Guardsman Bruno suddenly appears through the portcullis, running toward us, a huge grin spreading beneath his giant nose. “It’s a prince!” he calls out. “The empress has given birth to a prince! Alive and healthy. She has named him Alejandro Hector né Riqueza de Ventierra.”

Cheers erupt from every direction—the palace watchtower, the nearby blacksmith, the entry courtyard, the stables—as word spreads about why those bells are ringing.

Iván is the first to cry out, “Long live Prince Alejandro!” and we quickly take up the cry. Within moments, the entire palace rings with the cheer.

“Long live Prince Alejandro! Long live Prince Alejandro!”

If Elisa were here right now, nothing in the world could stop me from running to her. I want to see that baby more than anything. Kiss his tiny forehead. Tell him how glad I am that he’s here.

Then again, maybe I don’t have a right to any of these things. Maybe this joy is not mine to hold. I’m not his sister.

Gradually the cheering dies down. The monastery bells cease, though I know they’ll take up again tomorrow and probably every day for a week, as is the tradition when a royal heir is born.

As the noise subsides, an odd muffled sound turns my head. To my right, Aldo is bent over slightly. It takes me a second to understand. He is quietly weeping.

He notices me noticing him and he peers at me through teary, long-lashed eyes. He blinks. Wipes his eyes. Composes himself. “Good news, right?” he says through a timorous smile.

“The best news,” I tell him.

I reach out to pat his shoulder, but he flinches from my touch, and I let my hand drop.

20

Then

“GO on then,” Orlín said, raising his hand to strike her.

Mula flinched and darted out of the kitchen doorway, where the innkeeper had been lying in wait for her. It had been a whole day, and she still hadn’t spied out their guests’ supplies.

Reluctantly, she dragged herself back up the stairs to the dormer rooms. The scents of fresh-baked bread and leek soup and dogmeat stew followed her from the kitchen, tortured her, as she crept toward one of the doors.

She was a hollow girl, she’d known it for some time, but there was nothing like hunger to remind a body. It felt as though emptiness clawed at her, threatening to eat her away.

The two men had left in the morning, Orlín had assured her. The south-facing room should be empty. Mula put her ear to the door and listened. Nothing.

The door pushed open easily. She peeked inside. Relief flooded her, for the room was empty save for two cots and a single bulging travel pack. She closed the door silently behind her and tiptoed forward.

The pack was made of thick leather, with a flap that tied it closed. She fumbled with the knot, flipped it open.