Page 56 of Foul Days

“Leave a few jars open for her. The sour cabbage is her favourite.”

“What about the man in the fireplace?”

“What do you think?”

“A fireplace spirit?”

“Yes.”

“Should I feed him kindling?”

Kosara had to give it to Asen, he was a fast learner. “Good idea.” She shut her eyes again.

“Kosara!”

What now?

“Is there a toilet spirit?”

She pretended to be asleep.

* * *

A polite cough woke up Kosara. When she peeled her eyes open, the fireplace spirit stood next to her bed, wringing his furry hands. He wore a thick leather coat, black and yellow like a salamander’s skin. His beard was fiery red, and his eyes were black as coals.

“Mistress Kosara,” he said, “you’ve come home at last!”

Kosara rubbed the sleep off her eyes. “Hello, Uncle,” she greeted him, somewhat formally, like a distant relative she hadn’t seen in a while.

Just like a relative, he pinched her cheek. “You’ve grown so tall!”

Kosara hadn’t, in fact, grown any taller since the last time she’d seen him. Nevertheless, compared to his height of roughly two hand spans, maybe two and a half, she was practically a giant.

“We’ve all missed you,” the spirit said. “The house has been very quiet those last few days since we awoke. Of course, Mistress Nevena is still here, but she’s not … hmm, what she used to be.”

“No.” Kosara sighed deeply. “No, she’s not.”

The spirit fished out a long-stemmed pipe from his pocket and lit it, inhaling deeply. The room filled with the smell of burning: not tobacco, but wood, covered in moss and thick with resin.

“I’ve been wondering,” the spirit said, “you’ve always had excellent taste…” He lifted two neckties in the air. One was purple, with large, orange sunflowers, and the other—bright red, with golden stars.

Kosara recognised both of them as having belonged to her father. She hesitated. “Well, the purple one is nice, but the red one is so festive.…”

“The red one,” the spirit said. “You’re right. The red one.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“The feast, of course!” And then he disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like burning pine.

The feast. Kosara shuddered. She’d forgotten all about it—buried it deep in her mind, like an ugly dress shoved in the back of the wardrobe. Three days of drinking, eating, dancing, and more drinking at the Zmey’s palace. The monsters’ annual last hurrah before the break of dawn on Saint Yordan’s Day.

Now, Kosara remembered it clearly, as if it hadn’t been seven years. The too-tight dress she’d squeezed herself in, pinching at her waist. The heavy perfumes, the candles dripping wax, the strong alcohol the Zmey had kept pushing in her hands. His voice whispering in her ear—back then, it had been sweet promises, not threats.

Just thinking about the feast sent shivers down her spine. If it wasn’t for Vila, she would have never left it.

Kosara shut her eyes hard and tried to sleep, but the house was too noisy. The spirits knocked things over, clanked with pots and pans, splashed in the bathroom puddles. The branches of the nearby horse chestnut tree lashed at the windows, sending conkers tumbling down onto the pavement.

Her bedroom door opened again. This time, the kitchen spirit stood at the threshold. Colourful stains covered her apron: the rusty red of tomato puree, the bright pink of strawberry juice, the dark yellow of mustard. Her hair fell down almost to the floor, tied in a thick braid, golden brown like ripe wheat.

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