We do as ordered. All eyes are on us, and the sergeant looks us over carefully, from the tops of our heads all the way down to the toes of our boots. He frowns, peering closer at me. “Recruit Red, I think you have something in your hair.”

Suddenly everyone in the room is staring at me. Of its own accord, my hand moves toward my head. Maybe food got stuck somewhere. Maybe someone put something in my hair as a joke. Maybe—

“Oh.” The sergeant recoils from me as if startled. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Someone behind me chuckles. I let my hand fall to my side. I keep my face neutral, my breathing calm, even as sure knowledge sets in: My magic mark is showing again. And I have no dye left for covering it up.

To everyone else, the sergeant says, “Don’t worry about being overlooked this time. Plenty of opportunities await, and everyone will get a chance.” He gestures for Iván and me to follow him.

As I’m leaving the table, I quickly lean down and say to Aldo, “Can you run the class tonight?”

“Of course. Have fun.” His words are cheery, but his gaze is not. The others stare at us with a mix of wonder and envy. Some of them are ogling my hairline.

Iván and I follow Sergeant DeLuca from the barracks. My face feels hot, and I resist the urge to finger my hair for the telltale change in texture that indicates it’s growing out a soft, magical white.

I force myself to put it from my mind. We have more important things to worry about tonight, because this is what we’ve been waiting for. Rosario must have specifically requested Iván and me.

Somehow, tonight, Rosario plans to speak with us. Maybe he’ll get us alone. Or perhaps he’ll disguise his message in casual table conversation. Iván and I will have to be careful—and alert to the prince’s cues.

The sergeant leads us through a series of corridors, past the royal apartments where I used to live, beyond the monastery, into the oldest wing of the palace. This giant, sprawling edifice is more like a small city. It was quilted together over centuries, and it shows in the way the walls change from sandstone to river rock and finally to crumbling adobe that the palace architects despair of ever keeping properly patched. Naturally, this area of deferred maintenance is where the Invierno ambassador and his staff are housed.

Tall double doors of polished mahogany mark the entrance to the ambassador’s quarters. An Invierno seneschal stands before them, tall, pale, and lithe, with shining hair the golden brown of sun-kissed wheat fields.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” the Invierno says, in the lilt of one who was raised to speak the Lengua Classica.

Iván tenses in the space beside me. I can almost feel heat coming off his skin.

“These two recruits will be attending the prince tonight,” DeLuca says. “I’m to deliver them to the Guard in charge.”