“And if Amilia hears you called her a tramp, you might lose your head.”

“That little pretender doesn’t have the piss to do anything against me.”

“Maybe,” the chief cook said, “but she’s one of them now, and I’ll bet that any noble who heard that you insulted one of their own—well, they might take it personally.”

Edith’s grin disappeared and the laughter vanished with it.

Cora returned with a tablecloth, which Ibis folded twice before wrapping around Arista’s shoulders. “I hope you have another kirtle at home, Ella. It’s gonna be cold tonight.”

Arista thanked him before heading out the scullery door. It was already dark and, just as Ibis had predicted, cold. Autumn was in full swing, and the night air shocked her wet body. The castle courtyard was nearly empty, with only a few late carters dragging their wagons out through the main gate. A page raced between the stables and the keep, hauling armloads of wood, but most of the activity that usually defined the yard was absent. She passed through the great gates, where the guards ignored her, as they had done each evening. The moment she reached the bridge and stepped beyond the protection of the keep’s walls, the full force of the wind struck her. She clenched her jaw to stifle a cry, hugged her body with fingers that were already turning red, and shivered so badly it was hard to walk.

Not skin worms. No. Not nearly bad enough.

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Barker exclaimed, rushing over as Arista entered Brisbane Alley. “What happened, child? Not that Edith Mon again?”

Arista nodded.

“What was it this time?”

“I spilled some wash water.”

Mrs. Barker shook her head and sighed. “Well, come over to the fire and try and dry off before you catch your death.”

She coaxed Arista to the communal fire pit. Brisbane Alley was literally the end of the road in Aquesta, a wretched little dirt patch behind Brickton’s Tannery where the stench from the curing hides kept away any except the most desperate. Newcomers without money, relatives, or connections settled here. The lucky ones lived huddled under canvas sheets, carts, and the wagons they had arrived in. The rest simply huddled against the tannery wall, trying to block the wind as they slept. So had Arista—that is, until the Barkers adopted her.

Brice Barker worked shouting advertisements through the city streets for seven coppers a day. All of that went to buy food to feed three children and his wife. Lynnette Barker took in what sewing work she could find. When the weather turned colder, they had offered Arista a place under their wagon. She had known them for only a few weeks, but already she loved them like her own family.