Page 51 of The Maiden and Her Monster

The hearty scent of braised beef and smoke blanketed the air as torches lit the square where Vilém and Chaia held their celebration.

Musicians gathered on the middle platform and tapped their feet to the melody of songs Malka knew by heart.

The vibrato of violins and soft timbre of the drums echoed vibrantly.

People gathered around the musicians and swayed to the beat.

Plates filled with salted fish and tzimmes, and the savory scent of chicken soup, heavy with fat and salt, made Malka’s mouth water.

The koilitch was twice the normal size for the celebration, and it was passed around, each person tearing a piece from the bread.

The sweet fragrance of apple pirushkes, honey cakes, and baked lokshen kugels danced together. Malka drifted toward the tables spilling over with food and piled her plate with the sweet treats.

Malka had never attended a wedding outside of Eskravé, and none so extravagant.

Dim lanterns lined the square, flickering like fireflies amidst the hum of celebration.

Hadar would love the lights and the dancing.

Her eyes would widen at every delicacy laid out in front of her, having rarely experienced sweets due to the rationing of sugar since her toddler years.

Malka nabbed an extra pirushke in her sister’s honor.

When she tore a portion from the braided bread handed to her, she thought of Imma.

How she’d always make sure Malka had a big piece from the bread passed around at shul services.

These small acts made her feel less alone. Like her family was there, guiding her.

She didn’t have Imma’s bravery, Danya’s stubbornness, or Hadar’s optimism. But she was not helpless, either. She had rescued the Maharal and stood up to the archbishop, all while learning the magic of her people and holding its power in the palm of her hand.

“You always did love those honey cakes.”

Mouth full of cake, Malka blushed. Amnon sat beside her on the bench, leaning his cane between the divots in the wood.

It was a beautiful cane Vilém had bought from a local wood carver.

The hilt curved like a talon, patterns of stars and quills carved throughout.

It reminded Malka strongly of a paper cutting Hadar had made for the Feast of Lots.

“Not as much as Danya, though she’d be loath to admit her affection for sweets.”

Amnon laughed heartily, and she smiled at him. It hit her how much she loved Amnon, and she truly wondered if that love could turn romantic. If a life with him as her husband made sense.

Amnon must’ve thought the same, for he grew serious.

“I want to give you everything, Malka. As many pirushkes as you could eat. A beautiful ring. The rarest herbs for your medicinal garden. I’ve always wanted it, but…

” His face twisted, and he drew his hands over his cheeks.

“When you left to find the Maharal without me, and went somewhere I could not follow, I couldn’t stop worrying.

Every moment, I worried whether you would be hurt or killed. ”

“You’re a dear friend to me, Amnon.”

“Malka, it’s more than that. Some things may have changed—I might not be as able to protect you physically as I once could, but I’ll protect you with everything I am. I promise to do my best to give you the life you deserve.”

He cradled her hand in his and leaned close. His warmth was normally a comfort, but his implication made her grow rigid.

“You promised this conversation would wait until we returned to Eskravé, and Imma was free.”

His lips brushed her cheek. “I won’t ask you until we are back. But I can’t hide my feelings anymore. Not after almost losing you.”

Malka opened her mouth to respond, but the music swelled, and Chaia shouted her name.

She ran toward them, glowing from sweat and joy. “Malka, it’s our favorite dance! Come!”

Malka shot Amnon an apologetic glance, though her body relaxed after the interruption. She couldn’t give Amnon the love he deserved, nor could he protect her as he so wished.

Chaia tugged her close to the circle forming around the musicians, taking her hand as they sank in line with everyone else.

They danced together, a song her people knew the steps to like a second language.

Laughter brightened her, her face stretching into a smile as everyone raised their hands in the air and swooshed them down again.

Their circle tightened and released, and Malka twirled.

When the circle reconnected, the hand she grabbed was far less clammy than Chaia’s.

She jerked her head and found the golem’s hand in hers.

“I didn’t think you danced,” Malka said, ignoring the shiver passing through her.

Nimrah shrugged, stumbling on her footing as the circle moved. “I don’t, but Chaia makes it difficult to say no.”

Malka tittered. “She has that effect.” Her mood lightened, perhaps due to the wine in her veins or the sweetness on her tongue from the honey-fried cakes. She leaned in close to be heard over the music. “It’s second nature to any Yahad. Come, I will show you.”

Malka led Nimrah through the movements, encouraging her to sway and shout as the song demanded.

At first, Nimrah was tentative, her eyes darting around the circle.

It made sense. The Maharal had implored the Yahad to embrace Nimrah once again.

While it made Nimrah less fearful to walk the streets without the shade of her hood, the Yahadi people were timid to accept her.

Distrust lingered. But now, among the smiles, flushed cheeks, laughter, and dancing, it didn’t matter who she was.

It emboldened Nimrah, and soon she mastered the footing. As the dance sped up, their movements quickened.

The song ended and another began, and the crowd roared as Chaia was hoisted high into the air on a wide wooden chair. Four men held the chair’s legs, and everyone broke the circle to dance around her, their hands waving in the air.

Malka was breathless from the thrill. Chaia beamed at her, and Malka blew her a kiss.

Nimrah cleared her throat, and Malka realized their hands were still entangled.

She stared at them. Nimrah’s forest green veins contrasted Malka’s pale skin, chapped from the winter.

Malka traced her thumb along one of Nimrah’s veins, smooth and cold beneath her touch.

As sense came, Malka dropped Nimrah’s hand, the music dulling in her ears as heat flooded her cheeks.

How stupid she was to let the moment linger.

To turn something joyful into a complication.

She turned away, but not quickly enough to miss Nimrah’s hand, reddened from her hold, twitch at her side.

Malka resisted the urge to flee. Even if she wanted to, the crowd bundled them together.

“So, you’ll be up on that chair soon, I imagine,” Nimrah taunted, breaking the awkward silence between them.

“What do you mean?”

Nimrah nodded toward Amnon, whose eyes were set on them warily. “I saw you two. You were close. He kissed you.”

“On the cheek,” Malka clarified. Then defeatedly added, “He wants to be married.”

“But you don’t?”

“I’m not sure what I want.”

Nimrah huffed. “Why does that not surprise me. Want another drink?”

She disappeared briefly and returned with two glasses of plum wine.

“Fine.” Malka accepted the glass. “What about you? Has a man ever caught your eye? Gotten you on your knees?”

“Not a man.”

The oily lamplight illuminated the slight bob of her neck before absconding it back into shadow. Malka drew in a quick, desirous breath.

“Not anyone—” Nimrah added hastily, casting her eyes somewhere left of Malka. “The Maharal made me with one purpose. Anything else would be a betrayal of his creation.”

It wasn’t new for Nimrah to give explanations of duty and the promises she owed the Maharal. It had been enough for Malka once. But now, with wine flushing her skin and the heady feeling of Nimrah’s closeness, she wanted more. She wanted the dark underbelly of Nimrah’s thoughts. Her desires.

Malka pressed the wine glass to her mouth and watched as Nimrah’s eyes drew to her lips.

She smirked around the rim. “I think you have already betrayed him.”

Nimrah’s jaw tightened. She threw back the rest of her wine and held the empty glass close, rolling the stem between her fingertips. Now the glass reflected the light, sending golden slits across Nimrah’s face.

She was beautiful. Not in the way Malka would find Chaia or Amnon beautiful, but like the moon brushing its glow across a thicket in the blackened night. Like evening sunlight as it slipped through stained glass and washed hazy colors on the floorboards. It hit her so suddenly, it blinded her.

Each day with Nimrah made it harder to hate her.

In Mavetéh, they had passed each other stories like the celebration koilitch on Malka’s plate, sharing pieces of themselves with one another.

Nimrah had come back for Malka in the castle when she could have easily betrayed her.

Nimrah had told her the truth of her story, not even demanding forgiveness.

“You should go easy on the wine, village girl. You’re red as a cherry.”

The slight went through as easily as the wine. “Why did you come back for me? In Valón Castle. You could have left me in Sévren’s hands and forsaken our bargain. Rooted yourself back to the Maharal instead of me.”

Nimrah shrugged, though the side of her mouth twitched. “The Maharal’s recovery needed a public declaration.”

“You could have done that and left me. Sévren was not so pleased to see you demand my return.”

“I was created to protect the Yahad. I did what I was made to do.”

“And that has gone so well for you, hasn’t it?” The surge of regret came after the retort had left her lips, leaving the words to sour the air between them.