you create all those benches? Surely you haven’t traveled to each of the places you conjured. Unless you can evanesce there?” Her eyes widened.

Nikolai began to walk through the long, dry grass, and Vika followed. “No, I can’t evanesce at all. I’ve tried. However, I have spent a great deal of time in libraries over the years, and I’ve also heard many stories from Pasha of his and his father’s travels both abroad and within the empire. I gleaned all these details from them. Yet I cannot claim that my dream depictions are entirely accurate; I admit to taking a fair amount of artistic license, for much of what I have to base things on are paintings. But there are a few places I have actually been: Moscow, your island, and here.”

“You’ve been to the steppe? But how? It’s so far from Saint Petersburg.”

Nikolai pulled on a strand of hair, which was neatly combed, in contrast to the tired mess on his head on the other side of this dream. “Can you not tell from the near black of my hair? Or the shape of my eyes? The steppe is where I was born.”

“You’re Kazakh?”

“My mother was. She was a faith healer in one of the tribes. But she died when I was born.”

“And your father?”

“Russian. But I never knew him.”

Vika turned her eyes back up into the sky. “I never knew my mother.”

Nikolai stopped and looked at Vika. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. But it’s all right. I’ve had my whole life to get used to it.”

“I understand.” And he did. Entirely.

She began to walk again. Nikolai watched as her dress swayed with each step, brushing against the tall grass, the brittle blades so high they rose almost to her hip. There were few girls he knew in Petersburg society who would traipse through the savanna without complaining about the burrs snagging their skirts or the dry wind mussing up their hair. But those thoughts didn’t even seem to occur to Vika. She was a mythological creature among ordinary humankind.

She turned around to wait for him. “Is there more?”

“More what?”

“More of this dream?”

He nodded.

She held out her gloved hand. “Show me.”

A smile began to spread across Nikolai’s face, but he tamped it down. She was tempting—too tempting—and that was dangerous. He could enjoy her company, for now, but he had to remember this was part of the Game. Still, he jogged to catch up, and when he reached her, he took her outstretched hand.

He momentarily forgot how to breathe.

Her touch, even through their gloves, resonated to that ethereal part of his core he could only describe as his soul. He suspected that even his real body, asleep on the bench, warmed as her hand clasped his.

She blushed and looked at their entwined fingers. But she didn’t unlace them.

“Come this way,” he said, when he’d gathered himself.

Nikolai led her farther into the grassland, creating more of the dream as they trekked. He hadn’t planned to expand this setting beyond watching the eagle hunting for prey, but then again, he hadn’t accounted for Vika appearing in the dream with him and wanting to know more about his past. So now, as they walked, he filled out the landscape, not only stretching the barren plains and the mountains in the background, but also generating a yurt village in the near distance.

As they approached, a herd of sheep came into view, as well as a smaller herd of yaks some men on horseback were bringing home from pasture. There were boys there, too, about Nikolai’s age, and for a second, longing flared inside him, desiring their simple existence. But then he remembered the reality of his life on the steppe, the looks of disdain—and fear—from the members of his tribe, and even the outright pretending he did not exist. No, Nikolai could never have been one of them.

He and Vika passed the animals unseen, although they could see and smell and hear everything around them, from the pungent scent of the livestock to the zhauburek kabobs roasting over the fire. A group of boys marched past, each carrying a younger boy on his shoulders and singing, “Ak sandyk, kok sandyk . . .” Nikolai almost started humming along before he caught himself.

“Are these memories from your childhood?” Vika asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you miss it?”

Nikolai shrugged. “I think I see the past more kindly than it treated me.”

She quirked a brow. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, when I was here, they didn’t know what to do with me. Although my mother had some abilities as a faith healer, they were very different from the things I could do. And without a proper teacher to show me how to hone my skills and to discipline me, all I did was wreak havoc on the village.”

“How?”

“All sorts of nonsense. I’d mute the dombras—they’re guitar-like instruments—while the men tried to play music, or I’d turn the other children’s suppers from rice into sand. Things like that.”