Page 33 of Foul Days

“I knew an old witch once,” Bakharov said in the same rushed voice. “She traded her shadow for a new liver, she lived for thirty-five years after that. She had twelve grandchildren, and twenty-four great grandchildren, and—”

The man was positively babbling.

“Well, I won’t live for thirty-five years,” Kosara interrupted him, though she wasn’t really listening. She was too busy watching her hands, blinking into shadow every couple of seconds. Tears prickled at her eyes.

She had to get out of there before she started crying in front of this copper.

“Is there anything—” he began.

“No,” Kosara said quickly. “I’ll see you in forty-eight hours.” She shuffled past him and all but ran out the door.

Though she’d tried not to meet his gaze, she could see it in his face: he knew she was lying. There was no way she’d waste time on a quarantine now. She had to move fast. If she didn’t get her magic back, she’d be worse than dead.

She’d be a shadow.

* * *

Kosara sat on her bed, a fluffy towel balanced on top of her head. Clouds of steam rolled out the open bathroom door, filling the room. She’d scrubbed herself until she was raw, but she could still smell that cheap lemon cleaner they’d used to wash the holding cell.

She had to dry her hair, put clothes on, and hurry to Tombul Street to get her shadow back—but she could do none of these things. She’d wasted most of the day now, and it was too late to make her way to Irnik’s end of the city.

In her lap, her fingers kept switching between shadow and flesh. Her borrowed hairbrush lay on the floor at her feet.

Kosara pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. There had to be something she could do about this. If she didn’t, soon the sickness would engulf her whole arm. She’d barely managed to unlock her door—she’d kept dropping the key, letting it fall to the floor with a loud clang. It was a miracle Gizda hadn’t come to check what was happening.

Kosara examined her shadowy fingertips. This was some kind of magic, it had to be. It certainly wasn’t a normal illness. And every magic, once cast, could be controlled with a lot of focus.

Kosara focused on her fingertips so hard colourful spots danced in front of her vision. Nothing happened.

She swore quietly. What else did magic need? Herbs, and chants, and runes, and magic words …

Unbidden, a song came to her mind—one her dad used to sing to her when she was little, when he helped her wash her hands before dinner. Hey, hands, hey, the two of you, one of you washes the other, and then both of you wash the face.…

Kosara’s fingertips stopped tingling. For a long second, the shadow sickness disappeared.

Then, it bloomed again, stronger and darker than before, running all the way from Kosara’s hands, up her arms, tickling her collarbone, and finally reaching for her chin.

She jumped up from the bed and ran to the bathroom, her wet feet slapping against the cold tiles. Frantically, she wiped the steam off the mirror.

Her shadow sickness had almost reached her face, its dark tentacles wrapping around her neck. All she’d done was speed the disease up.

Great job, Kosara, she thought bitterly.

But then it hit her. She looked up at the gap in the steamed surface of the mirror and down at her hands. She’d managed to move the sickness off her fingertips. It had worked.

She watched as the sickness drained off her neck, back down her arms, and finally settled over her fingertips again.

“Hey, hands,” Kosara half-sang, half-mumbled. “Hey, the two of you…”

Her sickness started creeping up her arm again.

Huh. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked. She ran a finger over the dark shadows covering her neck. It looked kind of cool, she had to admit. Like an elaborate lace collar, or a tattoo. And the best part was, she could put on a scarf, and nobody would know.

Until it reached her face, that was.

7

Day Five

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