The Invierno had been silent until now. He leaned forward and said, “God hates liars.”

Yes, Mula agreed silently. And me most especially.

The fine lady rose from the cot and began to pace in the tiny room, turning and turning and turning, a thumbnail between her teeth. Finally she whirled, faced the eye-patch man. “We have to leave. We can’t risk staying.”

“No!” Mula said, scrambling to her feet. “He’ll say it’s my fault! He’ll . . . If you stay, you can bleed me. Right now. For free.”

“What?” said the tall woman.

Before Mula could explain, the eye-patch man grabbed her shoulder. “You’re staying right here until we’re packed up, with everything accounted for.”

“Careful, Belén,” said the tall woman. “She’s just a little girl.”

“I’m not! I’m big!” said Mula, squirming, but the eye-patch man held her fast.

They gathered and sorted and organized with incredible efficiency. Within moments, they were cloaked and booted, packs slung over their shoulders. Together, they hurried down the stairs, Mula trapped in the middle like a sausage in a blanket.

The common room had filled with villagers coming in for their evening ale. The air was wet and hot with hard-worked bodies. Two men Mula recognized from the market stood in the corner, playing their vihuelas. A few people clapped along.

Orlín wove through the crowd toward them, a wide, false grin on his face. Mula knew that grin. It meant he was on the edge of rage. He just needed a little push.

“Some ale for you all?” he asked cheerfully, but his eyes roved their full packs. “I also have dandelion wine in the cellar, which we save for our higher class of customer.”

“We’re leaving,” said the fine lady.

Mula didn’t see the blow coming, but suddenly, she was on the floor, blood leaking into her eye from a gash on her forehead. The room swam. She clutched for the nearest bench, trying to make sense of the world.

“What did you do?” Orlín advanced on her. “Were you caught stealing again, you filthy little rat—”

The music ceased. The laughter was whisked away as if by a wind. Stools scraped. Embers popped in the hearth.

“Leave her be,” said a quiet, deadly voice.

Mula peered at the innkeeper, blinking. It took a moment to parse what she was seeing: the tall woman, her lips at Orlín’s ear, her dagger at Orlín’s throat.

The plump woman in fancy braids looked on, horrified. She whispered, “Oh, Mara, what have you done?”

The knob in Orlín’s throat bobbed against the dagger. “It’s the height of rudeness,” he said calmly, “to threaten a man in his own home.”

“It’s worse to beat an innocent child,” said the tall woman named Mara.

“The mule is mine,” the innkeeper said. “I can do whatever I wish with it. Do you tell the cook to be gentle with the turnips?”

Mara pressed the dagger into his skin. Blood welled at the tip.

Mula wanted to run, as far and fast as she could. She’d seen enough common-room brawls to know it was always the littlest ones who got hurt. The weakest. The ones who tried to hide under the table. The ones who couldn’t get away because their heads were pounding and their vision was blurry.