Page 35 of The Maiden and Her Monster

It was a short walk out of the Yahadi Quarter to Eli?ka’s residence. They returned to the square where Malka had first arrived. The bustle of the day had tamed into a tranquil evening, the last of the merchants having packed up their unsold goods and wheeled their carts back to their inns.

The ache in her chest continued to set her adrift. One moment she’d think it was improving, the dizziness fading to a dull nausea. But the next, it would seize her again. Maybe she and Nimrah were circling each other, like the sides of a coin turning between two fingers, stuck on a constant loop.

“Valón is so large,” Malka remarked, needing to get out of her own head. “I’ve never seen so many people at once.”

Vilém chuckled. “Yes, it certainly is. Some days it feels like we are sheep being herded through the streets!”

Malka regarded the expanse of red pitched roofs worn by the line of houses and shops, windows aglow with the dusty light of torches as the sun began to dwindle. Curiously, on every third doorway or so, was the same sign she had seen outside of the tavern—the black crow slashed in red.

“Vilém,” she pointed to the crow, “what does that sign mean?”

He scratched the back of his head, knocking his hat off-kilter, smile wavering. “Valón has been the victim of a terrible plague. In desperation, shop owners have put up those signs to try and keep sick people out.”

Malka stopped short. “A plague?”

“Consumption.” Vilém nodded. “We’ve given it a name: the Mázág sickness, since the first cases appeared after some woodcutters came back from the Mázág forest and fell ill. It’s worsened ever since.”

Mázág was the Kra ? ki name for Mavetéh. Could this Mázág sickness be what was afflicting her village, too?

“When did this plague start?”

Vilém squinted, causing his glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose. “A couple of years ago now, it must be.”

Years? Valón had been experiencing a plague for years—longer than Eskravé—and the news had never reached her village? Malka didn’t know how it was possible. Dread coated her throat. “We didn’t know Valón was experiencing a plague.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Vilém sighed deeply. “The kingdom has done its best to shield Trader’s Day from the disease, so they don’t scare away foreign merchants. We are forbidden to speak of the plague in the marketplace.”

It didn’t make sense. The Order had acted as if they knew nothing of a strange, spreading illness, when Valón, the center of the parish, had already been in the throes of one.

Malka’s head spun.

“To be frank, Malka, the Church believes the sickness doesn’t come from the forest at all.

They consider it a punishment from Triorzay for those who have not properly atoned, or for those who do not believe.

Archbishop Sévren has assured devout Ozmins that their faith will keep them healthy.

You can barely close the church doors now, with the amount of people stuffed inside to pray. ”

Malka pondered Father Bro ? ek’s own convictions—if he was unaware of the Mázág sickness, or if he believed his peoples’ immunity. Both would explain his nonchalance.

“We’re here,” Vilém announced, drawing Malka from her thoughts.

She scrunched her nose. Something putrid and sour wafted through the small cracks in the warped, wooden door.

“Thank you, Vilém.”

Malka knocked.

They barely had to wait before the door whooshed open, causing her to stumble back.

The woman was old, wrinkles overtaking her pale skin. Her hair, white with age, was tied loosely into a knot at the top of her head. She wore a simple dress with delicate floral embroidery and a matching jacket fastened up stiffly to the neck.

The smell worsened. Malka resisted the urge to cover her nose.

“What do you want?” The woman’s eyes traveled to Vilém. She crossed her arms. “Not today, Vilém! For the last time, I do not want to take one of your wretched surveys. To think they let you waltz around like you have the right to know about the entire city of Valón—”

“Actually, Eli?ka, I am only here to escort,” Vilém interrupted, blushing. “This is Malka, she’s looking for her friends.”

Eli?ka bent to get a closer look at her.

“Malka?”

Amnon.

She heard the creak of his cane on the floorboard before he appeared in the doorway. Relief coursed through her.

Eli?ka stepped aside so Malka could wrap Amnon in a tight hug. She leaned into his warmth and tried not to flinch when Amnon wrapped his hand around her bruised torso.

“Thank Yohev,” he said. “I was so nervous when we lost you in that crowd.”

“So, you are the woman these two have been waiting for. Well, get in before you let out all the warmth,” Eli?ka said.

Malka stepped through the doorway.

Eli?ka thinned her eyes at Vilém. “Not you.”

Vilém raised his hands in surrender. “Of course. Malka, I’ll see you back at our house soon?”

Malka nodded and thanked him again.

“Eli?ka, if you do change your mind about the survey, there is compensation available, and it would greatly help out the Philosophy—”

Eli?ka threw a variety of curses at Vilém in Kra ? ki. Malka could only pick out a few, but her eyes widened with the old laundress’s creativity in stringing the curses together. The door slammed in his face.

Amnon’s eyes fell from the door to her unfamiliar cloak in a silent question.

Later , she mouthed. She hadn’t the strength to share her discoveries just yet.

Eli?ka’s house was relatively plain, save for the intricately carved wooden seats, with a patterned wool rug underneath.

A portable altar sat in the corner. It was gilded in copper and wood, with small relics scattered around it—some bone, others hidden beneath their silk wrappings.

Three wooden symbols hung above the altar, which Malka assumed were Ozmini.

Smoke twirled lazily through the air from incense, though it did little to cover the putrid smell in the house.

“Sit, girl. I’m cooking soup to help your friend grow stronger.” Eli?ka evaluated Malka and whistled. “Heaven knows this soup could do you good, too, with those hollow cheeks and flourishing bruises.”

She sat with Amnon on the sofa. He rested his cane against the arm. “Are you hurt, Malka?”

“It’s nothing.” The lie soured her tongue. She ached, the wound beneath her ribs pulsing and sore, the incisions tender on her forearm. She was hungry and exhausted, drained from the revelation that Chaia was alive.

It was difficult not to think of the obvious absence in the room—the way their distance still clawed at her, detached her from herself. She had hoped this feeling would settle once she arrived at Eli?ka’s. That Nimrah’s presence would ease her aching.

What a treacherous thought.

It didn’t matter, though. She wasn’t here.

“She’s out looking for you,” Amnon said. Noticing Malka’s shock, he shrugged. “Your eyes kept searching the room. I figured you were wondering.”

Malka fidgeted. “What happened after we were separated?”

“We tried to find you for a while, weaving in and out of the streets. When my legs started bothering me, Nimrah brought me here and went back out to search for you.” His eyes darted to Eli?ka. He lowered his voice. “Though, I’m beginning to think I would have preferred to suffer on my legs.”

“What’s that smell?” Malka whispered back. She had unconsciously brought up her sleeve to cover her nose.

Amnon scrunched his face. “It’s her soup. But I am so hungry, I would eat anything warm.”

Malka began to laugh, but it caught in her throat when the unmooring of the rooting spell began to finally ease, replaced by a building sense of repletion. The potent, cloying presence of… her.

The door flew open, flickering the candles and fluttering the ribbons of incense smoke. Nimrah stood tall in the doorframe, her inky waves thick around her face, arms spread wide on either side of the doorway.

“Would it kill you to knock like the rest of ’em?” Eli?ka shouted from the stove. “She thinks she’s a damn prophet the way she lets herself in.”

Nimrah’s eyes met hers. Something stilled between them. When her gaze lowered to Malka’s neck, she became acutely aware of the clasp-shaped bruise forming there. She resisted the urge to cover it with her hand.

“You’re here,” Nimrah said, as if there wasn’t this invisible bond which secured their cooperation.

The pitting sensation of their separation may have been gone, but Malka did not forget its unique kind of pain.

She wondered if Nimrah had felt the change, too.

Abrupt and disorienting. Though, Nimrah had yet to reveal how the rooting spell affected her.

If it at all did. Maybe only the spellcaster was plagued with these side effects.

It would be just her luck. Regardless, they were stuck together until this was through.

“Our deal,” Malka answered.

Whatever strange emotion flickered across Nimrah’s face disappeared, her face returning to its stoic, emotionless state. Malka could parse out no vestiges of nausea or discomfort imparted by the rooting spell, which only bolstered her vexation.

“Of course,” Nimrah replied, lips thin. As she stepped inside, her nose turned up. “Good heavens, Eli?ka, what foul thing have you let die in your home?”

Eli?ka tsk ed. “You’re lucky I’m making him anything at all, the way you waltz in here unannounced after so many years. Expect me to welcome you back with open arms, after what has become of you and the Maharal!”

She ladled the soup into bowls and passed them around. Despite her objection, Nimrah retrieved a bowl and settled into a rickety chair across from Malka.

The soup was earthy and medicinal, similar to the tea Nimrah had made for her as she healed from nearly drowning. It wasn’t tasty, but it warmed her, and staved off her gnawing hunger.

“While I inquired about you, Eli?ka, I also asked Bogumir about the Maharal. But he warned me against uttering his name in public.”

Bogumir must’ve been the owner of the tavern.