Fear shot through her like an arrow. Maybe they had forgotten about her. Or maybe it had all been a lie, and they didn’t intend to take her with them at all. Joyans are known for lying, Orlín always said.

Her legs twitched to run after them, to beg them to take her away, and she was just about to give in when the fine lady and her companions began walking toward her.

“Where are your clothes?” the lady demanded.

“You bought me,” Mula said. “You didn’t buy my clothes.”

The fine lady took a deep breath. She sent the eye-patch man into the inn to settle their agreement with Orlín.

The tall woman, Mara, said, “I’ll go fetch her something to wear,” and she hurried off.

The Invierno man stared down at the girl, and Mula stared right back. She’d once killed a man who looked very much like him.

He’d cut the false black out of his hair, and now it was close shorn and yellow-white. “Are you a . . .” She almost said “White Hair,” but then she remembered the Invierno word. “An animagus?” He had a sparkle stone too, she was almost sure of it, but it didn’t sing to her the same way as the one the fine lady was hiding. “You look like an animagus. But your hair is ugly.”

The Invierno bristled. “I am a pr—”

“Storm!” the fine lady snapped. More gently, she said to Mula, “Storm is my dear friend, and you will mind him always.”

“Oh, yes,” Mula said. “I will mind perfectly. You are going to be so glad you bought me.”

The woman just stared down at her. She obviously didn’t believe the girl.

“I can cook a little!” she said, quick before the lady could have any regrets. “I can clean, scrub laundry. I’m good at changing rushes, fetching water. I’m big, so I can carry a lot of firewood.”

“How old are you?” the fine lady asked.

Mula shrugged.

“Do you have a name besides Mula? I don’t want to call you that. No one should call anyone that.”

“Sometimes Orlín calls me Rat.”

“What about before you were with Orlín? You had a mother, yes? What did she call you?”

Mula was sad to disappoint her new master so soon, but she said the truth anyway: “I don’t remember.”

The fine lady frowned deeply. “A little girl ought to have a proper name.”

“Like what?”

“How about you name yourself?”

Mula’s mouth dropped open. “For true?”

“For true.”

“Anything?”

“Anything you want.”

The Invierno called Storm leaned forward. “A name is a grave matter.”

Mula nodded. “I will think hard about it.”

The fine lady smiled. She had a beautiful smile, soft and kind and wise. “Just let me know when you’ve decided.”

Mara returned with a blouse for her, which fell all the way to her knees. They lifted her onto one of the horses—a giant near-black creature that danced in place—and the girl was too filled with wonder and amazement to be even a little bit scared.