“You still plan to leave?” Orlín says, wiping his palm on his stained apron.
I hesitate. Maybe the danger is past, and we can sleep easy. But no, we have just made a very public display of wealth. Best to camp outside the village and eat nothing that hasn’t been prepared by our own hands.
“We’ll be back in the morning. I’ll give you three silvers now to board the girl tonight and ensure her safety, the rest tomorrow when we collect her unharmed.”
He nods agreement, and as Belén fishes some coins from a small purse, I look down at my new slave.
Mula is still on the floor, her skinny, bruised legs sprawled out. She clutches the leg of the bench as if her life depends on it, and her eerie, golden gaze is fixed on me. “You bought me,” she whispers. “You bought me.”
The protest dies on my lips before fully formed. I’ve no intention of making this girl slave for me, but it would be unwise to say so aloud. I’ll explain later, when we’re on the road. Oh, God, what am I going to do with a little girl?
I turn toward the door, gesturing for the others to follow. We’re nearly free of this stifling place, and I prepare to breathe deep of open air and safety when I hear Mula shout, “Did you see that? A lady bought me! I’m going to be the slave of a fine lady!”
We collect our horses from the ostler and lead them to the village outskirts. It’s dark and cool, the stars so bright that the sky seems like a tapestry woven of night bloomers. This high in the mountains, the trees are sparse and stunted, but we find a group of pines thriving in the shade of a granite cliff and make camp among them. I eye the cliff gratefully as we flip out our bedrolls. It’s one less approach to guard.
Belén tends to the horses, and Storm settles down to pray. No one speaks. Mara’s features are set stubbornly, as if she expects a scolding. She deserves one, and I have to give it to her. My stomach roils with the sudden understanding that I cannot be both queen and friend to her in this moment.
“Mara,” I say.
She is shifting through her pack for something, and she looks up at me, her eyes narrowed.
“I understand why you intervened on Mula’s behalf,” I tell her. “But—”
“No,” she whispers. “You really don’t.”
I have scars too, I want to say. And some are even carved into my flesh. But I hesitate. Because if Mara told me she knew exactly how I felt, I wouldn’t believe her either.
“Fine. I don’t understand. But if you endanger our purpose again by being rash and ridiculous, you will walk home to Brisadulce alone.”
“He was going to kill her!”
“I doubt it. She’s valuable property to him. Even so, it was a bad decision. She is not worth your life to me. Or Belén’s or Storm’s. She’s not worth my whole kingdom.” I cringe inwardly at my callousness, but it’s not the first time I’ve had to weigh lives against each other, and it won’t be the last.
Mara stretches out on her bedroll. She puts her hands behind her head and gazes up at the night sky. I wait a moment, thinking that she will surely apologize. Or at least thank me for buying the girl. But she says nothing.
Sighing, I sit down on my own bedroll and unlace my boots.
The morning dawns bright, clear, and cold. I spend a few moments breathing, watching with wonder as the air leaves my body and turns to fog.
Storm sniffs, and his face darkens.
“Storm?”
“Winter comes early,” he says, staring off in the direction of the white-capped peaks. “Even if we’re successful in retrieving the commander, we risk getting trapped in these mountains.”
We rush to pack up, and return to the inn to find Mula waiting at the door. When she sees us, her face breaks into a smile, displaying two huge, slightly crooked front teeth.
She is as naked as the day she was born but doesn’t bother to cover herself. Her bruised body seems made up entirely of knees and elbows. A welt juts out of her forehead like newly risen dough. Bright purple stretches down from it and hugs her right eye.
“Where are your clothes?” I demand.
Her smile falters. “You didn’t buy my clothes,” she says. “Just me.”
I take a deep, calming breath. I grab the reins to Belén’s horse and say to him, “Please go settle our account with Orlín.” If I walk in there myself, I’m liable to let Mara gut him after all.
As Belén enters the inn, Mara hands Jasmine’s reins to Storm and says, “I’ll fetch our laundry. Mula can wear my extra blouse for now.”
I nod, and she hurries off. Mula and Storm stare at each other in a mutual sizing-up that for some reason amuses me.
“Are you an animagus?” she says. “You look like an animagus. But your hair is ugly.”
His green eyes flare wide. “I am a pri—”
“Storm!”
His mouth slams closed. Then: “I am nobody,” he says instead, his eyes downcast. “Nobody important.”
I study him thoughtfully. “Storm is my very good friend,” I say. “And you must mind him while you are with us.”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “I will mind perfectly. You are going to be so glad you bought me.”
Not likely. I don’t dare take her to Invierne with us. I can’t be slowed down, and I can’t worry about yet another life. Maybe someone in the next village will agree to care for her in exchange for being well paid. I sigh loudly. It will mean flashing coin and drawing attention yet again.
Mula stares as if reading my thoughts. “I can cook,” she says. “And clean. I can keep your clothes washed. You don’t have to go to a laundress ever again.”
“How old are you?” At first glance, I thought her no more than eight years old. But something about the way she talks, and her piercing golden gaze, makes me wonder if she might be older.
She just shrugs.
“How long were you with Orlín?”
“Four years.”
“And before that?”
She gestures toward the merchant booth full of sparkling glass. The Invierno woman’s back is to us as she arranges baubles on a table. “I was with her for two years. But she had a bad season and had to sell me.”
I glare at the Invierno. “And before that?”
“I don’t remember. I was too little.”
If the girl has six years of memory, she is probably nine or ten.
“Do you have a name besides Mula?”
“Sometimes Orlín calls me Rat,” she says. “He used to catch me nibbling on . . .” Her mouth freezes open. “But I don’t do that anymore! I swear it!”
“A little girl deserves a proper name,” I say.
“Like what?”
I think for a moment, but nothing comes to mind. “How about you name yourself?” I say.
She stares at me agape. “For true?”
“For true.”
“Anything?”
“Anything you want.”
She looks down at the ground and kicks a clump of grass with dirty toes. I resist the urge to pull my bedroll from my pack and wrap it around her naked body.
“A name is a grave matter,” Storm says.
She looks back and forth between us, her tiny features screwed into a mask of utter seriousness. “I will think hard about this,” she says.
“Let me know when you’ve decided.” I suppose Mula will do for now.
Belén barrels out of the inn and high-steps down the stairs, swinging his pack over his shoulder. “Where’s Mara?” he asks. “We should leave at once.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. But Orlín hardly looked at me as our money changed hands. Everything was too quiet. I have a bad feeling.”
I trust Belén’s instincts more than just about anyone’s. I hand him his reins. “Mara is fetching our laundry. Then we’ll ride hard until we’re well away.” Most of the merchants have finished setting up their booths now, and the courtyard fills with people. They eye us warily as they go about their business.
Belén stares down at Mula, frowning. “And the girl?”
“We’ll figure something out.”