Members of the audience begin to titter with amusement. Conde Astón gazes steadily at me, looking like a cat that just found a bowl of cream. His eyes remain fixed on my face as he announces, “The imperial petition is denied.”

Princess Mena’s huge brown eyes fill with tears.

The ground is opening beneath me. Were it not for Rosario’s hand on my elbow, the earth would suck me into darkness and swallow me whole. Maybe I want it to.

The amused tittering at my back has become a buzz of excited conversation. I don’t dare turn to face them all. I can’t.

“God will judge!” someone yells.

“Burn the Treaty of Basajuan!” yells another.

The audience hall becomes chaos. Everyone mills about, either trying to escape the press of bodies or get a better look. The empress appears furious. Beside her, Prince Hector comforts his daughter, but his right hand is at his scabbard and calculation whirls in his eyes. No one saw this coming. Most especially me.

“Red, let’s get you to safety,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Rosario, reminding me of all my royal training. I’m a target now. A failed princess. Every member of court who only pretended kindness to me because of my eventual position is now free to be openly hostile.

The Royal Guards close formation around me, both protecting me and conferring a modicum of remaining status—a small mercy.

Empress Elisa stands from her throne, hands clasped, face serene. Her gaze fixed on me, she lifts her chin ever so slightly in the direction of the side door. I’m to follow her.

“Court is adjourned!” booms Conde Astón unnecessarily, and his announcement barely penetrates the din.

Rosario’s hand is almost painful on my elbow, and the Royal Guards press so tight I can hardly breathe as I’m herded around the dais, through the door, and away, away from the imperial court that has just rejected me.

3

Then

IF Horteño the blacksmith, or the wise woman, or any of the other children were forced to flee through the woods pursued by enemies, they would choose to flee toward the village. Toward other people. Toward safety.

But the village would not be safe for the girl.

She and Mamá lived on the outskirts, as far from everyone else as they could. They went to the village only on market day, to trade chickens or eggs, herbs they’d gathered, or firewood they’d cut for the things they needed—meat, thread, chicken feed.

The girl was little, but she wasn’t stupid. So she understood that when people spat on her mamá and called her a whore and gave them the worst prices . . . that somehow it was all her fault. She was the girl with strange golden eyes and skin blanched the color of fever.

“They mostly tolerate you,” her mamá had said once, “and they will so long as you’re a little girl.”