Page 38 of The Maiden and Her Monster

That night, sleep evaded her, stealthy in its escape.

Malka tossed and turned near the hearth in Chaia’s home, wishing Hadar were curled into her.

She would have used her sister’s even breaths to lull herself to sleep as she had done so many times before.

Malka had not slept well since she had left home.

Even the warmth of a fire and a roof above her once more did not ease the racing of her mind.

Soundlessly, as to not wake Amnon who slept nearby, she slipped from her blanket and stole away outside, near enough to maintain the steady connection with Nimrah.

The stars were dim in the city, but still, she sought comfort in them.

She imagined Danya and Hadar peering out at the same night sky through their bedroom window, wondering what had become of her.

If she was dead, like all the girls before her who entered Mavetéh.

Her heart clenched. She wished she could send them a message, but if Father Bro ? ek discovered she was in Valón, he might think she’d gone back on their deal. Imma’s fate would be sealed.

Malka wondered how Danya fared alone in their house with Hadar and Abba.

Danya’s bruised skin was a scar on her mind; she would never forget the flowering of purple and blue covering Danya’s back.

Malka swallowed a wave of guilt. She had left them.

But she had to follow this deal through. Without her family, Malka was nothing.

Now, she sank close to the earth, soiling her knees in the dirt.

The ground was cool on her palm. It was hard to deny her want, which echoed through her, clawing inside the skin of her hand like a screwworm.

Cloaked by the night, Malka leaned into the hum.

She closed her eyes and called forth the same feelings she had when she healed Amnon.

She had been desperate to save him and had commanded the earth to shape her desires.

Even when she had tied herself to Nimrah, desperation had cloaked her wishes.

Desperation for the deal to work, for Nimrah to keep her promises.

Now, under the stars, her wishes weren’t desperate.

Weren’t life or death. Her desire to bend the earth was instead assured, where she prayed until she felt the earth in the deepest parts of her and demanded from the earth a growth which had not been there before.

She thrust her hand deeper into the dirt, feeling specks of pebble dig into her skin as the word was drawn: ??? .

Tsemach . Sprout . Her mouth moved in a soft prayer.

One she did not know she could speak until the words became something else entirely.

The earth shifted. She opened her eyes.

Peeking from the ground was a stem of black perphona.

A slight smile drew at the corners of her lips as she ran her hand along its innocuous thorns.

“You need to be careful,” Nimrah said, appearing behind her. “You never know who’s watching.”

Malka picked the herb between her fingers and inspected it. “Do you know what it would mean for my family, for Eskravé, to mumble a prayer and have these grow from the cracks of our cobblestone streets?”

“To think you feared Kefesh so intensely, until you held the power in your palm.”

“I still fear it,” Malka admitted, the warning of shalkat always at the edge of her mind. How her want made her fear it all the more.

“But you crave it.” Nimrah frowned. “I can see it in the fervor of your gaze.”

Malka stood. She stared at the golem, though the hood cloaked her face in shadow. “Isn’t that what you wanted? You did nothing but encourage me to use this holy magic. To command it.”

“Yes,” Nimrah answered.

“Now you are disappointed I see what the holy magic is capable of? What it can mean for the future of Eskravé and my people?”

“You must understand why Kefesh does not solve all the world’s problems, though it sounds like a blessing.”

Malka slit her eyes. “That is rich coming from you.”

“I know I encouraged you. I don’t regret teaching you how to command Kefesh. Only I wish to remind you to be cautious how powerful you show yourself to be in front of the Ozmins. You know what they do to powerful Yahad.”

Malka sighed, irritated by the truth of Nimrah’s warning. Why should she have to hide herself?

“People fear what they don’t understand,” Nimrah continued, as if hearing her thoughts. “Kefesh is controversial enough within Yahadism. If Eskravé starts to thrive, if everyone is miraculously healed from the Mázág sickness, the Ozmins will start to raise their brows.”

“Yet they didn’t question it when the Maharal created you?”

“Oh, they did. I was a sinful abomination, according to them. Made by a wicked sorcerer. But they were afraid of me and what I could do. So, they took their fear out on others who could not defend themselves.”

Malka’s throat tightened. “The Maharal taught Chaia how to command Kefesh. He took her under his tutelage when she arrived. She said the Maharal would teach any Yahad how to command the magic of our people if they were determined to learn.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Nimrah had the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“The Maharal spent many years studying Kefesh. He strained himself physically and mentally to truly understand the command of it. He would whisper recipes and spells to himself until his voice was raw. Even after he had stretched Kefesh to its limits in his creation of me, he continued to learn, to see what Kefesh could become. Even someone as contained as the Maharal would be desperate to share that knowledge with someone.”

Kefesh could not solve Malka’s problems. That, she knew. She had seen its failure in the tragedy that led to Nimrah’s banishment; how the deer, a creation of Kefesh, had attacked and injured Amnon. Still, Malka dreamed of the perfect solution she could command in the palm of her hands.

“You remind me of the Maharal in many ways,” Nimrah said.

Malka scrunched her brows. “You said I was nothing like him when we were in Mavetéh.”

Nimrah was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “You once told me a sweet lie to save my feelings. Perhaps I returned a sour lie to rile you.”

She couldn’t curb the crimson flush of her cheeks. “How am I like him? Because we are both deeply religious?”

“Yes, but it runs deeper than that. It’s how your faith gives you strength, motivates you to be brave, and lights a fire in your heart.”

The lamplight flickered across Nimrah’s face.

She looked painfully innocuous in Vilém’s resting clothes which sagged around her arms yet fell short around her hips underneath her cloak.

In front of her now, Nimrah did not look like the Rayga, only a woman in sleep clothes conversing with Malka under the stars.

“Careful, Rayga,” Malka warned, her voice sweet as wine. “One might start to think you like me with talk like that.”

Nimrah huffed. “Don’t worry, village girl. It is hard to like someone who wants you dead.”

The reminder drew Malka away from whatever trance she had been under. A flurry of emotions plagued her then, hard and fast like Ordobav’s summer thunderstorms. The uneasy flip of her belly, the blood rushing through her ears. She knew them intimately. Doubt, guilt.

She did her best to shake them. Nimrah was the Rayga. Her death would mean Imma’s freedom and an end to the curse on Mavetéh.

“Best you hate me,” Malka said hotly, repeating the words in her head like a mantra. Monster. Murderer. Monster. Murderer.

Nimrah stepped into Malka’s space. She bent, lips brushing the fold of Malka’s ear. “Then hate you, I will. I will hate you as much as the Shabhe King hated his deceptive Shabhe Queen when she revealed her Yahadi identity.”

Nimrah walked away, leaving the space between them cool. Malka held her breath until she heard the soft click of the front door signaling Nimrah’s returned inside.

Malka brought a hand to her ear and brushed it unconsciously.

She recalled the story they had debated in the woods, how the Shabhe Queen had risked her life to save her people from annihilation.

The king had been so besotted with his wife from the moment his eyes first laid upon her, he had cherished her bravery as she revealed her secret identity and called off the destruction of the Yahad.

The Shabhe King had never hated his Shabhe wife. He had only ever been besotted with her and loved her more fiercely each day than the last.