Princess Ximena rushes in, still in her sleeping gown, bare feet slapping the tile floor. At four years old, she’s an artisan when it comes to escaping her nurses and guards.

“Good morning, Mena,” I say.

She plants her fists at her hips and peers up into my face. Her large, dark eyes are slightly crossed, and surrounded by the long lashes of her mother. Her round face and stubborn chin are framed by the wild, curling hair of her father.

She looks nothing at all like her namesake. The first Ximena was a thickset, gray-haired woman, a specially trained guardian who eventually gave her life to save the empress.

“Papá says today will make us sistews,” the princess says.

“Yes.”

“Will you come live in the nuwsewy?”

“Probably not.”

Her eyes widen with hurt.

Before I can explain that I’m a little old for the nursery, Mara says, “Maybe Red can spend the night with you once in a while.” She dabs the brush into the dye. “As a special treat to you both.”

Ximena considers this. “I s’pose,” she says, then reaches up with her arms.

Smiling, I grab the little girl and lift her into my lap. “Mena, I hope you understand that I already love you like a sister.”

The princess gives me a look that could wither the freshest fruit. “I know that.”

“Be still, both of you,” Mara says, “or this dye is going everywhere.”

I’m like a statue, but the princess has no patience for stillness, and she starts fingering the neck ribbon of my dressing gown.

Again Mara pauses. “Red, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” It comes out too fast, too brusque.

“Nervous?” she prods. “You’re not usually one for nervousness, but . . .” She gifts me with a soft smile. “This is a very big day.”

When I woke this morning, I told myself that I would maintain my composure no matter what, no matter what, but Mara wields empathy like a weapon. The understanding in her face undoes me; my cheeks grow hot and tears prick at my eyes.

I whisper, “I’ve worked for this ever since I was a little girl. All those years . . . everything I’ve learned . . . and finally, today . . .”

“Ah. I see.” Mara applies a final brushstroke to the roots of my hair. Then she reaches down for Ximena and lifts her from my lap. “Go get some breakfast, Mena,” she says. “Take one of the Royal Guards with you—no sneaking away, yes? When you’re done, I’ll help dress you for the ceremony.”

“All wight,” the princess says. Then she wags a finger at me. “Don’t be late, Wed!”

“I’ll be right on time, I promise.” I watch as she disappears behind the curtain.

After the girl is out of earshot, Mara says, “You had that dream again, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

In my dream I was running through snow, my feet icy with cold. The hunger in my belly was like a raptor clawing at my gut. I remember wind cutting my cheeks and felled branches cutting my feet and a clear sense of needing to move fast, fast, faster, but I was going nowhere, just away. There was no safe place for me. My dream self knew I would run forever, all alone.