believed in Wishing Day magic. Klara wanted the tradition to live on.â
âOne moment she did, one moment she didnât,â Aunt Vera said. âThatâs how I recall it.â
âAnd the tradition has lived on,â Aunt Elena said. âEvery girl in Willow Hill knows about it. Every boy, too, I suspect. If we had let Natashaâs Wishing Day simply pass by, what message would that have sent?â
âEnough, Elena,â Aunt Vera snapped. âEncouraging children to believe in magic does nothing but cause pain.â
âThatâs not true.â
âIsnât it? Natasha hardly touched her dinner last night. She went straight to her room at eight oâclock, but the light under her door was on until almost eleven.â
âSheâs a teenager,â Aunt Elena said. âTeenagers are moody.â
âKlara was moody,â Aunt Vera challenged. âFor that matter, Klaraâs moodiness started right after her Wishing Day. So there!â
Natasha frowned. Was she moody, like Mama? She tromped down the remaining stairs, and Aunt Elena smoothly changed the subject. âWhat we need is khrenovina sauce, donât you think?â
âAnd sour cream,â Aunt Vera said. Then, âGood morning, Natasha. Aunt Elenaâs making her pelmeni for us. Fried pelmeni with khrenovina sauce, now thatâs a dinner fit for a cold night.â
âAnd maybe Iâll make honey cookies for dessert,â Aunt Elena said. She turned off the stove and moved the eggs from the heat. âYour mother made the most delicious honey cookies, Natasha.â
Natasha took a seat at the table. Feet thumped on the stairs, and Ava burst into the kitchen, a whirlwind of messy braids, socks-turned-into-arm-warmers, and a shirt of Papaâs that sheâd modified by bunching up the excess fabric and securing it with a rubber band.
âHoney cookies?â she sang. âDid I hear someone say ho-o-o-o-ney cookies?â She grinned and twirled. âYou made at least twenty-five, right, Aunt Elena? If we bring a food item, the rule is it has to be enough for everyone.â
Aunt Elenaâs eyes widened. âOh, no. Ava, sweetie . . .â
âFor our unit on family histories. For my presentation.â
âI thought Iâd make them tonight, for the family. I forgot about your presentation!â
Avaâs smile faltered. âYou for got ?â
âNot entirely! They were on my mind, clearly! I forgot why I kept thinking about them, thatâs all!â
A new noise came from the staircase: the precise clop-clop of Daryaâs one-inch heels. âOne inchâ because that was as high as the aunts allowed; âheelsâ because Darya was Darya and refused to wear snow boots. She thought they were ugly.
âUh-oh, no cookies for your presentation?â she said. She tightened her ponytail, which hung in a bouncy spiral. âOh well. Guess youâll fail.â
âDarya!â the aunts said.
Darya laced her fingers and stretched, straightening her arms and reaching her upturned palms toward the ceiling. She was slender and strong and graceful, the type of girl who would never run smack into a tiny old lady with a bird in her hair. Who would never believe in a tiny old lady with a bird in her hair.
Natasha thought about the conversation sheâd overheard, and Aunt Elenaâs claim that âeven Daryaâ usedto adore talking about Wishing Days. Maybe or maybe not, but that Darya no longer existed.
âWhat am I going to do?â Ava wailed. âMy presentation is today . My teacher is going to hate me!â
âAva, slow down,â said Aunt Vera. âItâs not the end of the world.â
âYeah-huh, because I have to bring a cultural artifact. Itâs the biggest part of the assignment. Fred Williams had Bulgariaââ
â Fred ?â Darya said. âWho names their kid
Learning to Kill: Stories