Mula half ran, half tripped down the steps, ignoring the spilled, dirt-encrusted turnips. She ducked beneath the stair and lodged herself in a tiny space behind a mead barrel. The girl pulled her knees to her chest and held herself in the tightest, smallest ball.

Her skin continued prickling. Her blood continued to sing, making her limbs twitch and her pulse race. She squeezed her eyes tight but couldn’t keep the tears from leaking out.

Hours later, the cook found her.

“There you are, you lazy half-breed,” he said. He had yellow teeth and foul breath, and arms so skinny a girl would never guess he spent so much time tasting food. He scooted the heavy mead barrel aside and grabbed her by the ear. “Out with you. Gather up the turnips and the meat, scrape off the dirt as best you can, and get yourself up to the kitchen. Do it quickly and I won’t tell Orlín you’ve been shirking.”

But the sorcerer was still nearby. She could feel it in her bones. “I . . . can’t.”

He backhanded her across the face, so hard she crashed against the mead barrel, bruising her spine. She struggled to her feet, put a hand to her stinging cheek.

“Disobey one more time and there’ll be a whipping in it for you, and nothing but bread crust for a week. Now get to work.”

She bent to retrieve the fallen basket. She grabbed a turnip, wiped it against her sleeve to clean it, and placed it inside.

Satisfied, the cook began to climb the stairs.

“Wait,” Mula called out in a trembling voice.

The cook turned.

“Is the bad man up there? Inside the inn?”

“Huh? Oh, you mean the White Hair?”

Mula nodded.

“He’s finishing up a bowl of stew. Might stay the night.”

The girl froze. Her ears were ringing now. Her face and neck filled with heat.

“Is that why you’re shirking? You’re afraid of the White Hair?”

“Y . . . yes.”

The cook gave her a sympathetic look. “Can’t say I blame you. I try to steer clear myself. Better get used to it, though, because war is coming, mark my words. And when the White Hairs march their Invierno army west to Joya d’Arena, we’re going to see plenty of them.”

Mula gaped at him. An army of monsters led by sorcerers. Something like that could burn down the whole world.

“You’re lucky, mule girl,” the cook said. “To live here in one of the free villages. We may not have nice roads or fancy castles, and sure, trying to farm these mountain slopes is like coaxing grain from a stone, but at least we’re left alone. Better to break your back bettering your own life than to die in some fancy lord’s war, hear?”

“Hear,” Mula whispered. She wasn’t lucky, no matter what the cook said. She had never been lucky.

“Anyway, get back to work. Come up quick with a full basket, and I’ll find work for you in the kitchen, out of sight.”