“Breakfast,” said the pale handmaiden, nodding at the platter.

Slowly, cautiously, Ayla crossed to the platter and lifted the white cloth. Steam rose up, warming her cheeks, along with the mouthwatering smell of—stars and skies, everything. An entire loaf of dark brown bread. A plate of salted fish, a plate of sausage. Little bowls of butter and jam, two types of jam. A big bowl of porridge, a tiny pitcher of cream, more little bowls of sugar and honey and red currants. It was like last night’s festival feast in miniature. It was enough to feed a family. It was—all for Ayla?

She turned to the handmaidens. All three of them were the same age as Ayla or maybe a couple years older. She could easily be them. Two weeks ago, she had been them.

“Will you eat too?” she asked them.

“No, miss,” said the shortest one, dark brows furrowed. “That’s for you, courtesy of the queen.”

“But I can’t eat all this.”

None of them responded. They just looked at her.

“Please,” she said. “I’m a guest of the queen. She instructed you to do what I say, didn’t she? Eat with me.”

The three of them exchanged glances. “. . . Is that an order?” said the shortest one. She had a low, husky voice, naturally melodious, a voice made for singing.

“Not if you don’t want it to be,” said Ayla. “But if you’re hungry, then yes, it is an order. I can’t finish all this, I’ll be sick. Better to end up in your bellies than the royal pig troughs.”

The third handmaiden, who had not yet said a single word, hid a smile in her sleeve.

“Very well,” said the pale one. “If it’s an order.”

This time, all three handmaidens smiled.

Once every crumb was gone and the porridge bowl scraped clean, the shortest handmaiden, who introduced herself as Maris, led Ayla to the aviary. That was about when Ayla learned an aviary was a fancy name for a big room full of birds, which seemed like the worst thing you could possibly fill a room with. Still, it was beautiful: airy, circular, with a high domed ceiling made of glass, the morning-blue sky visible far above. A series of stepping-stones led to the center of the room, where there was a stone platform with two gilded, throne-like chairs. The rest of the floor was dark, wet soil. There were plants everywhere: small twisting trees around the perimeter of the room, sprays of orange and yellow flowers, leafy vines crawling up the walls, a thick briar of wild roses. Birds flitted through the air, some ordinary as sparrows and others strange and exotic, with bright green feathers. Fat little pheasants marched around pecking at the dirt; hummingbirds dipped their long beaks into the flowers. Birdsong echoed through the wide-open space, high trills and low, raspy calls, a cacophony of song and shrieking. There were butterflies, too, and Ayla was reminded of the Made butterfly that had landed on her head last night, alerting the festival guards to her presence.