As he worked the curve, she watched his hands—not the hands that had once brushed her hair back from her forehead, but the hands that now knew only the language of leverage and grain. He was casting the wood into a new shape, yes. But she realized, with a cold trickle down her spine, that he had been casting her the same way for over a decade.
The ash, feeling her sudden yielding, sprang back with a violence neither of them expected. The rawhide snapped. The hot curve reversed, lashing upward like a sprung trap. The axe head, still tied to the unfinished handle, flew free and struck Pavel across the temple. Woodman Casting Anisiya
The morning light bled through the pine branches like a weak infusion of tea. Anisiya knew the taste of that light—the taste of another day swallowed by the taiga. She had been the woodman’s wife for twelve years, and for twelve years, she had watched him read the forest better than he had ever read her face. As he worked the curve, she watched his
Stand straight. Don’t complain. Bear the weight. The ash, feeling her sudden yielding, sprang back
Behind her, the ash billet began to warm in the spring sun. And for the first time in twelve years, the taiga held its breath.
“You bend it too fast,” Anisiya whispered, “it screams.”