Page 72 of The Maiden and Her Monster

EPILOGUE

SIX MONTHS LATER

Malka leaned out of her bedroom window and observed the unfurling fingers of dawn, the sun’s rays greeting her skin in a warm, tender caress. She cherished the sun’s heat after the long, brutal winter.

The gentle warmth made Malka recall Baba’s lively disposition.

How his stories of the sun would keep her company in the early mornings when she rose before the rest of her family and greeted the cusping brightness.

As Imma’s apprentice, she had delighted in the opportunity to pluck herbs from the garden before Eskravé awoke and cherished the solitude.

The sun was again her company as it splayed across her face and danced along the walls of her bedroom.

“This one is my favorite of hers.”

Malka relinquished her spot in the sun. Danya leaned against the doorframe, holding one of Hadar’s paper cuttings.

Malka’s heart clenched.

Hadar had crafted that paper cutting for Danya’s sixteenth birthday.

It had hung on the wall of their bedroom since, and the sunlight had paled the colors.

But it was still beautiful—blue, white, and gold painted along the border in swirls.

Hadar’s cuts were messy, her small hands had barely been able to wrap around the knife.

Imma had helped her trace Danya’s name and portion of the holy scrolls she was to recite at services in messy block letters at the top and bottom of the paper.

Malka remembered how much Danya had stumbled while chanting her portion, unwilling to learn the annotations written into the script.

She had been angry at Danya for not caring how she read from the holy scrolls.

Not caring if she chanted right, or dipped the consonants deep in her throat, the holy language on her tongue.

The holy scrolls were so sacred to her people, and it was a blessing to read from it.

Now, Malka understood it differently. Danya did not follow the rules as closely as Malka or Imma, but she held Yohev close in the way she worried over her family, in the quiet songs she would sing to Hadar when Malka stayed late in Imma’s workshop to heal an ailing patient.

How closed-minded Malka had been, to think there was only one way to show faith.

“I want to keep all of her paper cuttings,” Malka said, fighting a lump in her throat. “The ones we still have, anyway.”

In Ev ? en’s raid, he had ordered all Yahadi treasures worth something to be melted and sold, and the rest destroyed.

So many of Hadar’s paper cuttings had been torn or burned, ripped where the Yahadi block letters filled the page.

Most of them were nothing more than decoration, and a way to celebrate birthdays and holidays, but it did not matter if the holy language of Yohev was traced into the cutting.

Danya buried her face into the crook of Malka’s neck. Hot tears fell on her skin. Malka ran her hand through her sister’s hair, which she left loose around her shoulders.

“Do you remember when Hadar was just old enough to speak, the one story she always wanted to tell?”

Danya smiled into her neck. “Yes, I do. The Wizard and the Hare. She used to take the broom off its handle and wear it like a wig!”

Malka smiled, immersing herself into the memory. “Imma used to get so upset with her. But she’d take one look at Hadar’s round face and her sweet, innocent eyes, and she could hardly stay mad.”

Danya pulled back. “Imma sends word by the way.” She rustled inside her pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment, handing it to Malka. “I had Nimrah read it. She should be back in a month’s time. It seems like those still infected by the sickness are beginning to heal well.”

“That’s good,” Malka responded, tracing her fingers over the swirling handwriting.

The six months after Sévren’s death had been a whirlwind.

The duke had arrived in the city with a retinue of his lords while the council voted for the king’s dismissal.

Prosperity had slowly crept back into the city, Mavetéh no longer draining it of life.

The council had determined Valski unfit to rule.

Without his son, Valski had no inspiration to stay on the throne and hadn’t fought the decision.

He had moved from the New Royal Palace to his land in the Orzegali mountains, where he brought a handful of mistresses, servants, and palace staff to run his estate. Sigmund took over as they had planned.

When Malka and Danya journeyed back to Eskravé to finally assess the damage and rebuild, Imma, ever the healer, stayed to treat those recovering from the Mázág sickness.

It was the hardest thing Malka could do, leaving Imma again.

But she knew any argument would be futile.

Imma would not abandon those who needed her most.

Danya continued. “She says the markets are doing better. They are even offering imported spices again now that the economy is improving, and people are no longer hoarding. Eli?ka is healing well. Even Amnon seems to be doing better in her care, though he still cannot walk for long periods of time.”

Imma had diagnosed Amnon with a bone disease. Mavetéh’s bite had seeped into his bones and joints, making them brittle and weak.

Malka remembered her last conversation with Amnon before she departed for Eskravé.

She had held his hands in hers and declared she could not marry him.

That she didn’t know what the future held for her and Nimrah, but she couldn’t doubt there was something there.

A fire, she had described to him, unquenchable by any Kefesh magic.

“I know, Malka,” he admitted. “I saw you sneak away with her the night of Chaia’s wedding. I should have known it before. You never did look at me the way you looked at her.” He wore a dainty smile on his lips.

“I still love you, Amnon. Very much.”

“I know, Malka.”

“You are not upset with me?”

“I could never be upset with you,” he said. “Just as well.” He tapped his cane to the ground. “I need to get used to this new way of living, before I can be a good husband to anyone. I need to learn to be at peace with my body again, the way it is.”

Malka studied his cane. “Do you miss who you were, before your sickness?”

Amnon rubbed the stubble at his jaw, considering. “No,” he said finally. “Because this is who I have become. This is what it means to stay alive. To live. I will learn to live in a different way.”

Learning to live in a different way. It wasn’t so dissimilar from what they all had to do. To take their heartbreak, their loss, their grief, and learn to live again.

“Things won’t ever be the same, will they?” Danya asked, pulling Malka from her memory. Her sister’s mind had drifted to the same place.

“No,” Malka agreed. “Things will move forward. And we can only choose to ride the wave or be buried under it, lost in a past no longer there, and not as good as we made it out to be.”

Danya peered at her, and said affectionately, “You sound like Imma.”

Malka tucked a piece of hair behind Danya’s ear. “And you look like her.”

Someone cleared their throat. Nimrah was standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Chaia is looking for you both,” she said. “She’s at the shektal.”

Malka squeezed Danya’s hand. “Go, I’ll be right there.”

Danya nodded, raising her eyebrow in warning to Nimrah before she left.

Though months had passed, Malka understood her sister’s reluctance toward Nimrah. She had seen only the golem’s wreckage.

Malka traced the scar at her neck, like she had many times since it healed.

Its curves were familiar now, like any other part of her body.

She thought of how many scars Nimrah had left her with—her neck, the carving on her forearm, and perhaps worst of all, on her heart.

Each time she looked at Nimrah, she could feel the scar pulse, a dangerous wreck of a thing. And Malka wanted nothing but her.

“Is it bothering you?” Nimrah asked, worriedly gazing at Malka’s throat.

“No,” Malka said, dropping her hand. “Not any more than the last time you asked.”

The wind hummed through the window, blowing at Nimrah’s thick mane of hair.

Slowly, carefully, Nimrah settled her fingers on Malka’s scar, dragging her thumb over the sharp curve of Malka’s jaw. “I will spend eternity wishing away that scar. And I’ll spend another eternity repenting for what I did to you.”

Malka wrapped her hand around Nimrah’s. “I won’t.

This scar is a reminder of what you overcame.

What we overcame together. It shows your strength.

Even when the magic that created you was forced into undeserving hands, it did not win.

This scar is a reminder of what I’ve lost, and what gives me hope.

I wear it with pride, and I won’t have you brooding over it. ”

“Fine.” Nimrah pressed their foreheads together.

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

Nimrah sighed and pressed a brief kiss to Malka’s lips.

Malka groaned in frustration, curling her hands in Nimrah’s doublet, and pulling her close.

Nimrah chuckled, but did not give in. Instead, she wove her hand into Malka’s hair and pressed her lips to the top of her curls where the kerchief did not cover.

“I want to do this,” she said. “The Maharal made me to protect the Yahad, and it is a duty I want to uphold. In his honor, I will go.”

Nimrah would be a watchful eye as Ordobav seeped into reformation and prosperity grasped hold of the city.

As the remains of the Mázág sickness dredged from its citizens and life began once again under Sigmund’s rule.

Though the duke had promised safety for the Yahad under his reign, they knew it was far easier to speak pretty words than create swift and lasting action.

After all, there was much to gain from forgoing promises.

Already, Sigmund had received letters from the aristocracy, who were all too eager to collect on the duke’s past promises.