Page 13 of Foul Days

Her eyes flew open. She let the bright lights of Belograd rush back into her vision. The crowd pushed past her like a stream. Their loud voices grated in her ears. Their heavy perfumes made her head spin.

Someone shoved a glass of mulled wine in her hands and shouted, “Happy New Year!”

3

Day One

As Kosara pushed her way through the crowd, shiny shoes stepped on her feet and elbows draped in silk shoved her. Occasionally, a stranger grabbed her by the hand and tried to drag her into a dance. They screamed at her—congratulations for New Year’s Eve, most likely—but she couldn’t hear them over the incessant crackle and pop of the fireworks. Their faces lit up in different colours: blue, green, purple, blue again, green …

I’d rather fight an army of karakonjuls than this.

Her adrenaline was starting to recede, and all of a sudden, she was freezing. The wind cut straight through her shirt and burrowed deep into her bones. She mumbled a spell and clapped her hands, fully expecting a flame to appear between them and warm her fingers. When nothing happened, she swore under her breath.

Right. She’d traded her magic away.

Thankfully, no one spotted her clapping like a madwoman. Kosara felt terribly conspicuous already—with her black clothes, she was the only dark spot around. The local fashion was for bright colours and embroideries, beads and pearls and precious stones. She found it difficult not to stare.

How come none of these clothes ever made it over the Wall? Chernograd imported most of its fabrics from Belograd. Did the Belogradeans send over only their ugliest products on purpose?

Kosara kept walking, her neck getting sore from looking around. It was like being in a parallel version of Chernograd. The houses were built in the same style, with tall windows and pointed roofs, but rather than covered in dirt and soot, they shone, freshly plastered and brightly painted. The cobblestones were so clean they gleamed. The people seemed so happy. Which most likely tied back to the biggest difference: there were no monsters.

It felt … off. Kosara had never experienced a New Year’s Eve which didn’t end in a monster invasion.

She had to admit, it was a relief not having to check every dark corner for a lurking karakonjul, or to occasionally stop and listen for the flapping of yuda wings. However, she knew very well the peace on this side of the Wall was bought with the suffering of the people on the other. Her people.

She couldn’t enjoy it. It wasn’t right.

She had to get back home.

A gust of wind hit her, and she shivered. With a sigh, Kosara admitted to herself that finding the stranger would have to wait until tomorrow. There were more pressing matters—for starters, she had to find somewhere to sleep tonight if she didn’t want to freeze to death out in the street.

But even before that, she had to eat. The scents wafting from the stalls at every corner made her mouth water: hot chocolate and roasted chestnuts, cardamom-infused wheat, honey biscuits, sizzling koftas and shish kebabs. Some smells she didn’t recognise—of spices she’d never tasted and herbs that didn’t feature in any of her herbology books. On the counters rose mountains of colourful fruits, cakes dripping with syrup, and boiled sweets that glinted like jewels. It was a far cry from the tins of jellied meat that had awaited her back in Bayan’s pub.

She approached one stall cautiously. A piece of lamb the size of her arm rotated on a skewer in front of the coal rack. The seller stretched flatbreads over a large stone dome, occasionally wiping the sweat off her forehead with her apron.

“How much?” Kosara asked.

“Two grosh for a small one, three for a large.”

Kosara swore internally. Her stomach let out a pleading growl. A queue was forming behind her.

“Well?” the seller asked.

Kosara gave her an appraising look. Fine wrinkles framed her mouth. Late fifties or early sixties. A gold band glinted on her left ring finger. Married. One of her hands pressed at her temple, and her eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep. And unwell.

“How about instead of paying, I tell your fortune?” Kosara asked.

“How about you get out of the way of the paying clients?”

“Your vision is swimming. Your head hurts, and even the thought of food is making you sick. Which is very unfortunate since you’ve been cooking all night. Am I right?”

The seller licked her dry lips. “Maybe.”

A woman in the queue behind Kosara clapped her hands. “This is fascinating! What’s wrong with her?”

She has a migraine.

“It’s a curse,” Kosara said. “Someone’s jealous of you, and they’ve paid a witch to curse you.”

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