“YOU ARE NOT WEARING THAT,” said Beata.
“Why not?” Marynka spun and admired herself in the mirror.
“You look ridiculous.”
“I look amazing. Just like one of the revelers in the marketplace.” Marynka laughed in delight. A great furry, hooded black cloak swept the length of her body, falling to her ankles. Beneath it she wore a man’s dusky kontusz with a wide, ornate crimson waist sash and crimson boots to the knees, the toes of which were pinched sharp as knifepoints. Her high collar was buttoned with rubies. The cut of the robes made her look incredible and, most importantly, tall. A mask on a stick completed the outfit. A monstrous thing to cover her face. Wicked horns curled back from its temples. Its gaping mouth was full of glittery teeth. She was an elegant version of a turoń. A festive Karnawał devil.
Marynka backed up so she could see the whole getup in the looking glass, nearly tripping backward over an open chest and falling into the pile of previously discarded masks and costumes that they’d spent the last hour giggling over and trying on. They’d taken rooms at the House Under the Moon. The opulent yet gloomy abode of one enterprising and widowed Pani Baranowska who was taking guests for the duration of the Karnawał. Cold crept through the cracks of the creaking baroque town house named for the finely sculpted crescent that graced its lemon-yellow facade. The air was sweet with the musty scent of moth-eaten silk.
Beata buried her face in her hands. “We’re trying to blend in. We’re here in disguise. We’re trying to sneak into a costume ball attended by a prince, by the king’s nephew. You’re not here to make a spectacle of yourself. You can’t go as a monster!”
“Pani Baranowska said Prince Józef loves dressing up and seeing everyone’s costumes. The more fun they are, the better. You can always change your costume if you’re jealous, Beatka.”
Beata ran on as if she hadn’t heard. “You may as well be going as yourself. As Midday.”
Marynka cocked her head to the side, seriously considering the idea. “You know, I could.”
“Don’t even think about it. You need to wear something normal. Something pretty. Something to catch a boy’s attention. Here, you’d look much better in something like mine.”
Marynka cast a disdainful glance at Beata’s sad excuse for a costume. She was bedecked from head to toe in white, in a western-style dress embroidered with crystals that dazzled like stars across the bodice and down the length of the flowing skirt. An exquisite wreath of starry flowers, gold straw, and ribbons haloed her fair head. Her face was hidden behind a twinkling gossamer veil.
“If you’re going as an angel, I don’t see why I can’t go as a devil.”
“I’m not an angel! I’m a star maiden.” Beata held up a glowing paper star on a stick.
Marynka rolled her eyes and turned away, studying her reflection once more, running a finger over her mask’s gruesomely sharp teeth.
“You’re not taking this seriously.” Beata waved her star, stabbing it accusingly at Marynka. “Weren’t you the one making a fuss because you couldn’t afford to lose this time? You know Midnight’s probably been sent after the prince too. Do you want to take his heart before she can? Are you even trying?”
An involuntary shiver that was half dread, half excitement ran through Marynka. “I haven’t forgotten.” Midnight was never far from her thoughts for long. It was impossible to forget the other servant fully. Marynka couldn’t remember the last time something she’d done hadn’t revolved in some way around her. She couldn’t forget her if she tried.
We haven’t had a proper contest in more than two months, Midnight. Isn’t that sad?
Marynka tugged the hood of her cloak back, stepping away from the mirror. “You say that I’m the one obsessed with her, but you’re the one who keeps bringing her up.”
Beata sputtered indignantly as Marynka started to pace. Even crammed full with richly carved furniture, the room she and Beata were sharing was bigger than the whole of the house in the Midday Forest. The night breeze tapped at the ice-rimed windows, from which, if she drew the thick curtains back, Marynka could see the snowbound Golden Castle where the costume ball would be held and the black ice-choked river that divided Warszów in two. Snow was falling thickly, shining flakes sinking into the depths of the distant water like tiny silver shipwrecks.
“Are you nervous?”
“Of course not,” Marynka scoffed. “I live for this.”
“You didn’t eat anything earlier.”
Marynka cast a glance at the heavy tray on the side table. After making the customary protest that she had no food worthy of them in the house, the elderly Pani Baranowska had proceeded to serve them up a full-course meal. Heavy and hearty food to stave off the cold—steaming barszcz and rich bigos stew and kołduny dumplings stuffed with lamb and broth. In the old woman’s opinion, they looked like they needed fattening up.
But Marynka had no appetite.
“You’ve been fidgeting like you do when you’re nervous.”
“Then stop staring at me.”
“I wasn’t—” Beata took a breath before she continued. She removed the wreath crowning her head and the twinkling veil, avoiding Marynka’s gaze. “I don’t—” she started and stopped.
Her expression was so serious that Marynka raised an eyebrow. “You don’t what?”
“I don’t like it when you lose,” said Beata at last, looking her straight in the eye. “I don’t like seeing what she does to you.”
She could’ve been referring to Midnight or Grandmother, but in this case Marynka knew she meant the latter.
Something hot and sticky tried to claw its way up her throat. “Grandmother’s only hard on me because she knows I can do better,” she said, trying and failing to keep the sharpness out of her voice. “She believes in me. She does. She wouldn’t have given me so many chances if she didn’t.” Deep down, the witch had to know she couldn’t possibly find a better servant than Marynka. No one was stronger than her save Midnight.
Beata frowned.
“And anyway, you’re here. It’s you and me together, remember? Morning and Midday against Midnight. You’ll wear that boring”—she corrected herself quickly—“beautiful costume. And you’ll look so stunning that no one in the city will be able to take their eyes off you.”
Beata sniffed looked slightly mollified. When Marynka grabbed her hands and turned her like they were dancing a mazurka, her cheeks dimpled with a reluctant smile.
“The prince won’t be able to resist you. He’ll claim your hand for the first dance and refuse to leave you till the last. He’ll lavish you with compliments all night long, and you’ll laugh and lean in close to whisper, ‘It’s a little hard to hear in here isn’t it, with all the music?’ And then you’ll draw him away, out of the ball and into the winter night or into some shadowed nook. He’ll fall at your feet bewitched.” Marynka suited the action to the word, dropping to her knees dramatically, throwing her arms around Beata’s waist. “‘Oh, loveliest of maidens, your beauty has enthralled my heart. I love you so that I cannot breathe!’” She grasped Beata’s hands and covered them with kisses. “‘I beg of you, be mine—’”
Beata turned a delicious red and shoved Marynka violently away.
Marynka fell onto her back on the floor laughing. “And that’s the moment when I leap from the shadows and rip out his heart!”
“You’re ridiculous,” Beata said crossly.
“You worry too much.” Marynka rolled to stand, picking up the poker from beside the fireplace and stoking the glowing embers. They crackled eagerly at the touch. “I’ve told you a thousand times before I can beat Midnight. You’ll see, I’m going to bring Grandmother Prince Józef’s pure heart.”
She had to.
She couldn’t lose this time.
She would make Red Jaga proud. She wouldn’t be an embarrassment. She wouldn’t disappoint her again.
This was her final chance.
She had to win at any cost.
The flames flared, dancing in response to the turmoil churning inside Marynka. But she was still cold, even standing directly before the fire. How she hated winter. If she could, she’d have slept until the season turned, buried herself deep in the earth and hibernated until the summer heat returned to wake her.
The wind whispered at the window and ate the sound of Beata stripping off her costume and crawling into bed.
Marynka very carefully removed her own costume, kicking off her red boots and smoothing the furry cloak, setting the monstrous black mask gently on top of the dresser. She wondered idly what kind of costume Zosia would have chosen if she’d still been with them. She half wished the other girl had stayed, if only for the distraction.
She joined Beata in the bed, slipping beneath the blankets and sneaking her frozen fingers down the neck of her friend’s nightgown.
Beata shrieked. “Get out! Your hands are like ice!”
“But what if I get sick from the cold, Beata? What if I die?”
“Who cares!” Beata hissed furiously, squirming away. “Mother of God, why can’t you be normal?”
“Why can’t you be fun?” Marynka retorted, wrapping her body around Beata’s for warmth the way she’d done a hundred times before, but pulling her in a little tighter now than usual. Beata was the one who’d brought up Midnight and ruined her good mood, so she would just have to deal with the consequences.
Her knees tucked into the back of Beata’s knees. Her face pressed into the crook of her neck. Morning always smelled so good, sweet as spring, like fresh leaves and branches and new green things.
“Why am I even friends with you?” Beata huffed.
“I ask myself that sometimes,” Marynka admitted, snuggling closer, letting the familiar sound of Beata’s breathing ease some of the tension knotted through her bones, lull her into something like sleep. Real sleep, of course, would be impossible, what with the shadow of Midnight hanging over them and the pressure of finally proving herself to Grandmother.
She drifted instead, floating in that place between dreams and waking, balancing on the knife’s edge of consciousness. Falling, into a shallow but pleasant fantasy, wherein Midnight discovered the prince lying dead with his chest empty while Marynka’s triumphant laughter echoed loudly through the halls. Over the years, she’d refined the imagined look of shocked defeat on Midnight’s face—the small, stunned O of her mouth, the frustrated fury in those great hollow eyes, the same fury Marynka had felt time after time, defeat after defeat—to a thing of perfection. She pictured the other servant’s clawed hands raking the walls in a rage as she cursed the clever and beautiful rival who had outdone her yet again.
Beata rolled over and pressed her lips to Marynka’s brow in a fierce kiss. “Marynka?”
“Mmm,” came the dreamy reply.
“At the ball tomorrow night? Don’t go as a monster.”