Mama had been content, Nomi thought. She might not have wanted things in Viridia to change. She’d loved that Serina had been chosen as a prospect. She’d been as ambitious in training Serina as any man would have been. Nomi had never seen any hint that it bothered her to have her wages paid to her husband, or her body broken down by the long hours at the factory.

Nomi didn’t know how to resolve her feelings—the anger, the resentment—with that contentment. She couldn’t judge her mother for not wanting more. But she couldn’t be happy that her mother never got to see Serina liberate an entire island of women either.

Nomi had seen Serina as a prospective Grace, and she’d seen her as a warrior.

Warrior Serina won. And now Nomi would become a warrior too.

No, not a warrior.

An assassin.

A new throng of people swept onto the platform, and suddenly, there in front of Nomi, a whole group of soldiers appeared. They surveyed the platform with narrowed eyes, and her heart plunged to her feet.

Trying not to be obvious about it, Nomi pulled the hood even further around her face and crossed her arms over her chest, bending her head as if she were napping, as Malachi had done on the coach.

Nomi’s breath came in small, silent gasps, and it took all her strength not to flee. She kept her eyes closed, to preserve the illusion of sleep and because she couldn’t bear to see them come toward her, to see her deception laid bare.

A loud voice echoed across the platform. “Well, hello there, flower. Aren’t you a vision?”

Nomi’s eyes snapped open. A soldier stood in front of her, but his attention was directed toward a girl waiting with her father a few feet away. The other soldiers whistled and made kissing noises.

“The Superior likes sweet young faces like yours,” the soldier said, approaching the girl. The child. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her body shrank at the same time, cringing toward her father.

Nomi watched in disbelief.

The girl’s father stiffened. “She’s fourteen,” he said in a low voice. “Not nearly old enough—”

The soldier made a dismissive noise. “The Superior decides who is old enough to be a Grace. It is an honor that your daughter will be considered.”

“Please,” the man said, more quietly.

The flame of Nomi’s anger flared to life. The father was begging.

The soldier put his large, heavy hand on the girl’s shoulder. “What’s your name, flower?”

She was shaking too hard to answer.

Nomi thought she might be sick. She looked around. Someone would do something. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything?

She saw a few faces turned toward the spectacle, a couple of frowns. But no one moved.

The Superior’s power is absolute.