Page 110 of Foul Days

He wore one of her dad’s old suits. It didn’t fit him quite right, pulling at his shoulders. It was also about a decade behind the current trends—its lapels too wide, its buttons too large—but Kosara had the feeling monsters weren’t keeping up with the cutting edge of fashion, anyway.

He heard her approaching and turned around to face her. His eyes widened in surprise. She could swear she heard him inhale sharply. It was a bit of an overreaction to an old gown and some makeup, but it still felt good. She supposed he’d never seen her dressed up before: the last few days, she’d barely had the time to brush her hair.

She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.

The smile fell from her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but he raised his hand.

“Don’t,” he said. “Please don’t apologise. Give me a bit of space.”

Kosara shut her mouth. With a sigh, she climbed to the helm. She still had to try to control the damned ship.

They approached the island from the opposite side of the Zmey’s palace, so he wouldn’t spot them docking. It took Kosara a while to convince the ship to change direction, probably because she didn’t know the right sailing lingo.

It took her just as long to figure out how to actually dock. In the end, the ship did it for her. The anchor tumbled overboard, as if pushed by a pair of invisible hands. The ship gently glided to the beach.

The palace was just visible far in the distance, floating in and out of sight atop its rocky outcrop, thick fog curling up its towers. Since they’d docked so far away, it would take them most of the day to reach it.

Kosara felt absolutely ridiculous traipsing through the dusty rocks in a gown. She was glad she’d decided not to bother with heels, though she had to admit her dirty boots somewhat ruined the ensemble. If her makeup hadn’t been enchanted by the best herbalist in all of Chernograd, it would have melted down her face hours ago.

Asen walked a few steps ahead of her without turning back, never uttering a word. She tried to keep up with him, but the slope grew steeper. She searched for tufts of grass to hold on to. Asen ran forwards like a mountain goat.

Kosara wasn’t entirely sure what he expected her to do at this point. Now, in the light of the day, the whole thing seemed so silly. What was all the drama about, anyway? A kiss. Big deal!

People kissed for all sorts of reasons, including to wring information out of someone. When she was little, Kosara used to kiss the boys on the playground in exchange for sweets. She hadn’t even considered she was doing something immoral, until her mum caught her with pockets full of honey and walnut biscuits and screamed at her for being an “underage lady of the night.”

It wasn’t a big deal, she told herself forcefully, though there was an undeniable gnawing at the pit of her stomach. If she stopped to examine it, she suspected it would feel a lot like guilt.

Which was why she was determined not to examine it.

Because deep down, she knew that if she took a moment to unravel her feelings, she’d find two things: one, she’d crossed a line, and a witch could never admit that. Two, the reason she felt so terrible about it was because she’d grown to care about Asen, and Kosara could never admit that.

The sun had started to set when they reached a wall of white marble and an arch overgrown with ivy. Asen hesitated, finally casting a glance back at Kosara.

“The Gardens of the Zmey,” she said. She’d heard rumours about them—about how smelling the flowers could poison you, and how the trees were alive, their leaves sharp as daggers. “Be careful.”

Asen nodded gravely and bent to walk under the arch. Kosara followed him.

She couldn’t help but gasp. The rocks behind them were bare, except for where the occasional wind-gnarled tree had sunk its roots in the dust collected between the cracks. Here, large oaks rose, their leaves gleaming gold and ringing like bells. Blades of grass bent in the wind like thin strands of real metal. Wildflowers peeked out among them, their scent making Kosara’s head spin. The air was heavy with magic.

Kosara felt a prickling at the back of her neck. She looked up at the palace looming far above, half-expecting to see a dark silhouette in a window, or the glint of binoculars on the balcony. No one was there.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

They’d reached deep into the garden when a whooshing sounded above their heads. The crowns of the trees almost touched, like old gossips leaning to whisper in each other’s ears, and in the thin line of sky between them, something flashed and then disappeared. The branches shook. A couple of leaves fell heavy at Kosara’s feet.

“Wait,” she said. Asen raised his eyebrows but asked nothing.

Kosara held onto a low-hanging branch and pulled herself up through the thick crown of leaves. The wood beneath her fingers was smooth and cold, more metal than bark.

She reached the top and popped her head out. The evening air was cool on her face, and the smell of flowers grew less suffocating. Hundreds of lights dashed across the sky. They all came from Chernograd and flew towards the palace, the thin threads of moon yarns extending behind them.

Kosara ducked inside the tree’s canopy so one of the lights wouldn’t crash into her. It turned out to be a lantern, hanging from the handle of a flying broom. Three old women rode it, their skirts fluttering in the wind and revealing their striped socks. Golden leaves glinted in their messy hair. Their giggles echoed in the distance.

Kosara followed them with her eyes until they disappeared into the palace gate.

“What was that?” Asen finally broke his silence.

“A flying broom,” Kosara replied.

---