“Girls?” I say. “More than one?”

“You and Aldo,” he says.

“Next time we spar,” Aldo says, “I’m going to kick your ass.”

“If you can reach it, little girl.”

Aldo shrugs it off, but his face is stony and he avoids our gazes as he mucks.

“By the way, Red,” Pedrón says, “do you want to sneak into my bunk some night?”

“Are you always this disgusting?”

“I promise you’ll have a good time.”

“I said no!”

“No, you didn’t. You said, ‘Are you always this disgusting?’”

“You really need to widen your definition of the word ‘no.’”

“Well, if you change your mind . . .”

“Let it go, army reject,” Valentino says.

Surprisingly, Pedrón doesn’t push things further. We fall back into silence, mucking, mucking, mucking until the sun is low. The dinner bell rings. We all look up expectantly.

“Sweet God, I’m so hungry,” Pedrón says.

“Keep working,” Guardsman Bruno yells. “No chow until the job is done!”

Pedrón groans. My stomach growls, even though I’m one of the few who made sure to get a decent meal.

Once the stable is empty of straw, we sweep it of dust and leavings with whisk brooms. Two second years bring buckets and rags, and we get to work scrubbing the stone floors.

An hour later, a stable hand comes to light all the torches. Crickets sing as we polish the hinges, tighten loose latches, replace all the straw with a fresh load just delivered. My hands are raw, my back aches, and I’ll never, ever get the smell of manure out of my hair.

At last Guardsman Bruno takes pity on us. “Get yourselves back to the dining hall. After you eat, you may all use the latrine, then get to bed. Do it fast, because you’ll need your sleep for tomorrow.”

We rush toward the mess. Valentino lags behind, and I slow down to keep him company.

He says, “I think I need to use the latrine before we eat.”

“If you sneak in, I’ll guard the door.”

“Thank you.”

And that’s exactly what we do. While the others go on ahead, we peel off at the door to the latrine. The room contains a row of holes across a long stone bench. Beside each hole is a bucket of mulch with a scoop, used to tamp down the smell. It’s not as disgusting as it could be. This place is kept clean, the latrine regularly emptied, and I find myself pitying whoever has that particular task.

I turn my back while Valentino tends to his needs. After a moment, he taps me on the shoulder.

“Any blood?” I ask.

“None.”

“Good sign.”

“Are you always so . . . frank?”

“Yes.”

“I hear that’s an Invierno trait.”

Before I can answer, he adds, “Your turn. It’s a chance for you to get a little privacy. I’ll watch the door.”

“Thank you.” I rush to comply because in addition to taking care of my needs, this is my chance to read the note in my pocket.