Page 18 of Foul Days

The Zmey had found her so quickly: only minutes after midnight. How convenient that the stranger had just the right thing to help her escape, for the mere price of all her magic powers. Why would the clueless foreigner ever think it was a good idea to come to Chernograd on New Year’s Eve, casually wearing a necklace of witches’ shadows?

It was obvious. Someone had ratted her out to the Zmey. Someone had placed the stranger in the right position at the right time, with the sole purpose of stealing her shadow.

She’d been lured into a trap, and she’d enthusiastically leaped headfirst into it.

Kosara swore under her breath and sank her fingernails into her palms. She’d find the rat, whoever they were. And once she did, she’d show them what a witch could do with a rabbit’s paw and a cockerel’s comb.

And then, she’d have to face the Zmey. But this time, she’d plan it better. This time, she’d make sure to consider everything that could possibly go wrong. He would never catch her unprepared again.

She was done living in fear in her own goddamned city.

And how exactly would you do that, my little powerless witch? The familiar voice sounded in her head—the one that spoke with the Zmey’s warm baritone.

I’ll figure it out, she thought. I have all the time in the world.

Do you, though? What about when the shadow sickness gets you?

Kosara shoved that voice deep within herself, deep enough that she wouldn’t have to listen to it.

She would figure it out.

4

Day Two

When Kosara arrived, the engagement party was in full swing: it raged in the house, spilled into the garden, and finally diffused somewhere up the street. The guests sat under the fig trees, smoking and laughing, keeping warm with mulled wine. She walked past a moustached man playing the accordion while a woman danced with—Kosara blinked to make sure she wasn’t imagining things—a large brown bear.

“Don’t worry!” the man shouted when he caught Kosara staring. “She’s tame! And so is the bear!”

Kosara groaned audibly and kept walking. She’d been in Belograd for nearly two days now, though, granted, she’d spent most of the first day sleeping. She still wasn’t used to the Belogradeans’ willingness to engage complete strangers in meaningless conversation.

She stood near the door, not quite finding the courage to go in. It had been years since she’d last seen Sevar. Was she really about to walk into his house and ruin one of the most important days of his life?

At a table nearby towered a pile of sweets: sesame halwa with pistachios, pumpkin pastries dripping with honey syrup, multicoloured pieces of lokum rolled in coconut flakes. Kosara ate a few, more out of nervousness than hunger. Then she stuffed a lot more in her pockets for later. She doubted she’d get the chance to con her way into a dinner again, and she also didn’t like the idea of imposing on Gizda’s hospitality. The landlady had invited her in for a meal the previous evening, and Kosara felt like she already owed her enough.

This was all new to her. Pistachios? Coconut? Those were rare treats back home. Chernograd got most of its food imported from Belograd, arriving on unmanned hot-air balloons over the Wall. There wasn’t usually room for anything besides necessities.

She’d just bitten into a piece of walnut baklava when a warm hand landed on her shoulder.

“Hi there,” said a young woman. Dimples appeared in the corners of her mouth as she smiled. “Are you one of Sevar’s friends?”

Kosara chewed as quickly as she could, the honey syrup momentarily gluing her mouth shut. Finally, she managed to swallow. “What gave it away?”

“You’re dressed as if you’re going to a funeral. Honestly, you Chernogradeans, it wouldn’t kill you to add a pop of colour!” The woman laughed. She herself was dressed entirely in pops of colour—sunflower yellows and turquoise blues and grass greens. Her wide trousers swished as she walked. “Come on in, what are you doing standing outside? I’m sure Sevar can’t wait to see you.”

Kosara forced a smile. I wouldn’t be so sure.

The living room was so cramped, Kosara wouldn’t have been able to make her way through it if it wasn’t for the woman dragging her forwards by the hand. A band played in the corner, enthusiastically pulling on guitar strings and violently slamming on drums. Kosara could barely hear them over the chatter.

Groups of people sat on silken cushions scattered all over the floor, smoking shisha and spitting clouds of scented smoke: sour cherry and dark chocolate, bitter cinnamon, and sweet vanilla. Heavy woollen rugs covered the floor and tapestries hung on the walls, trapping the smells and sounds and the heat of all those bodies inside the room. Kosara’s head spun.

How could Sevar afford all this? The rugs, the tapestries, the mahogany furniture and the silken cushions, the imported alcohol and tobacco? Evidently, he had done well for himself on this side of the Wall.

“I’m Nur, by the way.” The woman looked back at Kosara. “Sevar’s fiancée.”

Oh no, you poor thing.

“And you are…” Nur said.

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