Page 61 of The Maiden and Her Monster

The Lé ? rey celebration was an ostentatious revel that soured Malka’s stomach.

Strung flowers hung across the dais of Ordobav Square, constructing a sky of red and orange above them.

Booths behind curtains revealed costumes, trinkets, and Ordobavian street food, from rolled pastries dusted with cinnamon sugar to hearty sausage dumplings and mulled wine.

Festival goers traipsed from booth to booth in red and blue clothing and masks as a tribute to Saint Celine, who was clad in a red sash and blue vestment.

Paintings and figurines of her and Prince Ev ? en moved around the square, carried by children who held them above their heads like flags.

It was hard to think that days ago, she had gone to the infirmary and seen how the sharp claws of sickness had dug its way through the city, leaving wounds of death and destitution. Yet, all signs of poverty-stricken citizens were costumed by this lavish affair.

Malka felt like a betrayer herself, tugging at the fabric of the same borrowed festive kroj Chaia had lent her for the wedding.

Nimrah’s disappearance had put them all on edge, but Malka reassured them she would come.

After the time they had spent together, Malka was sure about one thing: Nimrah would do anything to prove herself.

And this was her greatest opportunity of all.

However, it didn’t stop Malka fidgeting with her necklace, pricking the pad of her thumb with the sharp points.

Any moment, Malka expected to feel the nausea and dizziness of the rooting spell because of Nimrah’s absence. But it never came. Never would come now that she had severed the bond between them.

All that plagued her was the sense of unease at not knowing Nimrah’s whereabouts. Malka hadn’t realized how habituated she had become with the push and pull of their connection until the lack of it made her feel empty.

Her body stirred, as if the memory of the spell’s effects livened something within her. A phantom craving of what had once become normal.

You’re a fool, she thought to herself in reprimand. Betrayed by her own body.

She rolled her shoulders, drawing her mind back to the present and the revel unspooling around her.

Sévren would die today. It felt forbidden to know.

And like Abayda as he held the book of knowledge in his hands for the first time, Malka held something dangerous.

Something that would change Ordobav’s course.

Change everything she once knew. She thought of the Tannin in the Leirit river, warning of destruction. And oh, had it arrived.

Malka was no stranger to death. Nor was she a stranger to killing.

She recalled one of Imma’s sick patients, many years ago. An infection had sunk into his bloodstream, worse than Imma could manage. In his strongest moments, he had asked for her to end his suffering.

Malka, small and naive, had asked if his request was forbidden.

“ There are many forbidden things, ” Imma had explained. “ But rarely does that mean we cannot make the choice to do them anyway. If the cause is right. ”

Malka had not understood what Imma had meant. She thought Imma was disobeying Yohev by controlling a fate that wasn’t hers to control. But Malka respected Imma and watched anyway as she dropped the tincture into the man’s mouth.

He had taken one more ragged breath and stilled. The tension that had held his face in a permanent scowl had ceased. His eyes, clamped so tight they watered, softened without pain.

Imma had lifted the sheet to cover his head and called for his family to collect him.

Malka had expected the family to be angry, but they only embraced Imma.

“Thank you, for managing his pain, and for letting him be at peace.”

“ May his memory be a blessing, ” Imma had responded, a tear glistening in her eye.

Lost in the memory, Malka didn’t notice Vilém’s approach.

“Peace and light, Malka,” he greeted.

Around them, people stared at the Yahadi ring adorning his finger.

To some, it was a mark of his betrayal. Yet they kept quiet, knowing his scholarly status.

Even wearing his ring was an act of rebellion against the Church’s strict societal requirements.

Yet, Vilém had said he cared not for the blessing of the Church, only the blessing of Triorzay Himself.

“Chaia will be here soon,” he said now, adjusting the clasps at his chest.

The clasps were beautiful gold pieces shaped into roses.

While Vilém had expressed his interest in a kingdom where all religions held value, and the Church’s influence fell to the wayside, Malka couldn’t deny her suspicion.

Especially when he wore gold clasps that would have fed her family for months.

“Vilém,” Malka began. “Are you sure what’s planned for today is what you want? You gain so much from this life already, why would you want things to change?”

Vilém didn’t look hurt by her accusation, only interested that Malka had decided to ask him.

“That’s the same question Chaia drilled me with for the first few months I knew her.

But I’m a scholar—knowledge is the bedrock of how I think about the world.

As I do my work, as I engage with more and more colleagues, I wonder how many great minds have been disregarded due to prejudice.

In what world is that fair to anyone? Knowledge has been lost throughout history because of those too afraid to let others have power.

As a scholar, and as a man, I will not be responsible for making that same mistake. ”

“You and Chaia are meant for each other,” Malka said, grinning. “I could’ve plucked your reasoning straight from her mouth.”

Vilém’s attention caught on someone behind Malka. His face brightened. “I am a lucky man, Malka.”

Chaia had arrived, smiling. She, too, was dressed beautifully.

The pieces of her kroj were beautifully embroidered.

Her blouse was threaded with bright red flowers, stark against the cream linen.

Her vest shimmered as she walked, beaded with crimson and gold in patterns that emphasized the shape of her waist and the billowing of her sleeves.

The pattern matched the ribbons on her flowing apron, accentuated by the embroidered petticoats she wore beneath.

The patch sewn into her robe was ugly, but Chaia embraced it as well as anyone could.

“Ev ? en’s about to give his speech,” she said. “Have you seen Nimrah?”

Malka scrutinized the crowd, hoping she might see Nimrah’s black waves, or the gray stone which cut across her face.

“I want no memory of you,” she had told her.

Yet even without the rooting spell, Malka could not pry her from her mind, like the cloth drenched in rose oil she had pressed to her nose in the infirmary.

Even when she disposed of the cloth, the scent had been embedded into her skin and lingered for days.

“No,” Malka responded, a slight ache in the pit of her stomach.

Chaia huffed, but Malka knew she was nervous. “She better show.”

“She will,” Malka said, more to ease her own fears. If Nimrah didn’t show, if Sévren didn’t die, rescuing Imma would be impossible. “She must.”

If she didn’t, Malka would have no one to blame but herself.

She had severed the connection between them; freed Nimrah of her chains.

Malka had let her emotions get the better of her, not thinking of the consequences of the letters carved fresh around the rooting command.

The possibility that, no longer bound, Nimrah might run.

She stared at the sky, at the glimmering flags flapping like bird wings in the wind. She had to have hope. Hope that the weeks spent with Nimrah meant something. That she knew the golem well enough to make that promise to Chaia.

They would soon find out.