Page 37 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Though Malka had warned Amnon of the Mázág sickness, and more crucially of Chaia’s survival, she couldn’t help but wonder if the same shock in his eyes had suffused hers only hours ago.

It was dreamlike to see her there. The year between them had changed them both into something unknown to each other.

Chaia had sliced through their reality when she left without telling Malka. She had thought them closer than anything. Beloved of the Soul, her nickname, a declaration. Yet still, Chaia went without a word. Maybe Malka had been wrong.

Now, Malka took Chaia in at a distance. She had braided her hair around her head like a thickly laid diadem. She looked sophisticated and beautiful, but it did not hide the puffiness in her eyes and the sag of her cheeks. Had she cried after their conversation when Malka left to find Eli?ka?

She had only seen Chaia cry a handful of times, mostly when they were younger, and it was always to get her way.

Malka envied her for it, as her own eyes pricked with tears at the slightest provocation.

But she would not cry now. She would be strong, just as she had promised to Danya that last night in Eskravé.

If she started to cry, she did not know if she would be able to stop.

“Should’ve known we couldn’t have gotten rid of you that easily,” Amnon said after he recovered from shock, drawing Chaia into a hug.

Her shoulders sagged in relief as she hugged him back.

Amnon had not been as close to Chaia, and Malka envied the way Amnon could forgive her—could move on from the mourning.

“It’s good to see you, Amnon.” Chaia turned a sly eye to Nimrah. “And you are the legendary golem I have heard so much about. The one who took a knife to my best friend’s arm, if I heard correctly?”

Nimrah’s fixed stare on Malka made her squirm, like the golem was attempting to dissect her emotions. Malka had, after all, foolishly told her about Chaia as they waited out the hailstorm in the belly of a tree.

“It was a dagger,” Nimrah responded, her eyes still on Malka. “And she technically did it to herself.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Much better,” Chaia responded, but there was amusement in her eyes. “Come, we are cooking up a spread for supper.”

“We ate,” Nimrah said, finally looking away from Malka.

“Speak for yourself!” Amnon knocked past Nimrah. “I would do anything to get the taste of Eli?ka’s soup off my tongue.”

Malka crossed her arms and whispered low, so only Nimrah could hear. “Do you want their help or not?”

With a sigh, Nimrah relented. “Fine.”

They crammed around the table as Chaia passed down bowls of the stew from the cauldron above the hearth.

Together, they prayed, the intonation of their voices in the holy language as bright as a flame. Hearing Amnon’s and Chaia’s voices blend with hers, it almost made her feel normal again. Then one look at Vilém and Nimrah when they finished their recitation wiped that away.

Malka pressed the bowl of stew to her lips. It was delicious—mushrooms, carrots, cabbage, and fish in a savory broth. It had been so long since Malka had anything this hearty.

By now, the sun had set, bathing Chaia’s home in a chalky winter moonlight.

“Feel free to say no to what we will ask,” Malka prefaced to Chaia and Vilém, who had shared a chair to make room for them.

Chaia clasped her hands together, expression brightening. “You want our help to free the Maharal.”

“How did you know that’s what—”

“Malka, please. You tell me you have made a deal to free the Maharal in exchange for your mother’s life, but you come to Valón with no knowledge of the city, with Amnon, who is in no condition to physically rescue anyone, and with Nimrah, who was banned from Valón years ago. I know you could use the extra help.”

Nimrah cut in. “I needed her to—”

“Carve your freedom into her arm, yes,” Chaia finished.

Nimrah huffed. “She agreed to the deal.”

Malka added, “When we visited Eli?ka, she made a good point. People need to see that the Maharal is no longer sick, and there is no longer a reason for him to be kept isolated, as Sévren has demanded to avoid Ordobavian court laws. We know there’s a passage into the castle dungeons from the palace chapel, but we need help finding out a way into the New Royal Palace itself.

” Malka shifted toward Vilém. “I thought as a magister you could give us insight. Though it seems you’ve deduced that already. ”

“That’s easy, Malka. You can come with me. I work as a scullery maid in the kitchens,” Chaia answered. “Vilém can help Nimrah sneak in through the library. Scholars flow in and out all day to use the materials. With her height, she can pass as a man if we disguise her well enough.”

Malka bit her nail. Chaia had so readily agreed to help, guilt threaded inside of her. Guilt that she had asked; guilt that she had known Chaia would agree.

“It would put you both at risk,” Nimrah warned.

“We are already at risk,” said Chaia. “Me, because I am a Yahadi woman. Vilém, because he is a progressive thinker and chose to take a Yahadi wife. Besides, you have not been the only ones interested in the Maharal’s release.”

“There are many of us who understand the Ozmini Church’s motive. With the Maharal imprisoned, the Yahad are vulnerable. And the Ozmini Church will certainly take advantage of that.” Vilém dabbed a cloth at the side of his mouth.

“Our wedding is only days away. Half the Yahadi Quarter will be there,” Chaia began.

Malka’s heart twinged. Days away. The nearness of their union somehow solidifying the reality of Chaia’s second life. The one which hadn’t included her.

Malka tried to hamper her despondent thoughts as Chaia continued. “If we could free him by then, it would give the Yahadi Quarter great hope to see the Maharal perform his role as rabbi after the Church tried to snuff him.”

“This does not sound like a new idea to you,” Nimrah said. “Or a new plan. What exactly are you involved in?”

The couple eyed each other in silent conversation.

There was no doubt Chaia’s involvement in Valón extended far past discovering what happened to the tithes. It made the stew sit uneasy.

“There are some last-minute wedding preparations I could use your help with tomorrow,” Chaia said to them. “If you three are amenable,” she added slyly, her grin as bright as the moonlight slices which curved along Mavetéh’s trees.

Malka spared a glance at Nimrah and Amnon, who mirrored her suspicious look.

“Of course,” Malka said, eyebrows furrowed.

An ever wider smile. “Great. Now that that’s settled, I’ve heated up a bath. Take turns in there, you are all disgusting.”

Behind the closed door of the washroom, Malka pressed her head against the wall. Alone now, it hit her at once. She was in Chaia’s washroom, in the home she shared with Vilém, her betrothed. She was alive. Mavetéh had not taken her.

Growing up, Malka had always wondered if Chaia would marry.

She had always been what Malka wasn’t—independent, with dreams too big for tradition.

But it seemed right that her betrothed would be someone like Vilém, a man who fit her so well.

A man who didn’t overshadow her, and wasn’t jealous of her aptitude, but cherished it.

Malka stripped, discarding the stained, torn pieces of her kroj on the floor and freeing the top half of her hair from the kerchief.

She bathed herself in the wooden tub, relishing in the soft scented soap Chaia had left for her.

She was careful to wash around the poultice on her arm, scrubbing instead at her dirt-caked skin and legs.

She soaked her hair and massaged in the oils and herbs Chaia had, running her fingers through her curls to detangle them.

When she finished, she wrapped herself in a linen cloth, realizing she had no clean clothes to change into. She cursed and headed to the door, still sopping wet.

Malka was stunned to find Nimrah on the other side of the door when she opened it, bent down in front of her. When their eyes met, Malka’s cheeks grew torturously hot. The towel around her felt like nothing, clinging to her body as it absorbed the water.

“What are you doing here?” Malka demanded, her voice frayed at the edges.

Nimrah cleared her throat. “Chaia asked me to bring you these.” She motioned to the folded clothes on the floor near the door.

With aching slowness, Nimrah stood, and Malka noticed every inch of the golem’s height as she did. It took forever for her to stand straight.

A droplet of water dripped from Malka’s hair and curved its way to the corner of her mouth. Nimrah’s eyes fell to its path. Without thinking, Malka darted her tongue across her lips, capturing the droplet.

Nimrah recovered from her trance and discomfort turned her cheek rosy. She stared at everything but Malka, from the slits in the wooden door to the cobwebs on the ceiling.

Do you like me better like this —Malka would have asked if she were braver— clean and smelling of roses? Or like I was, slick with blood from the wound you gave me?

But Malka was not brave.

The wound on her forearm pulsed, reminding Malka of the bond between them. Even when Nimrah hastily left, leaving Malka disarmed of her usual ripostes, her presence continued to linger.