Koschei Bessmertny smiles so sadly Marya puts her hand over her heart as though a bullet had bit her there. 

“But you have been happy here,” he says softly. “You have been happy here with me?”

“Kostya, why are you so sad?” says Marya, and she is perplexed, but not upset, for a daughter grown up so fast is strange and a little tragic, but not less strange than a firebird. “Help me name our girl!” 

Koschei looks long at his child. The girl takes her second breath, through her eyes. It makes no sound at all. “She has a name already, volchitsa, my love, my terrible wolf. She is my death. And I love her abjectly, as a father must.”