“Thisss is the bleeder?” asked the sorcerer. She hated the way monster people hissed when they spoke the Lengua Plebeya. Like snakes hiding in the grass.

“Yes, my lord,” said Orlín.

“She is a mula.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Have you bled her before?”

Orlín hesitated. He settled on the truth. “No, my lord. This will be her first time.”

The sorcerer grunted. “I guess we’ll sssee. Come here, mule girl.”

The innkeeper shoved her forward. The sorcerer reached out with his long spider fingers and touched her cheek. His fingers were warm and dry. Bile rose in her throat.

“Sso young,” he murmured. He turned to one of his companions. “Needle,” he commanded.

His copper-haired companion rummaged around in a pack for a moment, retrieved a leather fold with ties, and set it on the table. He untied it, flipped it open, revealing sewing supplies—needles, thread, a thimble. He pulled out the very largest needle and handed it to the sorcerer, who took it gingerly.

“Give me your finger,” the sorcerer said.

If Mula refused an important customer, Orlín would beat her, then make her sleep outside, tied up in the sheep pen. Still, she was slow about lifting her hand.

“Mula, do as the lord commands, hear?” Orlín growled.

“Hear.” She lifted her forefinger toward the sorcerer. It hovered in the air before him, fragile and trembling like a baby bird.

The sorcerer grabbed her hand, shoved the needle deep into the flesh of her fingertip. Pain zinged all through her hand and up her arm.

“Now we shall see,” the sorcerer said. He angled her hand downward. Blood welled around the needle, which throbbed so badly it felt like her heart had departed her chest and taken up residence in her fingertip.

A single fat drop of crimson slipped down the needle and fell to the floor.

The sorcerer grabbed his staff, closed his eyes, muttered something. The gem in the staff’s tip began to glow. The tingling in Mula’s limbs became a maelstrom of sensation, like a thousand black flies were buzzing around inside her, trying to break free of her skin.

“Oh,” the sorcerer breathed. “Oh, yes. God lovesss your blood, mule girl. Yours in particular.”

His lake-water blue eyes flew open. “Look how my anima-lapis responds! It is ssso eager to do magic.” To Orlín he said, “Where did you acquire this creature?”

“From the glassblower. She has a booth in the market, if you want to speak to her.”

The sorcerer yanked the needle out of the girl’s fingertip. Two large drops of blood followed, splatting onto the stone floor. The sparkle stone flared brighter. Mula was about to see magic done, for true.

But then the sorcerer set the staff against the table and leaned back in his chair. The light in the gemstone faded. Mula remembered how to breathe.

He said, “I’ll pay you five coppers for a jar of her blood.”

“Seven coppers,” said the innkeeper.

The sorcerer frowned. “Six.”

“Done.”