Page 49 of The Maiden and Her Monster

News of the Maharal’s temporary freedom traveled around Valón like a flame on linseed oil.

The excitement had heightened now that the Maharal was to make his public appearance during today’s wedding ceremony.

Last-minute preparations were in full swing, house abuzz with excitement as dozens of people busied themselves with their tasks.

Malka fanned herself with a damp cloth. Though a chill doused the air, the packed house and burning stove made it warm. The cholent, a rich stew with fatty beef, beans, potatoes, and onions, had been cooking all day. It simmered low and filled the room with a salty and hearty scent.

Malka danced her way outside, dodging people until the crisp air hit her face and she breathed in smoke from overworked chimneys, as the whole Yahadi Quarter prepared for the day’s wedding.

Tomorrow, they’d head back to Eskravé. It felt unreal to say, as if the possibility had only been in her dreams. It had been two weeks since she left. Two weeks could break many in captivity, but not Imma.

Soon, I’ll be home, she said to Imma, as if her thoughts could reach her mother. Just a little longer.

Malka pressed her back against the wall.

It briefly stung as the stone aggravated her wound, but the coolness it offered was a balm.

She thought of Nimrah’s story last night, how different it had been from the version of events Malka knew.

It was hard not to think of the similarities between them now.

Malka, doing what she thought was best and freeing the Maharal from imprisonment, only to watch an innocent man tortured and killed because of her deceit.

Nimrah, attempting to protect the Yahad, and killing one instead.

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t. Not when she was so close.

She had done the impossible, but success didn’t relieve her as much as she had expected.

Something gnawed at her, but she chalked it up to the anxiety about the journey home.

The magister had promised them passage, and Chaia trusted him. That was enough.

“Quite different from the preparation for your wedding ceremonies in Eskravé, I’d imagine.”

The Maharal appeared in front of her, cradling a book in the crook of his elbow.

“Peace and light, Rav, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Malka realized how little she and the Maharal had spoken directly since his rescue. Even as he recovered, the Maharal was a busy man.

The rabbi chuckled. “Peace and light, Malka.”

He appeared every bit the legend now. His robes, blue as winter dusk, swept the ground.

The white, rectangular woolen mantle of his tallit rested across his shoulders, tassels dangling at each corner.

His tall hat matched his robes, and stood out impressively against the pale blue sky, made even paler by the press of gray clouds.

Malka hardly recognized him as the man they had rescued from the dungeon.

Nimrah must’ve aided him with the Kefesh-laced healing tonics.

“It’s time to bring Vilém and his entourage to the shul for the service. It’s a bit untraditional for me to escort him, I will admit, but it would be an honor.”

“It’s kind of you to officiate their wedding.”

“As I would for any Yahad getting married. Plus, Chaia has been a gift to the Qehillah. I only regret my absence the last six months.”

Malka bit her lip. If she let herself, she could get lost thinking of the entire other life Chaia had made while Malka mourned her.

Chaia may have been alive, but Malka would still lose her if Chaia stayed in Valón. Malka’s life belonged to Eskravé; she couldn’t leave it.

A new grief to replace the old.

“She spoke of you, Malka. Endlessly,” said the Maharal, raising his bushy eyebrows softly. “I know it’s not the same, but she mourned the loss of you, too. And at the same time, had to deal with her anger. Mostly at herself, for leaving you and her family behind.”

“You taught her Kefesh.” It came out accusingly, though Malka hadn’t meant it to sound as such.

“I told her there was a way she could hold prayer in her hands, and helped her shape the words, yes.”

“Before I stepped into Mavetéh, Kefesh was mythic, performed in secret—something I only heard about in stories, in folklore that told us we would tangle too close with Yohev if we tried to command it. We had only been told of its destruction.” She peered through the window into the house, and caught Nimrah’s back in the crowd of people, her doublet glinting in the dim light.

“And she encouraged me to use it for myself.”

The Maharal followed her gaze. “And you healed Amnon with Kefesh.”

“Did she tell you?”

“No, but I know the power of Mavetéh’s creatures. I know the taste of Kefesh, like copper and spice, and feel it on my tongue whenever I’m around him. Nimrah has not been commanded to heal like that, so it must’ve been you.”

“I did my best, but he may never return to his full health. Your golem said that the sickness might have seeped too deep into his bones to reverse by magic.”

“Such is the curse of men, to be able to create life, but not always save it.” The rabbi’s eyes grew distant.

“Just as you created the golem.”

He blinked hard, and the smile returned to his face. “Yes.”

Nimrah’s interpretation of her story flickered in her mind, then the memory of the Maharal’s soft touch on Nimrah’s cheek.

“You love her,” she said. “In a way you had not expected.”

The Maharal gave her a sad smile. “Deeply.”

“That’s why you didn’t kill her, isn’t it?”

“That is part of the reason.” He tilted his chin up and sighed. “May I share something with you, Malka?”

“Of course.”

“There is an immutable rule of Kefesh. Anyone who kills life made with holy magic will be destroyed with it.”

Malka’s mind began to race. This new knowledge, altering her perceptions.

She could say that for so many things since she left. Since she met Nimrah. What would the consequences be if an Ozmini executioner died alongside Nimrah?

Malka’s gut clenched, bothered both by the implications of another way the Church could blame the Yahad for an Ozmini death and something else she couldn’t place.

Something that would frighten her if she gave voice to it.

Her mind drifted to the confessional. It had become akin to the rooting, an ever present, biting heat that wouldn’t leave her.

She wondered what the Maharal had thought of their deal. I’ve made a promise, one I must keep no matter the consequences. She had not stayed to hear his response after handing Nimrah the poultice.

“Does she know this?”

The Maharal shook his head. “I didn’t want her to carry the burden of this knowledge. And I’d prefer to keep it that way, you understand.”

“Why tell me now?”

“It is good for someone else close to her to know, in case something happens to me again.”

She didn’t know what to make of any of this as silence passed between them.

“Nimrah tells me you wished to speak with me about something,” he said.

Malka appreciated the change in subject.

She dug her shoe into the dirt, recalling how she had commanded Kefesh from this spot, sprouting black perphona like it was nothing.

Knowing she could not draw the same life from the earth anymore made her throat tight.

How quickly she had become used to Kefesh and holding its magic between her fingertips.

“My ability to command Kefesh was there one minute and gone the next. By the dungeon gate, I killed a man with pelting rocks. When the golem left with you, I could no longer draw power from the earth.”

The Maharal considered this. “Kefesh is a tricky thing. It’s not a science, nor is it something that can be fully understood by anyone but Yohev. If you choose to return to Valón at any point, I’d be more than happy to work with you and try to call the magic back.”

Malka gave a half-hearted smile, knowing she wouldn’t.

“Speaking of Nimrah, I’ve noticed you refuse to speak her given name,” the Maharal said. “May I ask why?”

Monster. Murderer. Rayga. Golem. She had dredged up other names as a shield. Names which befit Nimrah’s looming fate and would ease her guilt.

She swallowed thickly. “It’s for the best we keep a distance between us.”

“I see.” His mind was far away again. “Do you know the Game of the Foxwit, Malka?”

Malka scrunched her brows. The Game of the Foxwit was a child’s game she used to play, where all but one of the players would hide in the woods, behind bulky tree trunks and in the bunchy growth of the underbrush, scattered on the edge of Kratzka ?ujana in the best hiding places they could find.

The chosen child, who was last to run into the woods, was given the name of the Foxwit, and would search for their hiding friends.

They would listen to the wind, focus on flashes of shadow, until they found one of the hiding spots.

If the found player wanted, they could whisper in the Foxwit’s ear, and reveal where the other players hid.

After, the Foxwit would decide to take the player’s word or scatter their advice in the wind.

For if the Foxwit searched in the places the player whispered and it was deception, the Foxwit would lose the game.

“I know it,” Malka said, a question lingering on the upturn of her response.

“And did you ever play?”

“Yes, as all children in Eskravé once did.” Malka had vivid memories of Amnon and Chaia, who would race so quickly into Kratzka ?ujana that Malka never had a chance to be anything else but the Foxwit.

Only when Amnon sprained his ankle and could not sprint as fast did she finally get to hide.

But she did not have much practice hiding in the woods, and Amnon soon discovered her.

She had tried her hand at deception, pointing to a nearby tree and whispering Chaia’s hiding spot within the tangle of branches.

Amnon had blushed and searched the tree for Chaia.

Of course, she was not there, and he had lost.