One day in autumn, after the poplar tree had coated the inn’s roof with dry leaves and all the merlins had flown west to warmer weather, Mula felt it again. That little jump in her chest, followed by a steady buzzing in her limbs. It meant a sorcerer was approaching.

She was in the common room, gathering filthy rushes to replace them, and she paused, eyes darting around in panic. Orlín was there, serving mugs of ale from a tray; he would notice if she fled to the outhouse or into the kitchen. She was trapped.

The brass bell on the door rattled. Four people walked in, and Mula gasped. The tallest was clearly an Invierno, with long, slender limbs, eyes like emeralds, and badly dyed black hair that was growing out yellow-white at the roots. His three companions were Joyan, with hair of true black and deep brown eyes and dusky skin. One man wore an eye patch. The other two were women—one tall for a Joyan, the other shorter and generously plump.

It was the plump woman Mula couldn’t stop staring at. She was young, with shining black braids wrapping her head like a crown. She wore the clothing of desert nomads: an undyed linen shirt tucked into a utility belt, all over woolen pants and camel-hair boots. The fabric may have been undyed, but it was still the prettiest fabric Mula had ever seen, with a fine, soft weave and decorative brown stitching at the hem. The plump woman was a fancy lady, no doubt about it.

But the thing that made Mula stare, that stopped her in her tracks, was the fact that the itching in the girl’s throat, the buzzing in her limbs, the feeling of something inside her yearning to burst free—it all came from her, the short Joyan woman.

As the group settled at a table and called for stew, Mula realized she was sensing something from the Invierno too, just a little. But it was nothing like the riot of feeling inside her every time she looked at the woman with the crown of braids. She was a sorcerer, just like the White Hairs. She didn’t have an amulet around her neck or a magic staff, but she was hiding a sparkle stone somewhere. Mula would bet her evening bread crust on it.

“Mula!” Orlín yelled. “Venison stew for our guests. And be quick about it, or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”

Mula dropped the rushes. As she fled to the kitchen, she felt the strangers’ eyes boring into her back. Quickly she ladled dogmeat stew into four bowls, balanced them on her forearm, and returned to the common room.

She slipped the first three bowls onto the table with practiced ease. But as she neared the plump woman, something leaped inside her, and the fourth bowl met the table too hard and fast. Dogmeat stew sloshed over the side, onto the planking.

Mula stared at the mess in horror. “Lady,” she whispered. “Please don’t tell that I spilled.”