“You do know what ‘secret’ means, right?” I say.

“I mean, how do you keep a place like this a secret? It’s a whole village!”

“Only the empress’s inner circle knows about it,” I say. “And the villagers who live here get to do business without guild fees and regulations in exchange for their silence. Now, hurry.” I grab the rope ladder that hangs down the wall and start to pull myself up. “Only one at a time on the ladder,” I call down.

I reach the landing and its resident hut and step inside to find yet another ladder along the back wall, leading to a trapdoor.

Everyone is strong and fast. Within minutes we are through the trapdoor and gathered inside a typical Wallows hovel with a dirt floor, driftwood walls, and a palm-thatch roof.

“Now what?” says Arturo, breathing hard.

“Is this the Wallows?” asks Rito. “I hear it’s the most dangerous quarter of the city.”

“I grew up on the border of the Wallows and the Fishers’ Quarter,” Pedrón says. “It’s not so bad. Just keep your eyes down and don’t make trouble.”

“We have to run for the palace,” I say. “The road zags all through the Wallows and then curves around the palace outskirts, so we’ll have to run fast to make it to the prince before the Deliverance blessing begins. But we’ve all run the walls, and this is nothing compared to ten laps around the palace grounds, right?”

“Right!” they answer in unison.

“We’re prepared for this, right?”

“Right!”

“Let’s go.”

We set off at a fast jog. The streets of the Wallows are narrow, crooked, and steep, lined by ramshackle huts pressed together so tightly it seems as though you could remove one plank and bring the whole neighborhood down. The gutters smell of rotting fish and refuse. At least the streets have gutters now, thanks to a huge project undertaken by Elisa in the third year of her reign.

We pass a woman beating dust from a rug. Her skin is like leather, and her feet are bare. A man in ragged pants repairs the thatching on his roof. Three children—two boys and a girl—kick a ball through an alleyway; the ball is made of old linen scraps rolled together and tied.

Everyone ceases what they’re doing to stare as we run by. Some of them, the lucky ones, will get a Deliverance Day gift from a loved one today. An extra helping of fish, maybe, or a doll made of sticks and scraps. But no one here in the Wallows cares about the palace gala that is the entire focus of our rushed journey. They’ll never see the inside of a ballroom, never eat date and honey scones, never wear silk.

We turn a corner and lurch to a stop. A damaged cart blocks our path. It rests at an odd angle, one cartwheel shattered. Coconuts have tumbled into the alley. The coconut seller waves his hat at several children who dart in to steal them.