12
The absurd, luxurious dinner at the Hag’s left Khaidu completely groggy. She didn’t even remember making it to her bed—or what passed for a bed in the Hag’s hut: a straw pallet on the floor. In the fog of her seemingly endless dreams, she remembered waking up to thoughts that the Hag was known to bake her visitors during their sleep. But no, she only did that to the boys—the Ivans, as she called them in her less guarded moments. In any case, Khaidu woke up in one piece. Aglaia lay next to her, panting cheerfully. Her wounds were almost completely healed.
“How long have I been sleeping?” Khaidu asked, more to the air than to Aglaia. But Aglaia’s pant turned to something like laughter. It gave Khaidu quiet joy to know that the crotchety old Vasyllian noblewoman was still inside there, s
