THE FIRST TIME MARYNKA SET out to take a heart for herself, she had just turned eighteen. The world had thawed to summer and the Kingdom of Lechija was in the midst of a violent uprising. Blood stained the earth and fed the crops, as deep a red as the tiny wild strawberries that grew beside the old house in the Midday Forest. Lindens were blooming alongside the battlefields and the hot sky trembled with the thunder of cannon fire as the country fought tooth and claw for freedom from its foreign oppressors.
A contingent of Rusja’s troops was making camp at the edge of Marynka’s domain, and the soldiers were wandering into the trees, seeking shade and solace from the sun. All day long it had plagued them, leaving them dizzy and sweating, white-lipped and wild-eyed. It had parched and peeled their skins. Tempers had flared. Fights broken out. At times men whispered that they were seeing things—a glowing pair of golden eyes, something that might have been a girl, a strange shimmer in the heat haze.
But when they spun toward it the unforgiving breeze would whirl and the vision would vanish.
Marynka smiled as they clutched talismans meant to turn away bullets, as they tried to distract themselves with gossip. With talk of a Lechijan prince rumored to have joined the ranks as a common soldier, who was even now fighting side by side with peasants and the son of a famous magnate while his uncle the king, keen to have a say in things now that the rest of the kingdom had risen up, whined that he wasn’t allowed to address the Lechijan army, seemingly unaware of how unpopular he was.
The foreign soldiers’ own prince, a general in Rusja’s imperial forces, was sheltering inside his tent having complained of a racing heart and a headache.
“I know that look,” said Beata, materializing suddenly at Marynka’s elbow. They stood in the trees on the edge of the makeshift camp, two silhouettes against the backdrop of the setting sun. Marynka hadn’t even heard her friend sneak up on her. “It’s the one you wear when you’re about to do something ridiculous.”
Marynka grinned.
“You left all the other soldiers alone.”
“That’s because they were our soldiers.”
“Since when does that make a difference to you?”
It didn’t, really. Marynka was acting more out of the itching need to do something, go somewhere, fight someone, than out of any kindness of heart or patriotic feeling. She was restless. Impatient. She’d more than healed from her injuries all those long months ago, and she was tired of doing nothing but waiting at the house that had once belonged to Red Jaga but now belonged to her.
She reached up and adjusted the red kerchief she’d taken to tying over her curls. It too, had once belonged to Grandmother, and Marynka’s pulse jumped as she pinched the embroidered cloth. It was as though some part of her still wasn’t fully convinced the witch was truly gone. She still jumped at odd creaks the house made when it settled, still sometimes woke to the echo of Grandmother’s scoldings and whirled when a twig snapped suddenly.
The witch’s death had freed her, but she didn’t think she’d ever be free of the memories. Even annoying Beata or picking through all the treasures left behind in the house by long dead princes wasn’t enough to quiet her thoughts, to distract her. It wasn’t enough to wear her out. Her mind wouldn’t stop spinning. She was too full of the energy she would once have devoted to completing the witch’s impossible tasks and obsessing over Midnight.
She still did obsess over Zosia. She’d replayed their kiss a thousand times over until her lips heated just from the memory of Zosia’s mouth. She imagined Zosia in hiding as she polished the bone wreathes and the skull lanterns. She imagined her running, imagined her as she’d looked when she crossed the winter clearing. She imagined her with hearts clasped in her hands, held between her pale fingers like crisp red apples. She’d started to wonder what a prince’s heart actually tasted like. Metal? Magic? Freedom?
Traipsing through the sun-drenched trees as far as the light fell before it softened to ordinary daylight, she’d thought about just how many hearts Zosia had already taken for herself. That was what she’d been doing when she first spied Rusja’s prince-general and his soldiers, when she’d thought, Well, why not?
What was life without some kind of challenge? Marynka craved that thrill, that rush of adrenaline. She didn’t know what to do with herself when there wasn’t something to panic over or prepare for. “I’m going to eat his heart,” she declared.
Beata groaned.
“What’s the matter? Think about it, Beatka, Zosia consumed four hearts and she was fine. Her magic grew. Imagine how powerful I could become if I even the score. I bet I’ll finally be able to grow claws.”
“Why do you even want claws?”
“You say that because you already have them. You don’t understand my pain. Why are you even here, anyway? Aren’t you still running errands for White Jaga?” Marynka turned to face her friend, finally catching sight of the figure hovering behind her.
She stopped breathing.
The first thing she took in was the birch branch gripped in the boy’s hand, then his black embroidered vest. His black felt hat. Their edges seemed to melt into the lengthening shadows. His eyes, which were staring back at her with open awe, were dark as a winter night’s sky.
Beata shifted. “He says he’s—”
“Midnight,” the boy piped in a lilting voice. His straight silky hair was the color of ebony, his skin a rich brown. He was long-limbed, gangly, and couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve years old. Around the same age Marynka had been when she’d become a servant. A cold chill of fear whispered through her.
“Companion and servant to Black Jaga,” he continued. “Are you the witch of the Midday Forest? I wanted to ask you a question.”
Marynka took an unconscious step back. A twig snapped beneath her heel. A strange pressure was building within her. If Black Jaga had laid a finger on Zosia, Marynka was going to—
No. This didn’t mean anything. What did it matter if the witch had taken a new servant? It didn’t mean anything bad had happened. Zosia’s moon-bleached bones were most definitely not being used as posts to fence in the house in the Midnight Forest. There was no way that anything had happened to her. The honor of taking Zosia apart was reserved solely for Marynka. This meant nothing. Zosia had escaped. She was in hiding. She was fine.
If Marynka repeated the thought enough times she could force it to be true. Zosia was fine and Marynka would wake from this awful nightmare and Beata would say something annoying and then the real Midnight would appear and all three of them would deal with this fake impostor.
The boy opened his mouth. “The servant before me, she—”
“If you don’t shut up,” Marynka said, “I am going to burn you to ash where you stand.”
The boy swallowed audibly, the bump in his throat bobbing up and down.
“Marynka,” Beata snapped. “It’s not his fault. Just listen to him.”
Marynka did not want to listen. She’d stopped listening almost as soon as Beata said her name. Her body was on fire. Cinders and sparks danced through her veins. The gleeful thrill of teasing the soldiers was gone. The air shimmered with heat as the afternoon breeze started to rage.
Beata caught her forearm and gripped it hard. “Listen, idiot.”
“Black Jaga sent him here to ask if you’d seen Zosia because he’s been tasked with tracking her down.”
“We’re connected,” the boy cut in. “We’re made from the same magic so I can sense her presence even when she tries to hide it. Black Jaga promised me a gift if I could catch her. I’ve been searching for ages. But every time I get close, she disappears again. I managed to follow her here this time—”
“Here?” Marynka interrupted. Beata relaxed the grip she had on her forearm. The wind died down.
“I know this is the edge of the Midday Forest,” the boy said breathlessly. “I ran into Morning and she told me. She said it belonged to you now. Is it really true you used to be a servant?”
Marynka didn’t answer. Her eyes had strayed back to the soldiers’ camp. There was some commotion among all the tents and wagons. Something had spooked the already spooked troops and the horses in their picket lines.
“Oh, oh, she wouldn’t dare.”
Deepening shadows were swallowing the faint gleam of cook fires.
“I wonder if she thinks you lured them here on purpose,” said Beata. “As a kind of present. A prince-general waiting right on the doorstep of the place where you’re supposed to meet. It’s like you’ve prepared her a meal.”
“That’s my heart, Beatka! I was going to take that one.”
“I didn’t realize you were still competing.”
“Stop enjoying this.” Marynka stabbed a finger at the boy. “Look after the brat. Don’t let him escape.”
“I’m not a brat—”
“Wait, where are you—”
“You don’t think I’m going to stand here and let her take it, do you?” The wind was already stirring back into a wild, dust-filled whirlwind. There was an equally wild grin on Marynka’s face. Sparks flew from her curls. “I told you, I have to even the score. Watch me; this time I’m going to win.”