Page 42 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Malka slumped her shoulders in relief. Chaia wrapped her hand around Malka’s arm and ushered her through the door as the guard stepped aside.

When they arrived, the kitchen was a flurry of activity.

Women in aprons danced around each other, holding plates, cutlery, and towels above their heads as breakfast was prepared.

It was hot and stuffy, oven fires billowing high, hungry for bread to bake.

Flour settled in the air like dust motes as dough was tossed and rolled into loaves.

Links of beer sausage and salted duck hung above a roiling fire, browning with the lick of each flame.

“You’re late!” shrilled a woman who must have been Cook Irenka, hitting Chaia on her shoulder with a towel. Sweat beaded down her forehead and into the crooks of her crow’s feet. “Get to work!”

“Is she not wondering who I am?” Malka whispered to Chaia.

She shrugged. “She rarely keeps track of temporary hires. That, and you are not a food she can bake or cook.”

Chaia handed Malka an apron, and they went to work.

Malka helped Chaia score dough for the day’s bread loaves, and after, Cook Irenka ordered Malka to pluck fowl.

The work was demanding, but Malka almost enjoyed it.

She had missed the routine of assisting Imma—delivering early morning medicine to patients and preparing tonics from Imma’s herb garden.

Homesickness stabbed her like a honed blade.

“Hanna.” Chaia approached with a breakfast platter. Malka had almost forgotten her disguise. “Will you take these to Prince Ev ? en’s head servant? The prince should be finishing his morning prayers in the royal chapel.”

As Malka nodded and received the platter, Chaia gripped her hands. “Be safe, Yedid Nefesh, ” she whispered low in Kra ? -Yadi, so only Malka could hear. “Good luck.”

Malka wandered through the palace halls, amazed at its grandeur.

The servant entrance they had funneled through to get to the kitchens paled in comparison to the splendor of the main halls.

Caramel beams caressed the walls, crowning together on the ceiling in thick, even arches like the bones of a ribcage.

Thin, stone panels with old Jalgani writing engraved on them—the writing of Ozmini prayers—sat fitted between each rib.

Imposing lancet windows lined the hall. Through them, light gushed in and pooled along the floor like melted candle wax.

Though Chaia had given her instructions on finding the chapel, Malka wandered, mouth agape at the expansive rooms which fell into each other seamlessly.

She ambled into another hall, this one smaller than the rest. It was empty and quiet, only the flaming lanterns on the wall brushing sound against her ears.

She kept her head down as two knights passed by her, ignoring the painful twists of her stomach caused by the rooting spell. Soon, she and Nimrah would reunite, and this sickness would ease.

“Can’t we just close the city gates if they’re so worried about who’s coming through?” one asked.

The other answered, voice a little more distant. “We don’t question orders, we follow them.”

The clink of their heavy shoes stopped in tandem. “Your Highness.”

Malka tensed and stole a glance behind her.

The crown prince was garbed in magnificent dress, his golden collar stiff and glimmering, and a red and white sash crossing his broad shoulders.

The same gold crossed his waist, embroidered with indigo crescents, which stood out against the yellow like the moon in a starless sky.

His sand-colored hair was combed back to his shoulders and a tight smile lined his face.

Another man walked alongside him. While he was also finely dressed, he was nowhere near as opulent as the prince.

Ev ? en nodded to the knights but kept his pace, passing Malka, who had taken up residence against the wall, as if she could blend herself into it.

He was speaking in low tones to the man next to him in rushed Kra ? ki Malka strained to understand. She didn’t catch much, only a few words. But each one made her heart leap.

Eskravé. Paja.

Her breathing grew shallow and fast. It could be innocuous, simply updating the prince on why the Order’s movement was delayed. Why they were held up in Eskravé. But there was a potential, however small, that Imma’s name could fall from their lips.

Malka wouldn’t miss the opportunity to find out.

Her eyes darted toward the chapel where Nimrah waited. But already the prince was disappearing around the corner.

She peeled herself from the wall and followed the prince on light feet.

They approached a door, where the prince gave some parting words to his companion. Ev ? en watched him leave before stepping inside of the room.

Before she could second-guess herself, Malka stepped one foot on the woven rug and slid it toward the room. It bunched up, catching the door before it closed all the way. A sliver of orange light caressed the heels of the tassels.

She approached cautiously, pressing herself back to the wall and holding her breath as she peered inside.

From the sliver she could see, the room was as opulent as the halls, though more furnished. A grand desk sat in the middle of the room, its legs curved like wobbling knees.

“You are not the young boy you used to be, though you might dream it.”

Malka could not see the man who spoke to the prince, though his voice was gritty and threadbare, and his words pummeled out like stones. It was the voice of a graying man.

She could see Ev ? en more clearly as he ran his hand along his stubbled jaw. He leaned against the desk and crossed his legs. “I am not longing for the past, Sévren. I’m only unsure of the future.”

Malka tensed hearing the archbishop’s name.

“I don’t blame you for dithering.” Sévren placed his hand on the prince’s shoulder, revealing the silk brocade liturgical cuffs around his wrist, threaded with gold.

“You’ve been timid in your actions as prince.

And the court has allowed it… for now. But they will not always.

Your father is aging, and he has strayed further and further away from his duties.

His long tenure has made him… simple-minded, worsened by the prolonged absence of your mother in Agamere. ”

Prince Ev ? en raised his brow. “Your Grace, I don’t think my father, your king, would appreciate those claims. Some would say they are borderline treason.”

Malka expected Sévren would grow haughty at the prince’s accusation, but he chuckled instead.

“Only you know me too well to accuse me of treason. If anything, it is my love for this kingdom that prompts my free speech. It has depressed me, Ev ? en, to see the Ordobav Kingdom loosen from your father’s grasp. I only fear what would happen if… well, if it were to slip completely.”

Malka tensed. How much did Sévren know of the duke’s plans?

The prince folded his arms, the red and white sash wrinkling. “Have you heard something, Sévren? Is there a coup in the works?”

The prince did not always address Sévren with his honorific, nor did the archbishop always use the prince’s title. It could confirm the rumors of their supposed closeness, that neither was particularly fazed by the familiarity of their address.

“Nothing like that, my prince. I only fear your father’s legacy will leave the people of Ordobav less than satisfied with your rise to kingship.”

The prince reared. “I have done nothing to my people. They have not even come to see my reign yet, or the type of king I will be.”

Sévren stepped closer to the prince, finally revealing himself in the slim crack of the door. He was younger than Malka had anticipated and wore a tall burgundy miter.

“Your birth was a delicate thing, Ev ? en.” The archbishop spoke tenderly.

“I remember that day you know. I even remember the fog-dusted sky. It had been so gray for the days your mother was in labor. Clouds remained, foretelling rain that wouldn’t come.

They taunted us and clotted the air, so it was hard to breathe.

It was dark, even during the day. Like the sun wouldn’t rise until you came. ”

Sévren drew his knuckles against Ev ? en’s cheek. The prince leaned into the touch.

“You were so small wrapped in your chrisom robe after your baptism. But even then, holding you, I felt the presence of God.”

“And I have prayed every day to Triorzay and Saint Celine for saving my life. I have lived in sanctity according to Ozmini law. Is that not how we grew so close, Sévren? From childhood, I have consumed every teaching you have given and confessed to every sin I could think of.”

“I don’t doubt your holiness, my boy. It’s my belief in your piety that led me to speak with you now, candidly.”

“Then tell me, candidly, Sévren. What fear do you have of the Valski rule?”

Sévren smiled. “You look so much like your grandfather, you know. I admired him very much. He embodied everything a Holy Imperial Leader should: strength, resolve. Brutality, if necessary. But there is a reason the papacy did not bestow the same title over your father.”

“You disapprove of his choice in counsel because of his Yahadi advisors.” The prince said this tiredly, like it had been a discussion between them before.

“It’s not because they are Yahadi, of course. It’s because they are a threat to your rule. Valski rule. And you must…”

Malka could no longer make out Sévren’s words as he disappeared from view. But Ev ? en’s jaw clicked, and he sighed to the heavens. Whatever Sévren said, Ev ? en was not pleased.

“At the end of it all, Prince Ev ? en, it’s up to you if you decide to give the orders or let another king-making decision pass you by. If Saint Celine made the right choice, or if she will be disappointed again.”

A wave of nausea seized Malka, teetering her off balance. She kicked the golden platter and its clattering echoed through the hall. She was sure the rooting spell existed solely to betray her.

Footsteps from inside the room were getting louder, closer. She had to go. Now. Yet she still dizzied when she attempted to grab the platter from the ground. She swayed and it slipped from her grip once. Then twice.

“Who’s out there?” Sévren called. His voice was closer now. In seconds she would be caught.

Malka closed her eyes, tried to ground herself. Breathed deep. Finally, she took hold of the platter. As the crack in the door widened, Malka was already skirting the corner, running toward the chapel.