Chapter 11
Anya's Secret Wish
Anya, caught up in the adventure, secretly admits she's enjoying the thrill. The experience is chipping away at her caution, revealing a desire for more excitement than she ever imagined.
Anya clutched the worn leather of Baba Yaga’s coat, her knuckles white. The wind whipped past, tugging at her scarf and carrying with it the scent of pine needles and damp earth. She squinted, trying to make out the path ahead, a sliver of grey ribbon disappearing into the dense, ancient trees. Beside her, Baba Yaga’s laughter, a surprisingly robust sound that defied her years, mingled with the roar of the scooter’s engine. It was a sound that, just a few days ago, would have sent Anya scurrying back to the comforting predictability of her knitting needles and perfectly brewed tea. But now, something was different.
She glanced down at the talking crow, perched precariously on Baba Yaga’s shoulder, his feathers ruffled and his usually sharp eyes wide with a familiar terror. “Are you quite sure about this, Baba Yaga?” Anya managed to shout over the din. “This path looks… less like a path and more like a suggestion.”
The crow squawked, a sound that Anya interpreted as a panicked agreement. “Less like a path, more like a dare!” he croaked, his voice a raspy whisper against the wind. “And I, for one, do not appreciate being dared into the jaws of certain… arboreal doom!”
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