“You’re eating this stuff as though you like it,” Aldo points out.

I shrug. “I never turn down a meal.”

Pedrón and his fellow army recruits sidle over. They are focused and intent, making me feel like a cornered rabbit. “That move you did,” one says. “That leg sweep. Where’d you learn that?”

I blink up at him, wondering how much to reveal. I’ve always been terrible at hedging. Though, come to think of it, I can’t think of a single good reason to be evasive at this point. Everyone already understands my close association with the royal family. Besides, we’re supposed to be allies here. Brothers in arms. “I had a good teacher,” I say. “The best teacher.”

“But I haven’t seen that move before,” he persists. “I mean . . . you landed on your hands while sweeping your legs. . . .”

“I haven’t seen a move like that since the acrobats visited my mother’s hacienda,” Aldo says.

“You were like water,” says another army recruit. “You were there, and suddenly you weren’t.”

I set my spoon down. “Look,” I say. “It might have escaped your notice, but I’m smaller than most of you.”

Two of the army recruits exchange a waggly eyebrowed look. “We noticed that. Among other things.”

Others drift toward us, curious about our conversation. I sense bodies at my back, peering over my shoulders, and I resist the urge to visibly squirm.

“I’ll never be a strong as most of you, or have the reach,” I continue gamely. “So my teacher took stock of my advantages and trained me accordingly. For instance, he noticed my quickness. And that I have good abdominal strength. You think that move was about landing on my hands? It was about having control of my center and knowing where my body is at every second.”

“In other words,” Pedrón says, “he trained you to fight like a girl.”

I glare at him. “If by that you mean he trained me to fight like a small girl who can thrash large men.”

“She definitely thrashed me,” Valentino says.

I can’t believe how good-natured he’s being, and I give him a grateful look. “You’ll thrash me next time.”

Pedrón leans forward, and something about his wide grin gives me a shudder. “There’s just one thing I have to know.” He pauses, looking around for encouragement.

His companion nudges his shoulder. “Go on, ask her,” he says, as though they’ve discussed whatever this is between themselves already.

“Just out of curiosity, of course,” Pedrón says. “You being Invierno and all—”

“I’m not an Invier—”

“Do you have . . . the same . . . parts? As normal girls?” He looks down in the direction of my lap, giving no doubt as to what he means by “parts.”

I gape at him, truly at a loss for words.

He presses on. “I mean, you’re a hybrid, right? A mula. Infertile. So . . . does that mean you have different parts?”