“Before I give you food,” the monster woman said, “you must tell me something.”

Saliva filled her mouth. “What?”

“What village are you from? Where are your parents?”

The girl knew better than to tell the monster woman anything, but there was a potpie. “Mamá is dead,” she said.

The words dislodged something inside her, something that roiled around in her belly for a moment and then came exploding out of her body in a wracking sob. Mamá is dead. Mamá is dead.

“There, there, sweet thing, I’m so sorry to hear. And your village?”

The village she and Mamá had lived outside of had a name, but she couldn’t remember it. And she didn’t care to. No one there wanted her anyway. She said, through gulping tears, “No village. I’m from nowhere.”

“Oh, good,” the woman muttered. “That’s good.”

The girl didn’t understand what was good about that, but she could hardly think beyond the potpie scent. It had actual salt in it, she was certain. And oregano.

“You’re a pretty thing,” the monster woman said. Her soft hand came up to caress the girl’s cheek. The girl couldn’t help herself; she leaned into this feeling of kindness as tears continued to pour down her cheeks. The woman said, her voice as satiny and exquisite as butterfly wings, “You’re not really an Invierno, are you? I couldn’t tell at first; you’re so pale and skinny. But I see it now. You’re a half-breed. A mula.”

The girl didn’t know what a mula was, but it sounded nice, and she was hungry, so she nodded. Yes, she would be a mula.

The monster woman’s smile changed, and the girl thought of beautiful, bright summer clouds right before they burst with deadly hail.

“We must tattoo your feet,” the monster-woman said.

The little girl, whose name was now Mula, had done nothing but sleep and eat for three days. But now the monster woman wanted her to start contributing.

“What’s a tattoo?” Mula asked.

“A special mark,” the woman said. “It’s very pretty. Bright blue like the sky.”

Mula liked the color blue. It was her second-favorite color, after red. “Like jewelry?” Mula asked.

“Yes, like jewelry. For your feet. You won’t be able to walk for a few days while the color sets, but you can’t walk on that ankle anyway. I’ll find simple tasks for you at first. Can you peel turnips? Mend? Scrub dishes?”

Mula nodded. She was a big girl, and big girls knew how to do all those things.

“Good. That’s good.”

Mula beamed. She was happy to please the monster woman.

“If you turn out to have clever fingers, I’ll teach you about glassmaking. That’s what I do, you see. Blow glass and sell it. Mobiles, figurines, ornaments, wind chimes. Do you want to learn how to make glass, Mula?”

“Yes.”

“You must address me as ‘my lady.’ Say ‘Yes, my lady.’”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good girl.”

The next day, a man came to the hut. The girl called Mula noticed his hands—calloused and cracked, with fingers stained bright blue. He carried a leather satchel, and inside were packets of things, all wrapped in parchment or dried leaves, along with several long pointy tools that looked like writing quills, except so, so much sharper.