“She’ll make for an awfully young queen.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that, too. But there’s no helping it.”

They sat quietly and waited for the darkness that would mask the smoke of their fire. Po pulled another shirt over the one he already wore. She watched his face, his familiar features, his eyes, which caught the pink light of the day’s end. She bit her lip against her worry, for she knew it would not be helpful to him.

“How will you do it?” she asked.

“As you said, most likely. We’ll talk about it when Bitterblue wakes. I expect she’ll be able to help.”

Help to plot the murder of her father. Yes, she probably would help, if she could. For such was the madness that rode the air of this kingdom as they sat in their rocky camp at the edge of the Monsean mountains.

THE LIGHT of the fire, or its crackle, or the smell of the meat sizzling above it woke Bitterblue. She came to sit with them by the flames, her blanket around her shoulders and her knife in hand.

“I’ll teach you how to use that knife,” Katsa told her, “when you’re feeling better. How to defend yourself, how to maim a man. We can use Po as a model.”

The child’s eyes flicked to Katsa’s shyly, and then she looked into her lap.

“Wonderful,” Po said. “It’s quite boring really, the way you beat me to death with your hands and feet, Katsa. It’ll be refreshing to have you coming at me with a knife.”

Bitterblue glanced at Katsa again. “Are you the better fighter?”

“Yes,” Katsa said.

“Far better,” Po said. “There’s no comparison.”

“But Po has other advantages,” Katsa said. “He’s stronger. He sees better in the dark.”

“But in a fight,” Po said, “always bet on the lady, Bitterblue. Even in the dark.”

They sat quietly, waiting for the quail to roast. Bitterblue shivered and pulled her blanket more tightly around her shoulders.

“I would like to have a Grace,” she said, “that allowed me to protect myself.”

Katsa held her breath and forced herself to wait patiently and not ask questions.

After a moment, Bitterblue said, “The king wants me.”

“What for?” Katsa asked, because she could not prevent herself.

Bitterblue didn’t answer this. She bent her chin to her chest and brought her arms in close to her sides, making herself very small. “He has a Grace,” she said. “My mother told me so. She told me he can manipulate people’s minds with his words, so that they believe whatever he says. Even if they hear it from someone else’s mouth; even if it’s a rumor he started that’s spread far beyond him. His power weakens as it spreads, but it does not disappear.” She stared unhappily at the knife in her hands. “She told me he’s the wrong kind of man to have been born with a Grace like this. He makes toys of small and weak people. He likes to cause pain.”