Page 50 of The Maiden and Her Monster

“It’s a fine game,” said the Maharal. “Made even finer by the lessons it teaches us. Of whom to believe, and who gains the most from deceit.”

So, Nimrah had told the Maharal about their deal.

She understood his warning, of the dangers of trusting someone like Father Bro ? ek.

But it hadn’t mattered. Any alternative to the deal they had struck was inconceivable.

It mattered not how cunning the priest, or how she would fare in the Foxwit’s shoes, guessing at who to believe, and who held trickery in their eyes.

She would do anything to keep her family safe, even if it meant letting the golem’s fate lie with the priest. Even if it meant turning away whenever Nimrah’s eyes met hers and forgetting all about that moment in the confessional box.

“Malka,” Amnon called, peering out the door. “Chaia is asking for you.”

“Go,” the Maharal agreed. “It’s time for me to return with Vilém anyhow. Come and see me before you leave, will you? Even if you choose to leave Valón. There is a gift I would like to give you.”

Weeks ago, she couldn’t have fathomed this—the Maharal before her, Chaia alive and nearly wedded. She nodded to the rabbi, though somewhat distractedly, and followed Amnon back into the house.

“Amnon?”

He leaned on his cane. “Yes, Malka?”

“Do you remember the game we used to play, the Game of the Foxwit?”

He chuckled. “Of course.”

Malka tugged her arms across her chest. “Was I easy to deceive as the Foxwit?”

Amnon hesitated and ruffled a hand through his curls. He always did that when the truth was hard for him to divulge. It was the same motion he had made when Malka asked for more time to think about his proposal. When she asked if he thought his father was proud of him and the man he had become.

Malka had her answer.

Chaia was more beautiful than Malka had ever seen her. More grown up, too. A year had changed so much, and Chaia in her traditional Yahadi wedding attire—an ornate white sargenes—revealed the leap of time in ways that words could not.

“You look lovely,” Malka said as she entered into the private room. Chaia stopped fussing with her headdress and broke into a smile.

“Peace and light, Malka. So do you.”

Malka had borrowed one of Chaia’s more ornate kroje for the occasion: a crimson embroidered apron wrapped delicately across her layers of ruffled petticoats. Atop her blouse, a brocade vest fastened with bright ribbon.

“Can you believe this? Me, getting married. To an Ozmini man, no less!”

“Always leave it to you to break tradition.” Malka bundled the bottom of the headdress in her hands, readjusting it to cascade around Chaia’s face.

Chaia bit her lip and glimpsed out the window. “I miss my parents, Malka. Here I am getting married, and they think I am dead.”

“They love you, Chaia. That I can promise.”

“I will come home to visit,” Chaia assured her. “Once it’s safer. Once the duke sits on the throne. Vilém has always wanted to see Eskravé.”

Malka shook her head in disbelief. “You speak so casually of having to distance yourself from those you love for fear of the Church’s retribution. Doesn’t it scare you?”

“They wish.” Chaia tugged fervently at Malka’s hand.

“They don’t want us to feel powerful, Malka.

They want us scared, like they are. They want to have the upper hand.

Do you know what it means that the Maharal’s trial will be reinstated, and days after he reappeared in the Yahadi Quarter from Valón Castle, he’s officiating a wedding between a Yahad and an Ozmin? ”

“So, you and Vilém are marrying as what, a political statement?”

“Malka, I truly love Vilém. But we aren’t naive. We know what this marriage means, what the union between us represents.”

Malka released her hand. “So, you plan to sleep with one eye open, forever watching your back in case, what, Sévren has another vision sent from Triorzay that your marriage must be dissolved at all costs? They planted a vial filled with a woman’s blood in the Maharal’s basement. What do you think they will do to you?”

Chaia straightened. “I will live with Vilém in our happy marriage. I’ll continue to help with the Qehillah until…” Her voice trailed off.

“Until what, Chaia?” She lowered her voice. “Until Duke Sigmund is able to take control?”

“It’s more than that, Malka,” Chaia replied.

“You know how influential Sévren has been in Ordobav, even outside the main roles of the Church. He is a trusted confidante. Even if people are losing trust with King Valski, they still see the archbishop as a beacon of strength. Like Vilém said, Duke Sigmund’s dislike of the papal role in the state is more practical than it is political.

If someone like Sévren were to start whispering ideas in his ear, there’s no way to know which way the duke will eventually sway.

Something has to be done to prevent that future. ”

The realization hit Malka hard. “You plan to kill Sévren?”

“It’s been in the works for some time—before the Maharal was imprisoned. The duke has promised to divert any investigation into the archbishop’s death if it means he can finally become King of Ordobav and oust his brother from power.”

“He could become a martyr.”

“Not if he doesn’t die for a cause. If he is killed quietly, his death will be viewed as natural. He is an aging man.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do this?”

Chaia picked at her nails, shifting her weight between her feet.

A woman bustled through the door before Malka could press for answers.

“It’s time!” she shouted. “We must make our way to the synagogue!”

Chaia sagged in relief, but she shot Malka an apologetic look.

This conversation wasn’t over, but Malka would set it aside for now. A marriage was no small thing. To see her best friend married to a kind man was to celebrate a moment of intense joy in a life full of suffering and hardship.

She squeezed Chaia’s hand and did something Malka thought long lost to her—followed by an entourage of the guests, she led her best friend from her house and through the streets of the Yahadi Quarter, where people cheered and clanged metal pots together in celebration, to the doors of the shul Bachta, which stood imposing in front of them.

Malka stepped inside the synagogue for the first time, her arm wrapped in Amnon’s.

It made her eyes glassy to be in a building of faith again.

Her faith. She breathed in the patchouli and frankincense and stared at the transverse arches which hung over them like a second sky.

The stone walls tossed around the chattering of the audience like a melody over the lofty ceilings.

Chandeliers hung low, pressing their light into even the tightest corners.

It was so warm, and Chaia gleamed under their orange glow.

Malka’s heart ached at the sight, and everything else fell away. She focused on this moment of joy, on the glimmering sunlight that fell through the windows and sparkled on the glass around them. She focused on Chaia’s soft eyes, and the way Vilém smiled dotingly at his bride.

The guests took their places as Chaia and Vilém gathered under the chuppah, adorned with an embroidered cloth, and decorated with vivid green oak leaf and reddened smoke bush.

The Maharal stood behind them, and Malka let his prayers seep into her bones, like the warmest sheepskin in the coldest winter.

In an unwilling moment, Malka broke her attention from Chaia and Vilém’s union to find Nimrah in the crowd.

She was easy to spot, her hair unwrapped and sprawling, her stature tall and imposing.

Nimrah’s eyes were already on her. They stood on opposite sides of the synagogue, but the distance between them felt negligible when their connection persisted in this heady awareness.

She had blamed this hunger on the rooting spell back in the confessional box.

But she knew better. The spell wasn’t like this when they were near—longing, desperate to be sated.

It was already full. Gorged. This was something wholly different.

The Maharal was free, the rooting no longer necessary. But neither of them had mentioned it since their return. She’d been distracted, she reasoned. Maybe a bit afraid, too.

It was easier to blame her feelings on a spell of Kefesh.

Her legs were heavy, and heat crawled up Malka’s neck as Nimrah’s mouth parted. She remembered the warmth of Nimrah’s breath on her cheek, sweet like salted dates and plum wine. The touch of Nimrah’s hand on her hip so intoxicating, it lingered there still.

Slowly, without thinking, Malka dragged her hand to her side, and traced the spot where Nimrah had caressed. Nimrah’s eyes followed the motion. She swallowed hard, tightening her jaw with a sturdy clench.

It was too easy to think of Nimrah differently after hearing her side of the story.

There’s no space for desire between us, Malka reminded herself.

Whatever they felt, it had to sour like underripe fruit.

Malka couldn’t stand to think of what would become of Nimrah after Father Bro ? ek punished her, how insurmountable her own guilt would become if anything but hate budded between them.

Malka tore her gaze away, focusing instead on the ring that Vilém held out.

It glittered, the gold shining in its triangular shape.

Yahadi rings were not made of gems, but of copper or gold welded into the shape of something familiar to the couple—a house, a place, or even an object.

This ring was shaped like their house, and decorated intricately with red pigment, which wove around the shapes of their names in gold like leaves on a vine.

It was beautiful, yet simple as far as Yahadi wedding rings went. It suited them.

Her skin prickled, and Malka sensed Nimrah’s eyes on her again.

She didn’t dare confirm it. She only watched as Vilém slipped the ring onto Chaia’s finger, and smiled as they solidified their union in this beautiful synagogue with a legendary rabbi, with stars twinkling in their eyes and blushes warming their cheeks.

Vilém shattered the glass bottle beneath his feet, and the congregation sang.