Hesitant, I approach the mirror. I raise my hand, fingers skimming over my reflection. My irises are a brilliant amber, startling and strange but no longer alarming. My gaze shifts to my fingers. I’m struck by the memory of light and heat, awe and horror. The extraordinary awareness of an entire being compressed into a tiny, brilliant sphere of light. What is this power?

“Some water if you’re thirsty,” the woman says. I drop my hand, glancing at the pitcher on the table. “And there’s food in the sitting room. I’ll be back in a bit to help you wash.”

As she leaves, I approach the glass balcony doors, framed by sheer curtains. The balcony is a fraction of the size of Kendara’s. It looks out on the remains of a garden, within sight of two guards.

From my view, Spinner’s End is smaller and less opulent than the Grand Palace. The architecture is lovely in its simplicity, the clean lines of each level accented by gracefully swooping roofs. Curiously, white patches cover sections that have decomposed, holding the castle together like bandages stretched over a wound. I hadn’t noticed that last night.

At the very border of the grounds, the gauzy white curtain that Ronin had led us through drapes the trees, separating Spinner’s End from the Dead Wood.

I’m on the second of four floors. Leaning over the rail, I memorize the arrangement of the roofs and mentally draft three different routes to the perimeter before I’m satisfied that my only true obstacle to an escape is the Dead Wood.

A cushioned sofa the color of pomegranate seeds furnishes one half of the adjoining sitting room. There’s also a table laden with several steaming platters. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I’ve had very little to eat these last few days.

“Saengo, food!” I shout into the bedroom.

Nothing quite motivates her the way the promise of good food does. She won’t admit it, but I know she misses the meals at Falcons Ridge. For me, the Company had been an improvement on the orphanage.

Without waiting for her reply, I sit before the table and serve myself a bit of everything. I pile my plate high with stuffed chicken smothered in a sweet and spicy peanut sauce, fat mushrooms and seared greens with slivered ginger, and sticky rice stained a brilliant purple.

Students at the Company only eat this well a few times a year, when we’re allowed to attend Vos Talwyn’s festivals and during every Company end-of-year celebration. During the latter, Saengo and I plant ourselves next to the refreshments and stuff our faces until our sashes feel like instruments of torture around our waists.

Saengo appears in the bedroom doorway. Her clothes are thoroughly wrinkled, and her hair defies all logic. She blinks blearily at the table. “Did I hear you say ‘food’?”