“Thank you!”

The cook disappeared up the stairs.

Mula worked fast, gathering turnips and meat strips, wiping them with her clothes, picking out the most stubborn flecks of dirt. Her basket was only half-full when the cook returned. His eyes were wide, and he was breathless.

“Come now,” he said gesturing.

The girl couldn’t move. Fear rooted her to the earthen floor.

“Now!” he practically shouted. “Leave the basket. Orlín wants you right away.”

Mula forced her feet to tackle the stair steps, though it seemed like an invisible force was dragging her back into the cool safety of the cellar. No, no, not up there.

“Hurry!” the cook said, and when she was near enough, he grabbed her arm and yanked her the remaining distance.

He held her fast before the hearth, which was bright with long flames. “You’re filthy,” he said, and he smacked at the dust on her pants and wiped a spot on her cheek with a rag. “That will have to do. Now come.”

His grip on her upper arm was iron strong as he dragged her from the kitchen, into the busy common room.

Dining tables were scattered throughout, some long with benches, a few round with stools, all stained from ale and spilled stew. A stone fireplace climbed the wall at one end, with fresh-cut pinewood stacked beside it. Rushes covered the floor, sour with ale and urine, and a single window looked out over the snowy rooftops of the village.

At the long table nearest the hearth sat a group of monster people, and even their thick woolen coats and fur stoles could not disguise their tall slenderness. Their hair was a riot of color—one had black hair, just like a Joyan, another the bright copper of a late sunset, still another had hair of polished chestnut.

The sorcerer sat at the head of the table, slightly apart from the others. His eyes were the deep blue of a high mountain lake. His cloud-white hair was pulled back into a long braid that wrapped around his neck and dangled down his chest. Mula didn’t see an amulet there. Maybe it was hidden beneath his fur stole.

Then she saw the staff leaning against the table beside him, made of twisted oak. Embedded in the very top, gripped by sculpted wooden claws, was a bright blue sparkle stone. The girl loosed a single, sharp sob.

Orlín the innkeeper approached, wiping his hands on a rag. His nearly bald head shimmered with sweat. “There you are,” he said. “Come with me.”

The cook returned to the kitchen as the girl was yanked forward by the innkeeper, toward the sorcerer.

“No,” Mula said. “Please! I don’t want to go over there. I’ll do anything. I’ll clean chamber pots for a month. I’ll boil all the sheets. I’ll—”

“You’ll do whatever I tell you, Mula. I own you.”

They stopped before the table, and the sorcerer looked up from his bowl of stew. The tingling inside her was ferocious now. She hadn’t eaten all day, but maybe she would vomit anyway.