Page 82 of Foul Days

“Oh,” she looked down, as if noticing it for the first time. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

Kosara shrugged. “Try to get some sleep. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

She returned to the sofa. The room had grown colder as the fire in the hearth was reduced to a few smouldering coals. No matter how many blankets Kosara piled on herself, her toes remained freezing.

There was another scream. She got up with a sigh and walked back to the bedroom.

Asen’s hands were clenched into fists. He shouted at Boryana again, begging her not to do something. Not to curse him?

Kosara shushed him. It did nothing.

“Asen!”

He didn’t wake up. She reached for him and held his hand in hers. His fist unclenched, and he squeezed her tightly. Finally, he stopped shouting.

After a few minutes, once he seemed to be sound asleep, Kosara tried to shake him off. He wouldn’t let go.

She sighed deeply and lay down on her side of the bed, her arm extended over the barricade of pillows. One of her hands squeezed the knife, and the other held Asen’s.

When she woke up in the morning, she was still holding his hand, but she was also snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder, his other arm draped across her.

For a second, she simply lay there: both because she didn’t want to risk waking him and making the situation awkward, and because—she had to admit—he was warm and comfortable.

Then slowly, carefully, she untangled herself and tiptoed out of the room.

Good job keeping yourself away from the cursed copper, she scolded herself. Really amazing job.

15

Day Seven

The morning was bitterly cold. The wind whipped at Kosara’s face, making her eyes run and freezing the tears onto her lashes. The pale sun reflected in the snowdrifts, blinding her.

Asen walked next to her, his teeth clicking audibly. He’d said nothing about last night: about his nightmares, or about Boryana, or even about the knife he’d found on the floor next to Kosara’s side of the bed.

Kosara, in turn, didn’t mention his curse again. They had to focus on the problem at hand—finding the compass in Algara’s grave.

“Is the graveyard far?” Asen asked. He kept blowing on his hands, trying to warm them.

“Just a few minutes away,” Kosara said. “We need to get the key from Malamir first, though. They lock the graveyard during the Foul Days. Not that it stops the upirs from getting out.” Or the stupid teenagers from sneaking in.

“Why would Malamir have a key? I thought he worked at the theatre.”

“He does, but he also helps with funerals when he needs some extra cash. He does the makeup.”

“What makeup?”

“The dead’s makeup. Before they’re buried.”

Asen wrinkled his nose, as if he found the mere mention of the dead distasteful.

“Is something wrong?” Kosara asked.

He hesitated. His fingers played with the brass buttons on the cuffs of his coat. “Talking about the dead reminded me we’re about to dig up a body, and I just … I really don’t like the idea of becoming a grave robber.”

Kosara had suspected that was the case. The Belogradeans seemed to have a peculiar aversion to disturbing the dead—probably because their dead didn’t tend to disturb the living.

---