He leads us down a dark corridor, past another bunk room, and into daylight. We’ve reached the dusty riding arena, which is shared with the palace Guard. The palace itself is at our backs now, a huge edifice rising high to block the worst of the sun’s afternoon rays. Before us is a long narrow stable, huddled up against the walls that encircle the palace grounds. Atop the walls, between crenellations, I glimpse the helmets of palace guards as they walk their rounds.

“That’s a lot of stalls,” Aldo says.

“Thirty-six, to be exact,” Bruno says. “Be grateful we’re not cleaning the army stable. It’s even bigger.”

Horses peek out over the lower doors of a few stalls, hoping our approach means treats or at least a little exercise, and I’m sorry to disappoint them. The majority of stalls are vacant, just like Bruno said.

To the left is an empty wagon. Leaning against it are several pitchforks.

“Any volunteers to polish tack?” Bruno says. The Arturos raise their hands, and he directs them toward a stable hand for guidance.

“And who wants to muck?”

I raise my hand. I did plenty of mucking when I was a little girl living in the free villages. It’s been years, and my memories of that time are foggy, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the body remembers.

Bruno indicates that I should grab a pitchfork, along with Aldo, Valentino, and Pedrón. We are to remove all the straw from the empty stalls and dump it in this wagon, which will haul everything away once we’re finished.

The wooden handle feels rough in my hands. My calluses are different these days—from gripping a sword or dagger, from the string of a bow, from knitting. I hope they hold true.

“You know,” Aldo says as he plunges his pitchfork into a pile of manure, “this Royal Guard thing might be a swindle. Maybe it’s just a way for the crown to get free labor.”

“That’s good, right?” Valentino says. “Keeps our taxes low.” He winces as he bends over. Clumps of manure are already sticking to his beautiful blue silks.

“Go easy, Valentino,” I say. “Work in the back of the stall where the Guards can’t see. We’ll cover for you.”

“No, we won’t,” Pedrón says.

“Yes,” I say, glaring. “We will. Just like we might cover for you someday.”

Pedrón considers this. Then he shrugs and gets to work.

“Thanks, Red,” says Valentino.

An hour later, the wagon isn’t even half full, and a stable hand comes to check our progress. He’s a short fellow with long sideburns and weathered skin, and he sidles so close that I can smell the horse musk on his skin. I resist the urge to step away and make more space for myself.

“Everything all right?” he asks, and his breath smells like something crawled into his mouth and died screaming. “Any questions?”

“We’re fine,” Aldo assures him.

“Glad to hear it.”

I’m considering whether or not to tell him to back off when I feel his hand at my waist. Of their own accord, my fingers bend, my knuckles aim for his windpipe.