Page 67 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Back inside the clocktower, Malka kneeled close to Nimrah and ran her thumb across her stone cheek. Soon, she vowed, and hoped her promise would hold true.

The gears of the clock let out a ghastly rattle, drawing Malka’s attention.

Sévren had become unrecognizable. He was misshapen from the press of heavy metal, gears slicing through skin deep enough to free his organs.

His intestines, his stomach, all bloated from his cooling body.

So much blood. She swallowed bile and looked away for the last time before running down the spiral stairs.

In the square, Chaia cradled Vilém in her arms. Everyone was quiet around them. Even the knights had stilled, unsure of themselves after Sévren’s outburst.

Chaia’s hand was wet with Vilém’s blood as she pressed it into his chest to slow the bleeding. He raised his hand delicately to Chaia’s wrist and ran his thumb along her pulse point.

“How is he?” Malka dropped to her knees beside them.

Chaia’s hands shook and tears stained her face. She pleaded, “Save him, Malka. I can’t command Kefesh the way you do. Please save him.”

Malka pressed her fingers to his pulse. It was so weak, struggling as so many hearts had once they ended up at Imma’s workshop.

She closed her eyes and tried to call Kefesh forth as she had done with Amnon. The earth listened to her command but could not oblige it. It confirmed to her what she feared. Vilém’s wound was fatal, and not even Kefesh could bring someone back from the dead. That power was for Yohev alone.

“I’m sorry, Chaia,” Malka said, throat tight. “I’m so sorry, Vilém.”

But Vilém didn’t look surprised or disappointed. He was a scholar, an academic, and he knew he didn’t have much time left.

Chaia sobbed. “Vilém, my love. You have to live. For me. Our life together has just begun.”

He raised a shaking, blood-covered hand to Chaia’s cheek and pressed the tip of his finger into the dimple at the side of her mouth. He cracked a smile. “It’s an honor to give my heart so that yours keeps beating, Chaia.”

Chaia covered his hand with her own. She bent forward and kissed his forehead, her tears staining his skin. “We have so much planned. Things are just beginning to change!”

Vilém gently consoled his wife, whispering to her things only she could hear. “We both know anything I could do, you will do with more grace.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Chaia said between sobs, and wrapped him in her arms once again.

When his eyes finally dulled, Chaia stilled. Her hands trembled as she pressed her ear to Vilém’s chest. When she heard nothing, she screamed his name until her throat was raw.

Tears clouded Malka’s eyes once again. For Vilém, who had become a friend to her. And for Chaia, who had lost her love. They had been so close to victory. Yet loss had followed them again, like a wild dog one made the mistake of feeding. They would never be free of grief.

Malka traced her hand through Chaia’s hair to soothe her.

A few moments later, Katarina approached. Her face was pale, eyes red rimmed as she stared at Vilém.

“Malka,” she said, voice cracking before she cleared her throat.

Malka stared at her through blurry eyes.

“We found your mother. She’s safe.”

All the tension in her body dissipated. Every emotion she had buried during the last three weeks freed itself and Malka sobbed. She sobbed so hard her ribs hurt.

A light, she thought, in all this darkness.

Later that night, under Danya’s watchful eye, Malka left Imma to rest in Chaia’s kitchen, where they had set up a bed close to the oven.

She held the cloak tight around, hiding herself underneath the glow from the wash of stars.

Remnants of the Lé ? rey festival blew through the wind.

Flower petals littered the cobblestone, frames of Saint Celine left abandoned against the walls.

She slipped into the doors of the shul Bachta and climbed the spiral staircase to the attic where Nimrah had been carried to rest. As she opened the door, Malka considered her, lying in her bed, still as death.

It didn’t get easier to see her lifeless, like the stone she was made from.

To know it was Malka’s hands that had unmade her.

Perhaps it was a glimpse into an alternate time, where the Ozmini Church had kept their word and Malka handed her over to Father Bro ? ek.

But Malka knew her death then would not have been as easy—it would’ve been bloody, reminiscent of how Mavetéh ate its girls.

A Revac would look at Nimrah’s half-human, half-stone body as a challenge—creating new ways to make her suffer.

Would he have died before or after he gained his golden tooth?

She didn’t know how Kefesh would kill the destroyer of holy magic, and she was glad she hadn’t found out today.

Malka bent at Nimrah’s bedside, brushing a thumb along her cheek. It was cool under her touch, the stone rough on the pad of her finger.

She could’ve left her like this. Eternal rest.

The Maharal said it was her choice. Perhaps it was better to leave Nimrah here.

She had come to understand how true Baba’s warnings about Kefesh could be—from Mavetéh sinking its teeth into Amnon’s shoulder to Sévren’s fraught attempt to control Nimrah.

But Baba, like many, had learned his fear of it from stories spoken to him by his own grandparents.

It was only natural. Malka had feared it, too.

But she didn’t fear Kefesh now. Anything powerful held the potential to sour.

The Ozmini Church, Sévren’s desire to rule.

Even Nimrah. But as power could overripen, it could also show strength.

For Malka, Kefesh’s power meant the strength of knowing Yohev’s nearness, feeling her connection to Yahadism in her heart and the buzzing of her hands.

So, with a deep breath, Malka retrieved the chisel and rock she had stored in her pocket. She aligned the chisel on Nimrah’s forehead, where she had once erased the letter that transformed Nimrah’s truth into Nimrah’s death.

She held up the rock, felt the grooves of it between her fingers.

Something held her back, as if the moment she would press the tool into Nimrah’s forehead, the golem would unfurl from sleep as someone different—a new creation unknown to Malka.

She had to believe, had to hope. Had to lean into her strength.

She carved into the stone carefully, rock hitting the chisel in a rhythmic beat, prayer curling her lips. She let the strength of her magic comfort her as she brushed close to Yohev. Her faith wrapped around her, weightier than any woolen cloak in the cruelest Ordobavian winter.

She had questioned her faith when Hadar was murdered, when Eskravé was pillaged beyond repair.

She had doubted her own strength as she tried to draw magic in the dungeon.

But she did not question her faith or herself now.

Her belief had given her so much. Strength, hope, and the love that warmed her when she saw Chaia, Danya, Amnon, and Imma.

When she finished carving the letter, she waited with bated breath, her eyes still closed. It was silent for one moment, two, three… so long that Malka thought she had failed. But Nimrah’s fervent inhale split the quiet, raising the hairs on Malka’s forearms.

Nimrah gripped Malka tight, crushing her wrist. For a moment, Malka feared she was not the same. That she had been changed from the golem Malka had known.

Timidly, Malka opened her eyes. Confusion crossed Nimrah’s face, until the tension eased.

“Malka,” Nimrah said, her voice groggy with disuse.

She looked as alive as the Maharal had made her.

“Do you feel like yourself?” Malka asked, heart pounding as she waited for the answer.

Nimrah nodded, but Malka feared she was not telling the truth.

“Prove it,” Malka said, unable to curb her voice shaking. “Say something only the golem Nimrah would know.”

“What should I say?”

Malka pondered this. “In Chaia’s house, you told me what happened with the Yahadi boy and his death. I asked why you would tell me something so terrible.”

Nimrah searched her eyes, her throat bobbing. “And I told you I would always be the monster you hate. And that was fine, as long as you knew the truth.”

Malka’s shoulders sank in relief. She fell into Nimrah’s chest and let herself weep.