The Bear and the Nightingale

Are you quite warm, my beauty?

“God gave me a task.” He bit off each word, almost spitting.

“We are men and women,” she retorted. “We are not a task.

A dull flush crept across Konstantin’s cheekbones. His hand fumbled among his paints. “I have a task, Vasilisa Petrovna. I must save you from yourselves. God has punishments for those who stray.”

“A self-appointed task,” said Vasya, “in service of your own pride. Why is it for you to say what God wants? The people would never revere you so, if you had not made them afraid.”

The years slipped by like leaves.

Little by little that fiery glow, the light to take one’s breath, had faded.