Page 56 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Malka slipped back into Chaia’s home before the sun rose.

She leaned in the doorway of the room where everyone slept: Chaia and Vilém on the bed, Danya and Amnon wrapped in cocoons of blankets on the floor near the small secondary hearth.

Nimrah was there also, her back hunched against the wall, arms crossed in her sleep.

When Malka noticed the beads of sweat on Nimrah’s brow, the hollowness of her cheek, she felt a twinge of guilt.

No doubt it was from the distance Malka had forced upon them.

She was frowning, her face as guarded asleep as it was awake. Except for their shared moment in the alleyway when Nimrah’s facade had broken. Malka had hungered for her vanished resolve; wanted to antagonize her until her mask was rubbed raw.

Maybe they would never speak of that alleyway again.

Maybe they would let it die as plants shriveled in the winter, leaves blackening beneath layers of snow.

Malka wanted that—to cover her shame and regret like packed snow on the earth.

Bury it deep until it suffocated underneath the weight of the changing season.

She should have known not to take that moment in the alleyway for herself.

She had a responsibility to her family, a responsibility to Imma.

Responsibilities she had let herself get distracted from.

But not anymore. She would not let her desire get in the way.

She would not let herself swallow Nimrah’s words, gorging until she was sick.

Shame prickled hot spikes along her neck.

She tiptoed into the room and tugged Danya into her arms, finding peace in her even breaths as she had once done with Hadar.

For so many she loved, dawn would never come.

They were left with the memory of the night suffocating them.

But Imma would have another dawn, Danya would have another dawn, and that was what she leaned into. That was what gave her hope.

The next morning, Malka drew herself from bed the same way she had the morning she ventured into Mavetéh: duty carrying her forward with two strong hands. Those hands guided her as she slipped into her clothes and shoveled a bowl of gruel into her mouth for breakfast.

Malka had kissed Danya’s forehead as she left the room, careful not to wake her.

Her sister had fidgeted through the night until she exhausted herself into sleep.

Malka knew any rest after grief was a blessing, though.

When Baba died, it had felt wrong to sleep without the telling of his stories tiring her eyes, sending her into a landscape of dreams. She would stare out the window each night instead, waiting for the sun to creep through the glass.

When Danya did wake, she walked hesitantly into the kitchen, hands hugged around herself.

“Come, Danya,” Chaia said sweetly. “Have some hot food, you must be hungry.”

There it was again. That even fortitude of her voice, even when despair curled in.

But Malka had no fire left within her to be angry at the way Chaia grieved.

She had laid it all out the night before, when Mavetéh’s thorns pricked at her skin and the shul Amichati grew from its ruins and collapsed into memory once again.

“I still can’t believe you’re alive,” Danya said. Whether the remark was aimed at Chaia or herself, Malka did not know, for Danya did not lift her gaze as she padded along the creaking floor.

More footsteps echoed and Malka tensed as Nimrah appeared. She dared not look at her.

“Malka,” Chaia started, voice hesitant as she glanced between Nimrah and Malka, as if she, too, could feel the tension stretch between them.

“Vilém sent word from the university. They brought your mother into the castle late last night. One of his colleagues was in the library when they transported her inside.”

Malka’s hand tightened around her spoon. “So, we break her out the same way we did the Maharal.”

Chaia shook her head. “Our same tricks will not work this time.”

Malka swallowed, remembering the guard whose skin had shaken loosely in the wind.

“Plus,” Chaia sighed. “She is not in the dungeon as we knew it.”

“What do you mean?” Nimrah asked.

Chaia bit her lip, eyes darting between Malka and Danya. “I don’t know if I should say.”

“Whatever it is, I have heard worse. Seen worse,” Danya said determinedly.

Malka’s heart ached. She had seen worse. She had seen her village—all that she knew—destroyed in front of her. Had seen Hadar die, and the Ozmini soldiers beat friends she had known all her life.

“Tell us,” Malka agreed.

“She is in something worse than a prison—a cell below ground where a prisoner can only stand, neither move nor sit.”

Something rang familiar about this prison Chaia described. It was where the prison guard had threatened to send Malka. And most likely would’ve, if his libido hadn’t delayed him enough for Malka to write the prayer into the wall and pelt him with stone arrowheads.

You know what we do to betrayers? The guard had said. We lower them into the ground, into a space so small, you can feel your own breath bounce off the walls.

Malka tried to keep her breathing even, for Danya’s sake if nothing else. She promised herself she wouldn’t break.

“There is one trustworthy person who might know details about this prison. Eli?ka, the laundress who told you about the secret entrance through the chapel.”

“So, we visit her again, as we did before, and find out where it is.”

“Malka… she’s ill,” Chaia said. “Vilém keeps an eye on the infirmary patients. She has caught the Mázág sickness.”

The woman had never been particularly welcoming, but Malka had seen how the sickness ravaged bodies.

Amnon was only alive because of Malka’s resolve to use Kefesh in the woods.

He still slept in the next room, and she dared not wake him, either—not only did he need the sleep, but he was grieving, too. They all were.

“The Maharal… we can get him to use Kefesh to help heal her,” Malka suggested.

Chaia shook her head. “You know Sévren is looking for any evidence to use during his trial to put him back in jail—this time permanently. He’s legally required to stay in the Yahadi Quarter. He can’t take the risk. That, and it’s illegal to use any magic on the sick.”

“Let me guess, another ordinance whispered into the king’s ear by Sévren?”

“They believe we will anger Triorzay. That the sickness is a deserved punishment and any supernatural attempt to heal them would be to defy their God.”

Malka rolled her eyes. If she could call the magic to her, she would try, anyway. As each day passed, she had less to lose. “Let me see her. You know I can’t use Kefesh anymore, but I am still a healer’s daughter,” Malka added, words heavy on her tongue.

“You must be careful,” Chaia warned. “Take Nimrah with you at least, since Vilém is working.”

Malka swallowed her dissent but could not help the way her eyes flickered to Nimrah. She waited a moment too long to respond. “Fine,” she said, voice dry. She could do without the nausea, anyway.

“Good,” said Chaia. “Nimrah, will you show Danya the clothes I left out for her?”

Nimrah nodded, and escorted Danya from the room. Malka had not told her sister about Nimrah’s rooting to the Great Oak. She didn’t know what to make of anything anymore. Even without Mavetéh, her people suffered. Died. Only at the hands of men, not monsters.

“Did something happen between you two, Malka?” Chaia asked low, drawing Malka’s attention.

Malka thought of Nimrah’s hot breath on her neck, the heat of their bodies molded together.

“No,” Malka said, too hurriedly. “What makes you say that?”

Chaia shrugged. “Something feels different between you two.”

I’m a fool for wanting you, Nimrah had said.

But Malka was the fool. She had always picked apart her desires with reason, the same way someone would pluck out pomegranate seeds with their thumb, until all that remained was an empty carcass.

With Nimrah, she had placed a seed on her tongue, and the juice had dribbled in her mouth, sweet and sticky.

She was the sweetest kind of poison—a craving that left her wanton and hungry.

“Nothing happened,” Malka said, as if it were not a lie.