Page 33 of The Maiden and Her Monster

“This badge,” Malka questioned, “must all citizens of Valón wear them? I don’t see yours.”

Vilém cleared his throat and wiped at his brow with a kerchief. “No, not everyone. Just the Yahad. It’s a new mandate that Archbishop Sévren proposed to King Valski. It’s… it’s to distinguish the Yahad from their Ozmini counterparts.”

The mention of the archbishop stirred a memory. He had asked Rzepka to join the Paja. And now she was dead.

“Why do they want to distinguish us?”

Vilém cast an anxious inspection around them and ducked his head low. “It might be best if we have this conversation in private. You never know who catches wind of things nowadays.”

Vilém guided them down another street as lively as the last, this one evoking a spark of familiarity.

Just as Amnon’s brother had described it, the Yahadi Quarter smelled of black bread, braised meat, and boiled cabbage.

Wax candles flickered in windows, fragranced with myrrh resin oil.

They fogged the windows, glowing orange.

Past the roofs of the multi-colored buildings sat the steepling top of the shul Bachta.

There was no doubt it was the synagogue.

The stained-glass windows glimmered despite the dense clouds, the warm glow tinting the multi-colored glass in the orange-yellow shades of juicy citrus.

A tower spun from its side, brushing the clouds.

Magic warmed her hands. She shoved them into the pockets of her cloak, desperate to ignore how they ached.

“We’re here,” Vilém announced, unlocking an unassuming door to a tan-colored home. It was not much compared to the houses surrounding it, but it beat any of Eskravé’s homes in size and structure.

Malka stepped through the doorway and paused as she noticed the decorative prayer box at eye level. Malka had touched her own mezuzah every time she entered her home in Eskravé for as long as she could remember, until she left for Mavetéh. She pressed her fingers to the box and then to her lips.

She followed Vilém into a modest kitchen where he motioned for her to sit at the table affixed with a couple of unlit tallow candles, melted wax decorating the saucers like paint splatters.

Malka hissed as she slid into one of the rickety wooden chairs, rubbing her hand on her abdomen. She wasn’t sure which distressed her more—this injury or the affliction from the rooting spell.

“How is your side? A good kick can feel like iron, I know.”

“It’ll be a nasty bruise, but nothing I can’t handle.”

Vilém fussed about, setting a pot of water to boil and handing Malka a wet cloth. She pressed it to her face. It came away a ruddy brown.

“You’re brave. Though, I shouldn’t be surprised. In my experience, Yahadi women are the bravest of them all.”

Malka unclasped her cloak and let it sag to her lap, happy to rid herself of the reminder of how severely it had choked her. She resisted the urge to trace its imprint on her neck.

“Why is that?” she asked Vilém.

“Not only do you face oppression from the Ozmins, but from men, as well. No matter if they are Ozmins or Yahad.”

Malka chucked. “Another quote from your illustrious betrothed?”

Vilém grinned, brown eyes beaming. “You’ve caught me.”

“Is she here?”

“No.” Vilém extinguished the fire and added a thin cloth bag of tea leaves to the boiling water.

As it steeped, the room filled with an earthy scent, malty and sweet.

Black tea. “But she should be home soon. We, like many, are taking advantage of Trader’s Day.

She went out to buy some fresh vegetables and salted fish for supper.

When she returns, she can sew a rota patch onto your cloak. ”

He handed her a steaming cup of tea.

“If I may ask, what brought you to Valón?”

Malka rubbed her thumb along the glazing of the mug. She thought of Imma again, cold and alone. She had not lost her yet, but grief began to chew at her regardless, a muscle well practiced.

“I am here to help a friend,” she said. Another unmooring wave seized her, and she tightened her hands around the mug, desperate to settle herself. This connection would give her no peace while she and Nimrah remained apart. She couldn’t wait to be rid of it.

Vilém pattered his fingers on his thigh, seemingly unaware of Malka’s distress. He cleared his throat. “I overheard Brother Asak’s accusation.”

“I truly don’t know what he meant.”

Balkisk puppet, the priest had said. A puppet for what?

Perhaps Vilém was more suspicious of her than Malka thought, if he had sharpened in on this claim.

But he gave a brief smile that put her at ease. “Ah, I see. Don’t worry about it. Valón is rather on edge these days.”

She thought about asking why, but indulging in her curiosity never did end well. Instead, she said, “Vilém, I’m looking for someone. A woman called Eli?ka? She was once a laundress for the king but has since retired.”

“I know her.” His face contorted. “I did not think she had many visitors, honestly.”

“Why?”

He sipped his tea. “It’s said that when she left King Valski’s service, she also left her manners behind. Worsened now with her old age.”

“I see.” Malka wondered if they would knock on her door only to have it slammed in their faces. “Do you know where she lives?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I will walk you there myself.”

“Thank you, Vilém.”

As they waited for his betrothed, Malka took in the room.

A stack of books sat crowded against the corner of the room, and trinkets decorated the wall like paintings. “ Odborny. That is the title given to magisters, right? What is your research?”

Vilém knuckled his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes! I work at the University of Valón and teach philosophy. It’s a small area of study, snubbed by logic and theology. But it’s home to the finest scholars of this day and age, if I do say so myself.”

The university. Malka’s head spun. The city she had only heard stories about was becoming real before her eyes. A scholar at one of the finest universities in the Rha?kan Empire had made her tea.

“I must admit, I’m overwhelmed with Valón. It’s both nothing and everything like I had imagined.”

“I never did ask where you were from, Malka.”

Eskravé felt far away. A memory diluted in stormy water, like the medicinal eucalyptus she would boil until its color washed away in the heat.

The front door creaked open, swelling the chatter of the street.

“Ah, that must be her!” Vilém exclaimed.

Malka fiddled with her mug as the woman approached.

A flash of silky brown hair appeared in the doorway.

“Malka?”

The voice was so familiar, it stopped her heart. A voice she had thought she would only ever hear again during her quietest moments of prayer, sitting cross-legged in the crook of her room, staring out at the stars. A voice that visited her in grief-ridden nightmares.

Framed by the doorway with her eyes widened in shock, cloth bags hanging from the crooks of her elbows, was Chaia.