The pine needles were pulp in her mouth now. She wanted to swallow them more than anything, but she knew they would give her belly a bad pain. She forced herself to spit them out.

The girl stood there in the pine grove for too long, trying to make herself move, unable to take a single step, much less think. Tears pooled in her eyes and froze on their way down her cheeks. I’m not smart, Mamá, I’m not smart at all, you were wrong about me.

Minutes passed. Her eyelids grew heavy. She was supposed to be thinking about something. Something important. Maybe she would just sit down in the soft snow.

A mountain jay cawed, and it startled her. She saw a flash of dark blue wings trimmed in black. It drew her forward.

The jay flitted from branch to branch, cawing as it went. Such a pretty little thing, so full of life and energy, able to gobble up distances with a hop and flap. The bird made it look easy.

The girl wanted to be a bird. She would spread her wings and fly far away. It would be effortless, so different from this icy trudging. Actually, the trudging wasn’t so bad anymore. She couldn’t really feel her feet. She wasn’t even sure if she was moving or not.

Of their own accord, her arms came up to shoulder height. She flapped them experimentally. Did she imagine that her feet lifted off the ground a little?

“You have always been my sweet sky,” Mamá said in her ear. “Now, fly!”

The girl lunged forward, wings flapping. She had a vague memory of struggling before, but everything was painless now, easy. She flapped all the way down the icy slope.

The girl’s feet met air. Her heart leaped into her throat as she fell from the cliff’s edge, flapping, flapping, flapping.

6

Now

ON the dawn of the empress’s departure, a ribbon of clouds along the eastern horizon masks the rising sun, keeping the air cool and dim. The city’s earliest risers are already awake; the scent of warm yeast permeates everything as palace bakers set out their bread for the day, and distant ship bells herald departures into coastal fishing waters.

The giant carriage house is bustling as I enter. Stable hands check and double-check traces, horses kick up their knees with impatience, and Royal Guardsmen load supplies onto pack camels. Five carriages are ready to go, all lined up. Dead center of the procession is the royal carriage itself, rich with mahogany and gilded scrollwork, littered with plush cushions, windowed to let in the breeze. Elisa will ride in it one-fifth of the time. For safety, she’ll rotate carriages regularly, and only a handful of Guards will know where she is at any given moment.

The empress herself stands before the carriage, dressed in simple traveling clothes, her long hair wrapped around her head in a crown of braids. She’s giving last-minute instructions to one of her Guards, but when she sees me, she smiles and waves me over.