Page 28 of Foul Days

She couldn’t tell how late it was. She’d lost track of time, hiding behind a rack of discounted silk shawls from last year’s collection, waiting for the boutique to shut. The sickly sweet scent of the perfume the fabric was drenched in made her dizzy. At one point, she almost got caught by an overzealous bargain hunter who seemed determined to go through the entire rack. The only thing that saved her was the bargain hunter’s toddler who’d started crying for ice cream.

Kosara cracked her neck again and rubbed her stiff shoulders. This had better be worth it.

She felt her way around the boutique in the darkness, bumping into velvet walls and barely crawling through narrow silk tunnels. Still a bit disoriented, she turned in what she thought was the right direction. Her body slammed into a mannequin.

Kosara reached to stop it. Too late.

It tumbled and crashed onto the floor. One of its necklaces caught on her outstretched fingers. It snapped, sending hundreds of glass beads clanking across the room.

Kosara froze. A second passed, then another. Nothing happened.

She allowed herself to exhale. Damn you, Kosara, and your clumsy sausage fingers.

She kept walking, slower and more cautious. Finally, she reached the door hidden in the back of the boutique. The key turned in the keyhole with a satisfying click.

Kosara crossed the room, careful not to touch any of the shiny display cases. She’d read enough detective novels to know leaving fingerprints was a very bad idea.

The address book was still in the same drawer, thank God. Kosara leaned closer to the glowing display case and flipped to the last page. She saw her own name there, under the heading, “interested in witches’ shadows.” “Kosara Pop” was all Bistra had managed before Ruseva had interrupted her.

Kosara read through the names, not entirely sure what she was looking for. Her heart beat faster whenever she stumbled upon the word “witch.” It soon became obvious the boutique sold a large quantity of witch’s hats, dresses and ruby-red slippers, witch’s wands and cauldrons and herb clippers, witch’s teeth—ew—and warts—double ew—and nail clippings—honestly, who’d pay money for that?

And then, just as Kosara was starting to lose hope, her eyes fell on the next entry, under yesterday’s date: Enquiry about 12 witches’ shadows. Send M to check it out. There was also a second note from the same day: Witches’ shadows still unavailable. Send M again tomorrow.

Send M where?

Kosara flicked through the notebook frantically, back and forth, searching for more clues. Come on. There had to be an address in there somewhere. Come on!

At last, in the margin of a random page, she found a hastily scribbled note: Witch sh. at 19 Tombul St. Tell M!!!

Yes! Nineteen Tombul Street. She allowed herself to do a small triumphant dance. Yes!

Now, all she had to do was to tiptoe back out of this room, crawl out of the boutique through the window, and take a trip to Tombul Street, wherever the hell that was. Her shadow was so close, she could taste the spells on her tongue. Yesss!

Kosara opened the drawer again. Just as she was about to stuff the notebook back inside, she noticed something wet and shiny glistening on her fingertips. The smell was unmistakable. Paint.

The smile froze on her face. She kneeled down and looked at the drawer more closely. Just as she’d suspected: a freshly painted series of symbols glistened on the underside of the handle. She’d somehow avoided them when she first opened the drawer, but the second time, her luck had run dry.

They weren’t like the symbols she knew from Chernograd—sharp and angular. They were elegant, flowing together seamlessly. She couldn’t read them, but she could guess their meaning. They spelled an alarm.

The notebook slid from her fingers and fell to the floor with a thud.

Kosara rushed towards the exit, her heart thumping in her ears. She’d barely made a step when the door slammed open. Ruseva stood in the door frame for a dramatic second, her cape billowing and her arm outstretched, pointing at Kosara.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the key missing?” Her voice echoed in the room. “Gentlemen!”

Ruseva stepped sideways, holding her cape so it billowed just right. Police officers in navy-blue uniforms flooded the room. One of them clicked a pair of handcuffs open.

Kosara swore under her breath. Amazingly, in all her years of barely legal dealings, she’d never been arrested before. She knew there was something she was supposed to say, something Roksana had taught her a long time ago, about lawyers and presence and speaking, or not speaking or …

Her brain felt like scrambled eggs.

“I will only speak in the presence of my lawyer,” she finally managed.

She didn’t have a lawyer. She couldn’t afford a lawyer.

The police officer with the handcuffs took that as a cue to advance towards her. His fingers clenched around her wrists. They were burning hot. So hot, she couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu, from the time she’d spent with the Zmey.

Suddenly, she felt like a trapped animal. Run! her mind shouted, but run where? She was surrounded by blue uniforms.

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