The Lights of Prague

PRAGUE, 1868

Dark water reflected the line of gas lamps along the path, the rippling lights echoing the stars stretching overhead. Fog twisted around the lamps behind Domek, the fire inside illuminating the mist like streams of smoke. The Old Town was quiet at this hour. Buildings were cramped and towering along the river, looking as though they might tip forward if not for their brothers holding them in place. Ahead, Charles Bridge arched over the Vltava toward the castle. After the recent storm, the river was swollen and heavy.

Domek nudged the next lever with the end of his pole, and a stream of gas flowed into the lamp. Flipping the pole, he used a match and red phosphorus block to strike the wad of cotton aflame and lifted the fire to the open glass casing.

He could tell the moment just before the flame touched gas, like a breath of anticipation.

After a moment of stillness, the first mantle ignited into blue flame. And then, with a series of small pops, the other three burst to life. The sudden light was a welcome visitor in the dark evening. Lingering for a moment, Domek watched the flames dance inside the glass lantern. Then, he pulled away his pole, blew out the small fire, and moved on.

Cobblestones gleamed underfoot from the rain earlier in the evening. Like a giant sated after a hearty meal, Prague after a storm was content and slow. Most of the citizens were tucked away in their homes and would stay there until dawn.

For Domek, though, the night was only beginning.

Domek stopped at the next lamppost and set the metal end of his pole to the gas valve, then froze when a scream pierced the night. High and shrill, it echoed across the river and cut off after a staccato burst.

It was what he had been waiting for. Leaving his pole behind, Domek moved forward into the darkness, feet light and swift on the uneven cobblestones. The lamps ahead were unlit, and only the light from the crescent moon overhead fell onto his path. Spying nothing along the river, he slid onto Charles Bridge where sandstone and copper statues of venerated saints lined the rails, a row of guardians black-stained and decaying from centuries of pollution. As he walked, holding his bag at his side to hide its rattle, he kept a careful watch on the looming statues. Some featured only one figure, others depicted a twisting group. In the night, any could hide a monster.

Finally, at the base of the statue of Saints Barbara, Margaret, and Elizabeth, he saw a still pair of figures intertwined in the shadows, a coarse mimicry of the statues above.

They were difficult to parse in the night, their edges blending with the darkness, but the moon caught on a woman’s pale, slack face. A man stood behind her, one arm across her bosom to keep her pressed back against him, the other cradling her head to bare her neck.

Moving silently until he was only steps away, Domek barked, Hey!

The man jerked his head toward Domek.

And it was no man.

The creature’s bloody mouth gaped like a wound across its face. It blinked at Domek, and bared fangs that glinted in the faint moonlight. These were not simply elongated canines, as on an alley cat, but a mouthful of thin, razor-sharp needles erupting from a vast jaw. It hissed, and the high, eerie sound grated on the quiet bridge. Horrible mouth smirking with triumph, it leaned back toward the woman.

Without hesitating, Domek pulled a hawthorn stake from his pocket and closed the distance between them before the pijavica could resume its meal. He grabbed the creature by its dark curly hair and jerked it away from the woman. Without its hold, she slumped to the ground, unconscious. Her neck was smeared with blood, a spreading shadow in the darkness.

Yanking the pijavica toward him, Domek aimed his stake at its heart, but the monster used the momentum to slide inside of Domek’s reach. Its reflexes were unnaturally fast, and Domek had to drop to the ground to avoid having his head taken off by a snap of the creature’s jaws.

His teacher would have told him to stab the pijavica immediately while it was distracted earlier, despite the risk to the victim.

Now it was his life on the line.

Even with his eclectic training, and even though he had at least two stone on the lithe creature, he was severely outmatched by a freshly fed pijavica. Without the element of surprise, his only advantage was that he understood what he faced. He knew the monster’s many strengths, and its few weaknesses.

He dodged another swipe but caught a glancing fist to his ribs. It knocked him back against the stone railing. He tumbled to the ground, palms scraping against the stones. He panted, fighting for breath. The pijavica crouched over his chest, grinning with bloody teeth. You shouldn’t have interrupted me, the monster said, teasing its claws along Domek’s throat. The sibilant words carried the stench of hot blood from its gaping mouth. Fortunately for you, I have places to be tonight, so I can’t drag this out.

Domek bucked but had no leverage against the creature. Taking a steadying breath, he twisted the stake in his hand inward along his forearm and bent his arm sharply. The carved hawthorn tip sliced through the fabric of his coat at his elbow, piercing his skin underneath.

At the smell of fresh blood, cloying and metallic on the damp air, the pijavica jerked its head sideways, pupils ballooning. It knocked the hawthorn stake from Domek’s hand, sending it clattering on the cobblestones. Domek used his other hand to grab the monster and flip them both sideways so that Domek could move again. The pijavica, still distracted by the scent of his bloodied arm, didn’t notice Domek pull out his second stake. It was slenderer than the hawthorn, made of a pale wood whittled from the trunk of a kalina bush.

Domek lunged and used both hands to ram the thin stake into the demon’s chest, aim true from years of practice. The pijavica’s eyes widened, and it fell back against the ground. They stared at each other for one brief, tense moment.

Then, the pijavica reached down to its chest and pulled out the stake, slick from the blood of its victim. Its smile was triumphant and horrible, gaping from ear to ear.

Swearing, Domek scrambled away across the cobblestones. The monster leaped after him, tackling him to the ground. Domek twisted and rammed the fallen hawthorn stake into the pijavica’s neck, feeling the sickening crunch of its spine.

There was a brief moment of suspense, like the catch of a lamp igniting, before the hawthorn did its job. One second, the monster was crouched over him, open mouth dripping venom and painted with blood. The next, it dissolved into dust, leaving its clothes to fall onto Domek’s chest.

Domek resheathed the hawthorn, bundled the abandoned clothing in his blood-smeared arms, and stood. He wavered on his feet and blinked to focus. The clothes had been expensive—made of a better material than Domek’s uniform—but torn and covered in the pijavica’s dust they were now worthless. Worse, bloodied clothing without a body would raise questions that could lead ignorant authorities his way. He shoved the bundled clothes into his fallen satchel.

Something heavy fell from the pijavica’s coat, and he fumbled to catch it before it hit the cobblestones. It felt like a small flask, just big enough for the palm of his hand, and was tightly wrapped in a dark cloth. Considering pijavice couldn’t stomach human food or drink, it was likely filled with something even more suspicious than the abandoned clothing, so, despite his distaste, Domek put it into his satchel as well.

Domek retrieved the kalina stake from where it had been abandoned, glinting dark in the moonlight. Scowling, he chucked it over the bridge’s railing, sending it spiraling toward the Vltava below.

He went over to the injured woman, who had regained her consciousness, if not her feet. He knelt and examined her wounded neck. The dark had made it seem worse than it was. Blood pricked from dozens of small points, but the fangs had not cut deep. Pijavice could bite their victims and barely leave a mark; the toxin in their teeth had a powerful anesthetic that impaired memory. If they could control themselves, a pijavica’s victim would wake up none the wiser with only a spread of needle pricks on their neck and a slight headache. However, most pijavice lacked such control, and their extended jaws could rip a throat in half in one bite. Tonight’s victim had been lucky.

Are you all right, madam? he asked.

Someone attacked me, she said. Her hand shook when she went to check her neck, but Domek intercepted it. Feeling the blood would just make her panic. He grabbed the pijavica’s shirt from his bag and wadded it into a makeshift bandage. Hold this to your neck, he instructed, setting it carefully against the wound.

Did you see where he went? she asked. Her gaze was unfocused, her mind struggling against the numbing effects of the shock and the venom.

He was gone by the time I arrived, Domek told her. Are you missing any valuables? He knew the answer before she patted down her pockets. The monster hadn’t been interested in petty cash or false jewels.

Is there somewhere I can take you? he asked.

No, no, the woman said. She allowed him to help pull her to her feet, but she stepped away without leaning on him.

There was a movement in his peripheral vision, and Domek whirled, stake in hand. There was a pale woman in the shadow of the looming tower at the base of the bridge, watching him with eyes like the night sky, the only disruption of a flawless white image.

She was floating a meter off the stone, her dress fluttering in an absent wind.

My husband can help me, said the victim, diverting his attention away from the apparition.

I can at least get you safe off the street, Domek said. He glanced back down the bridge, but the spirit was gone. Still clutching his stake, Domek focused on the other woman. You shouldn’t walk alone. You lost a lot of blood, and you were unconscious when I found you.

I’m awake now, she replied, holding the bundle of cloth tightly to her neck. I can handle these streets fine on my own. I’m not far from home.

You’re injured, Domek argued. I won’t be able to sleep unless I’m sure you’ve made it to safety.

The woman laughed, and then winced. Haven’t you heard? Nowhere is safe in this town.

There was something melancholic yet comforting about a silent library. So much knowledge sat unlearned. Books without readers were only paper.

Ora Fischerová sat on a plush, velvet-lined chair in front of a table piled with texts. By candlelight that night, she had immersed herself in a fascinating botanical treatise from a professor in Bologna in the original Italian. No doubt inspired by Charles Darwin’s book published a few years earlier, the man had taken a similar approach to the evolution of flowers. It was impressive how dull the professor had made the subject sound. If anything should have contained some inherent romance or a touch of the sentimental, it should have been flowers.

She sighed and laid the book on the table. Academics were so intent on proving that their thoughts contained only mathematics and Latin that they could squash even the most interesting subjects into tedious boxes. Despite their dull approach, she was constantly amazed by the speed with which their scientific breakthroughs changed the world before her eyes. Acquiring such knowledge was worth slogging through a professor’s written efforts to pat himself on the back.

Sometimes she wished she could spend all her time in the library, but then she could have become as dreadfully boring as the men whose work she read.

Ora was many things, but she refused to be dull.

She blew out her candles and stood, her skirts swishing loudly in the dark room. She frowned toward the windows, hesitating. The sky outside was a dark purple, already beginning to lighten to gray along the horizon. She’d been reading longer than she had thought. She had arrived well after midnight, restless after an orchestra concert and unwilling to hide in her home the rest of the night. The librarian was a friend, and would reshelf the books before the library opened for the day. He was fastidious in maintaining his illogical bibliographic system. Ora had learned it was easier to let him take on the extra work than attempting to return the books herself. By day the Charles University library would be filled with students far clumsier with the books than she.

She left the library through a service entrance, taking a staircase down, down below the city.

The tunnels beneath Prague were as much a feature of the city as its heavy fogs, cobblestone streets, and dark spires. Well before Ora’s time, the Old Town had been nearly six meters lower than today’s street level. When the regular flooding became too much for the citizens to bear, they began a century-long project to raise the city. Houses and streets were buried beneath a layer of earth, and the new city was built on top. The underground had been used for centuries as cellars and dungeons for the buildings above. The long-abandoned passages that connected Prague’s basements were a secret city for those wishing to remain out of sight. The ground, a blend of forgotten streets and the interiors of abandoned homes, was made of rounded river pebbles, uneven beneath her slippers.

The remains of the underground not absorbed into modern basements were poorly maintained and notorious for cave-ins. The pale rock had withstood centuries of pressure, but nothing could last forever. There were stories of those who had been lost underground, having gotten disoriented, fallen into one of the deep, empty wells scattered throughout, or trapped behind a cave-in. However, for someone like Ora, the dark labyrinth under the city was worth the risks. Dawn would be cresting over the horizon now. Without the tunnels, Ora would have been trapped inside for half of her life.

Underground, everything was almost silent. Almost, but not entirely. The meters of dirt all around muffled the daylight world, but created an echo of anything within the tunnels. Every scratch of a rat’s foot, every exhalation from hidden men, seemed louder and closer than they were in truth.

Her townhouse was across the river, so she’d need to traverse the entire city via the tunnels. If she had realized tonight was going to include such a long trek underground, she would have dressed for the occasion. Her evening gown had been lovely for her night at the orchestra, but the bell skirt made traversing the tunnels more difficult. She wished she’d brought a change of outfit so she could spend her morning somewhere closer—and less boring—than home. Unfortunately, she couldn’t have her carriage wait for her overnight, despite the convenience. Her driver needed to sleep, even if she didn’t.

There was a scuff on the ground ahead of her, and she froze. It was pitch black in the tunnels. The nearest exit, which was a set of stairs just ahead, led to the street directly, but a tightly sealed door prevented sunlight from seeping through. Even with her eyes, it was difficult to make out shapes in the darkness at a distance.

The scuffing resolved into unmistakable footsteps.

Ora wasn’t the only one who used the tunnels. One lesson she had learned over the years was that those who spent their time underground rarely did so for the pleasure of stale air and mud. They needed the darkness.

She pressed against the side of the tunnel, wincing as she felt the slime at her back. The walls were coated in mold and damp this far below ground. Lina would have her head if she ruined another gown. She took a deep breath, and then cloaked herself in the darkness. Though she couldn’t hold it indefinitely, she would seem invisible to anyone who passed. Her nature clung to the shadows.

The approaching footsteps were erratic. At moments, the other person in the tunnel broke into a sprint, and then subsided into a meandering, confused zigzag. They moved like a leaf in a storm wind, erratic and difficult to trace.

Soon, she could make out a hunched figure in the darkness. It stopped a few yards away. I can smell you, he said softly.

Ora stiffened. Another pijavica. Humans couldn’t smell someone at that distance, especially when the scent of her powders should have been masked by the tunnel’s heavy dampness. A bubák could have detected her, but they had no physical form to scuff against the ground like that. No other creatures would lurk underground and confront one of her kind.

Are you with them? he asked. His eyes, glinting in the darkness, flickered over her hiding spot. I’m n-not going back. I-I can’t. He stuttered over his words, rushing over some and then lingering unexpectedly on others.

Uncloaking herself, Ora said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

The pijavica shuddered. "The cure hurts, he hissed. I never wanted it."

Cautiously, Ora stepped forward. I’m just moving past. She kept her voice calm and composed. Hopefully, if she designated herself as the authority in the situation, he’d let her by without lashing out. She wasn’t dressed for a fight.

I won’t go back! the pijavica snarled, and darted forward. Instead of attacking or taking the path beside her, he ducked into the side tunnel between them. He scrambled up the steps using both feet and hands to crawl toward the surface.

Wait, she called, stepping forward but stopping short of following him upward. It’s dawn! You can’t—

It was too late. At the top of the steps, the pijavica opened the door. For a split second, she glimpsed the early morning light illuminate him, and then she ducked into the shadows. She pressed herself to the wall, panting though her body did not need the air. The morning light cast a spotlight on the tunnel wall across from her, and she saw the silhouette of the man just before the door slammed shut.

Gasping, Ora peeked back up the dark stairs. Had that man just committed suicide in front of her? Even pre-dawn light was enough to slay a pijavica in moments, and he’d just locked himself out of the tunnels.

He must have been mad. It happened far too often, especially with the newly turned. The bloodlust and the restrictions, the emptiness—it all weighed on the mind until it snapped.

Ora winced when she brushed the back of her hair and felt the dampness from the walls. Frowning, she stared up the stairs to the dark door above.

In the morning, Domek sat down with a bucket of water. He scrubbed his skin clean of blood and grime, and used the rest of the water to rinse his stake. Standing by the light of the window, he examined the bruise on his ribs. It had turned a sickly yellow, stretching across his skin. Hopefully it would heal on its own. After several years in the monster-hunting business, he had seen the effects of unstopped internal bleeding, and he had neither the funds nor the time to see a surgeon.

The flat Domek shared with his roommate Anton was large enough that they each had their own room. A luxury when some of his neighbors had to fit large families in a similarly sized space. Working as a lamplighter did not pay well, but with careful spending and the extra money Domek brought in with part-time tinkering they could just afford it.

The two lamplighters lived in a large gray tenement at the edge of Nové Město, the New Town that cupped the Old like a broad hand. Only alongside the ancient roots of Prague would a neighborhood five hundred years old be considered ‘new.’ The city had been steadily expanding around the central hill for longer than memory, an ancient metropolis as eternal as the river running through it.

Domek could tell as soon as he had woken that Anton wasn’t home yet. His roommate’s snores would have been audible even if the walls hadn’t been paper-thin. Anton worked the second lamplighter shift, and often found somewhere else to pass his mornings. It was for the best—Anton would have overreacted to his injury.

Domek pulled on a shirt and then rattled around the kitchen for a quick breakfast before his busy day. Despite the pain in his side, he felt energetic. He had saved a woman last night, and—aha!—had the jar of honey his mother had brought him back from her visit to the countryside.

The fog from the night before lifted, leaving clear skies behind. The blue peeking over the orange rooftops was nearly blinding to his tired eyes, bright and vivid after days of rain. He ate the bread and honey on his way, savoring the sweet flavor as he dodged passersby and carriages on the winding streets. Prague was lively in the spring. Hooves clattered on the cobblestones, vendors called for customers, and tourists from Germany and France annoyed everyone by strolling four abreast toward the closest spa.

On Charles Bridge, the sunlight revealed hidden details. By night, the ominous statues were masked in shadow, but by day they were crowned with glints of warm gold: a cross, a crown, a sword. The metal was bright against the blackened stone. He paused by the statue of the lady Saints Barbara, Margaret, and Elizabeth. In the late morning light, there was no indication that two people had nearly died there last night.

After he had finished igniting all the lamps on his route last night, keeping an eye on the darkness of the streets around him and an ear out for any disturbances, he had patrolled the long stretch along the river until his relief appeared. The church bells across the city had just tolled one in the morning, signaling the start of the graveyard shift with a single resounding tone. In early March, the nights were just starting to balance with the days, the great scales of time equalizing for a breath after a long winter. Three months ago, darkness had sat over the city from four in the afternoon until eight in the morning, but now the city’s watchmen were able to work between the day’s two six o’clock bells.

After telling the lamplighter on the second shift about the encounter on the bridge, Domek had trekked east back home and fallen into bed with the dust of the destroyed pijavica still coating his skin.

The path to Imrich Lanik’s home was as familiar as his patrol route. As Domek crossed under the tower into the Lesser Town, or Malá Strana, he glimpsed the copper domes of St. Nicholas Church ahead, more gold glinting at the tops.

The inside of Imrich’s apartment building was like a rabbit’s warren: dark, warm, and full of unexpected branches and dozens of unseen inhabitants. The scent of boiled cabbage was heavy in the air, and children giggled behind closed doors.

Despite his age, Imrich lived on the top floor, sitting on top of the building like a hawk watching its domain. On his floor, the children were either silent or absent. Did Imrich have children or grandchildren? If so, Domek had never met them. He was unsure if the old man had even ever married.

Domek rapped on the paint-chipped door. Though he hadn’t sent Imrich a warning that he was coming, the elderly man answered the door almost immediately.

Imrich stared at him, his liver-spotted face unmoving beneath what remained of his hair, which was wispy and white as raw cotton.

Oh, it’s you, he said. His eyes ran over Domek as though assessing an undersized fish in the market before he stepped aside to let him in.

In sharp contrast to the familiar smells of cabbage and meat from the surrounding apartments, Imrich’s home was filled with the astringent tang of chemicals and metals. For Domek though, entering Imrich’s domain was the same as a child visiting a confectioner, if the store were run by an unamused authoritarian. Every inch of the small space not filled with books was covered in the detritus of Imrich’s alchemical experiments.

There were beakers and coils scattered about, filled not just with the expected liquids, but also with moss, rocks, and small animal bones.

I did not expect you back so soon. Imrich moved to sit in an armchair in between two towering stacks of books. The leather-bound columns gave the threadbare chair the gravity of a throne.

Due to Domek’s mechanical background, the leader of the lamplighters had volunteered him as an unpaid, part-time assistant to the alchemist for the last four years. Paluska paid Imrich for consultations not with money, but with the promise of passing along any interesting artifacts or creatures the lamplighters found during their work. Some people—scholars, librarians—collected knowledge for the sake of knowledge. Imrich collected knowledge for the power it might provide him. He shared his field’s eternal goal of finding immortality—though he would have settled for gold.

It was beneficial for the lamplighters to keep a man like Imrich around, but there was a reason he stayed on the outskirts of their organization. His experiments sometimes drifted close to witchcraft, and most of the lamplighters kept a healthy distance. Domek did not share his colleagues’ fear of witches, but Imrich’s prickly attitude did little to endear him.

Domek stepped closer to a machine on a table in the small open kitchen. Four glass bulbs were interlinked by metal tubing, all leading to a long copper candlestick. The candlestick held two pieces of whittled charcoal an inch apart. Is this an arc light? Domek asked. The design was distinct. When activated, the batteries would send blinding electricity sizzling between the pieces of charcoal, like contained lightning. As with all of Imrich’s experiments, there was an unexpected element. Wires trailed from the copper base, ending in a metal circlet. The shape and size… Tell me this isn’t supposed to go on someone’s head.

Are you an alchemist now?

No, but trying to connect this type of power to—

Imrich barreled over him. Then do not tell me how to run my experiments. Sit down and explain why you’re here outside our appointed time.

Domek sat. I thought you’d want to know that I tested the kalina stake last night.

The old man leaned forward, suddenly eager. And?

It didn’t work.

Are you sure? Imrich raised one wispy eyebrow. You might not have hit a fatal area.

Domek suppressed a sigh. I stabbed it through the heart. It laughed and pulled it right back out. It didn’t even flinch from the wound, and handled the stake with bare hands. Kalina is not a weakness for the demons.

Imrich hummed. Where is it? I’ll resharpen it and you can try again. You must have made a mistake. I’ve done the experiments—the properties of the wood should be the same.

I threw it away, Domek said. I can’t go onto the streets with a weapon I know doesn’t work. I couldn’t risk accidentally using it again.

Imrich’s scowl was like a thundercloud, sweeping over his face and casting it in darkness. You can’t abandon an experiment due to one failed test. Do you know how long I searched for a kalina bush with a large enough heart to create that stake? I don’t know why Paluska sent me an idiotic thug like you to help me.

The kalina doesn’t work, Domek insisted, keeping his voice low. Compared to the frail old man, Domek often felt like an oversized oaf. Lives are on the line. I would not have been the only person to die last night if I hadn’t had the hawthorn on hand.

There’s no reason why the hawthorn should be the pijavice’s only weakness. The kalina bush flowers just the same and produces its own fruit. The lamplighters are limited by the traditions of its past. We’ll never evolve as a species if we never question common knowledge. Paluska assured me that you would be a helpful assistant.

I understand that, Domek said through gritted teeth. I’m here because I agree that there’s still more for us to learn. But I can’t risk innocent people for an experiment.

Innovation requires risk, Imrich sneered. I would not have thought a lamplighter would be so cowardly.

I’ve been on the ground out there for almost ten years. People die when I make mistakes, Domek snapped. "I spend every night risking my life while you theorize, safe at home. You think I’m the coward here?"

Imrich pressed a hand to his chest. Who do you think you are? he demanded. I should have a word with Paluska. He said you were the best they had. I’m not sure I believe it.

Would Paluska take Domek’s side against the alchemist? The leader of the lamplighters was practical above all else—and with his knowledge of local history and the supernatural, Imrich was more valuable than Domek. Domek could be fired. I apologize, he said finally. It was a long night.

Come back this weekend as planned. Imrich waved a hand, dismissing Domek. I’m expecting a delivery of glass from Vienna you’ll need to carry up, and I’ll have a new stake for you to try. There are more flowering woods to test until I can find more usable kalina. This time, don’t throw it away the moment you’re met with opposition.

Domek nodded stiffly and left the old man’s flat. He closed the door gently, though he longed to slam it hard enough to knock the delicate experiments from Imrich’s tables and send them smashing onto the ground. If Domek had been the thug Imrich thought him, he would have.

Somehow, the high ground did not make him feel better.

*   *   *

One of the things Ora missed the most about mortality was sleep.

It was strange. While she’d been alive, it had seemed like an inconvenience. Having to shut down and recharge for hours every night took away from all the other things she could have been doing. Time had always felt so short during her hungry youth, and sleeping drained it away more quickly.

Now, with time stretching out endlessly in front of her, Ora just wanted to take a nap.

Some days, she pretended. Either at night while the rest of the household was boring and asleep, or during heavy golden afternoons when there was a drowsy sense of peace to the rumblings of carriages outside, Ora would lie still and watch dust float through the air.

Or times like now, when Ora simply wished for the clocks to stop.

Someone rapped against her door.

Ora did not move from her position on the chaise lounge. Come in, she called.

The door opened and her maid, Lina, stepped into her sightline. Ora was draped on the chaise, staring at the velvet curtains nailed over the library’s window. Her maid was wearing Ora’s favorite dress of hers, made of a rich orange cotton that complemented her dark Romani hair and skin beautifully. Ora, who had inherited the criminally pale skin of her German ancestors and had become nearly porcelain after centuries without sunlight, longed for such bright colors.

If you’re trying to put me in a good mood, you could have brought up some breakfast, Ora said.

Lina huffed and crossed her arms. I don’t only wear this dress to cheer you up, she said, as though Ora had not learned her tricks after watching her grow from a child. Come downstairs if you want a drink. You’ve been in here all day. Mila said you sent a note to Sokol and then locked yourself away. It’s midday and you’re still in your robe.

I’m sure it’s been no more than a few hours. You’ll wrinkle if you keep worrying all the time, Ora said. Did you see the gown?

I’ll be able to get the stain out, Lina said, waving a hand. Ora must have truly looked pitiful for Lina not to scold her. What happened? You seemed to be…happy yesterday.

I can’t have one quiet morning without you sounding the alarms?

The last time you had a quiet morning like this, you stayed in your bedroom for two weeks. The mattress was permanently dented and we had to buy out the butcher’s shop so you wouldn’t starve, Lina said briskly. I won’t be letting that happen again.

Lina, Ora said, voice cracking. I watched a pijavica kill himself this morning. The concern in Lina’s voice had shattered the shell Ora had hastily constructed overnight. Lina occupied an amorphous role in Ora’s household: paid maid, part goddaughter, and part mother hen. Ora had been there for her birth, seen her wailing and bloody taking her first