THEY THREW ZOSIA INTO A dark cell deep in the depths of Warszów’s Golden Castle. A musty room with no windows, empty save for a hard cot and iron cuffs dangling from chains secured to the wall. Torches set in sconces warded off some of the chill, the light they cast falling in long, burning blades through the thick iron bars.
Two of the king’s soldiers stood guard on the other side of those bars, a middle-aged man and a woman, wearing matching expressions of wariness. Pain throbbed from a scorched gash along Zosia’s ribs, her lip was bloody, and bruises bloomed along one pale cheek. She’d cut down the dozen soldiers who had surrounded her and come within a hairsbreadth of tearing Józef’s heart from his chest—but it was the thirteenth soldier who had been her undoing. Selim, riding out from the trees, taking her by surprise.
Holy symbols carved into the walls dampened her magic now, slowing her healing and sapping her strength, stealing her ability to summon darkness, to become Midnight. Pungent incense and blessed herbs burning in a silver brazier clouded her head.
“You have no power here,” snarled the taller of the two guards, the man. Zosia wasn’t sure if he was saying it to convince himself or because he wanted her more afraid.
She dragged a deliberate finger over the worn brick wall, tracing a sacred symbol, feeling the power of it sting through her skin. Scratching at the line with her nail as if she could wear it away, break a link in the spell work. “For now.”
A muscle ticked in the man’s jaw and his companion elbowed him in the side. He turned away, but not before making another loud remark about how Zosia’s imminent execution would add to the Karnawał fun. The prince should hold a tournament of duels, he suggested, to decide who would have the honor of throwing her onto the fire.
Zosia retreated farther into the shadows of the cell, resentment rising sharply, irritated that these weak fools would dare try to contain her, bind her, lock her up.
She wished she had a weapon. Something like the scythe Marynka carried or a secret knife tucked in her boot, a sharp pin hidden in her long silver braid.
Something.
Anything.
But Zosia had always preferred her own ink-dark claws to the unwieldy heft of a blade. She stared at her scraped palms, at her stubby human fingers. It seemed Black Jaga had been right all along. It was safer to stick to the shadows, safer not to let them catch a glimpse of what you were.
She paced the length of the cell and considered her options, blocking out the chatter and soft crunching as the guards snacked on festive crisp-fried ribbons of sugar-powdered faworki, forcing herself to focus. No windows. Only the one passage leading in and out. Black Jaga wouldn’t come for her. She had always made it clear that if anything were to happen to Zosia, if she was caught or discovered, she was on her own. And it wasn’t as if Zosia had anyone else, family, friends. The closest thing she’d ever had to a friend was Marynka, and Marynka was. . .
No one is coming to save you.
Zosia gritted her teeth. Could she strike some bargain with the prince? Make him a deal? Offer him something? Information about Black Jaga, about the monk who had tried to assassinate him. He would want to know of that, surely.
Time ticked by. How long had she been in here? Every passing moment felt like an eternity. Each minute dragging as long as an hour. But she should probably savor the minutes, for they might very well be her last.
The two middle-aged guards were eventually replaced with two younger men. One still struggling to grow a mustache, who ogled her through the bars, watching as though any moment now he expected her skin to peel back and reveal something terrible, something monstrous. His partner smacked him on the back of the head.
Zosia sank to the floor with her back against the wall and her knees drawn up to her chest. She pressed her forehead to them, listening vaguely to the men’s bickering. It wasn’t until much later when someone cleared their throat three times in a row that she even bothered to look up.
She’d expected the prince or a priest come to lay judgment on her and declare her fate. But it was Beata of all people who stood before her. Alive and in perfect health. Dressed in a spotless white kontusik and saffron underdress, her golden braids woven into a halo that circled her head. Not a hint that only days ago Zosia’s shadows had torn her from her sleigh.
Shock froze Zosia’s mouth in an O.
Dark amusement glittered in Beata’s violet eyes. “Oh, Midnight, you are in so much trouble.”
“How?” Zosia tore her eyes away from the other girl. What had happened to the guards? Were they changing shift again? It was only the two of them here alone.
Beata looked around the cell, lips pursing in distaste. “What a state you’re in. How do you plan to get out of this?” She brought both hands to the bars, gripping two as if to test their strength. “They’re planning to burn you, you know. They’re going to make a party of it. With a bonfire and fireworks and masks. What an exciting Karnawał season it’s been! They’ll be talking about this one for years. They’re just waiting for the prince to return before they start arranging things. He’s a bit busy right now. I’m afraid I had to bring him some bad news.”
Zosia narrowed her eyes.
“A message from a dear friend of ours. Marynka’s prepared a little surprise. And Józef was so thrilled that he rushed straight out of the castle to meet her. She has something very precious to him.”
Marynka.
Zosia was on her feet. She knew there was definitely something wrong with her then, that she was relieved, even invigorated, to know the person who had tried to kill her was fine. “Marynka’s all right?”
And she was nearby. And all set to take the prince’s heart.
Zosia’s nails dug red crescents into her palms. “And so you came here to gloat?”
Beata moved closer so that she could leer triumphantly down at Zosia in her cage. “Midday’s not the only one who’s longed to see you lose. Tell me, did you really think she would run away with you?”
Zosia didn’t answer.
“She’s an idiot,” Beata said. “But not that much of an idiot.” She adjusted her high collar. “And she loves her grandmother.”
“If that’s all you came here for, then you can—”
“I came”—Beata paused, staring past Zosia at the sacred symbols on the wall—“to offer you our help. Mine and Red Jaga’s. She said if I ran across you whilst delivering my message to the prince that I was to make you an offer. If you agree to become her servant, she’ll keep you safe.”
The shock was plain on Zosia’s face and in her voice. “Red Jaga wants me to be her servant?” A long-ago memory drifted back to her, of Black Jaga’s saying that Zosia was a prize her sister would envy. But she still didn’t understand. “She wants two servants?”
“No.” Beata ran the pad of her finger down one of the bars. “Just you.”
“But she has Marynka.”
“You’ll replace Marynka.”
Zosia stared. “But Marynka beat me. Matched head-to-head, she overpowered me. Her magic was stronger and now she’s all set to take the prince’s heart, so why—”
“This time,” Beata said. “She’s beaten you this time, but the rest of the time you win. You always do.”
“You underestimate her.”
“It doesn’t matter. Red Jaga doesn’t care. She wants you. It’s another point scored against her sister. And this way, she’ll release Marynka from her service. I struck my own bargain with her. If I manage to convince you and bring you to her, she’s agreed to let Marynka go free. Marynka will come live with me and White Jaga, and she’ll never have to be Midday again,” Beata finished with a small, grim smile. Her teeth gleamed sharp and white in the gloom of the cell.
Laughter bubbled up Zosia’s throat. “And you think she’ll thank you for that? Does Marynka know about this little bargain you’ve struck on her behalf?”
Color rose in Beata’s cheeks. “It—”
“Do you think that’s what she wants? To not be Midday anymore? I don’t know what fantasy you’ve spun inside your head—”
“It doesn’t matter what she wants; it’s what she needs. Marynka doesn’t know what’s good for her.” Beata’s voice had risen in response to Zosia’s laughter, rebounding off the walls and ceiling. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and gripped the bars of the cell. “Well?” she said. “Are you going to accept? I should tell you, Black Jaga knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That you lied to her. That you’ve been taking the hearts you were meant to bring her for yourself. That you blamed it all on Midday.”
Dread collected in the pit of Zosia’s stomach. Marynka must have told them. Marynka must’ve told them everything.
Beata nodded. “Red Jaga’s already sent word to the Midnight Forest. She said she could feel her sister’s fury trembling the wind even from this distance. Your grandmother isn’t pleased. Not a bit. She’s going to make an example of you. So that the Midnight after you will remember it’s not worth it to fight her.”
Zosia prayed the fear turning her blood to ice didn’t show on her face. But just the thought of it—Black Jaga knowing what she’d done. And here she was, trapped, injured, and powerless in this tower, with nowhere to run. The walls seemed to press in closer.
“If you’re lucky,” Beata said. “The prince’s soldiers might put an end to you before she arrives.”
Zosia barred her teeth.
“Or you can turn yourself over to Red Jaga and let her protect you.”
Zosia’s stomach knotted. So this was to be her fate, was it? To stay and die engulfed in heavenly fire or let herself be passed from witch to witch like some monstrous prize.
Would she never be free?
Would she always be somebody’s pet monster?
Her chest ached. Footsteps broke the tense silence stretching between them, the tread of heavy boots drawing near.
Beata’s gaze was intent, her knuckles white where they gripped the iron bars. “So? Do we have a deal?”