I know exactly what it is, even in the dark: my hair dye, spilled all over my bed, staining my fingers. Someone noticed I was gone and took the opportunity to vandalize my things.

I rip the blanket from my cot and wad it up so the dye doesn’t get anywhere else. Carefully, I slide open the bedside drawer and peer inside. I breathe deeply of relief to discover the dark shapes of my baby rattle and Godstone, still intact. But my pot of dye is in ruins.

On closer look, a tiny bit of ink remains, trapped in the curve of a ceramic shard. Not enough for even one hair treatment. My white streak will start showing within days. In two weeks, it will be a blotch on my forehead. In a few months, a streak all the way to my chin.

Who would do such a thing? Someone who hates me. Someone who wants to hurt me. No, maybe it was just a prank. Not everyone understands how important that dye is to me, what great pains I take to cover the white streak in my hair.

Either way, I’ve no recourse for acquiring more. I could sell the jewels in my baby rattle, but I’d need time and freedom to leave the barracks during market day. Perhaps Rosario could help me.

Or maybe that would be an abuse of our friendship. He has more important things to worry about. I have more important things to worry about. Like whether or not whoever did this realized how long I was gone, whether they saw Iván and me leave, whether they followed us into the latrine.

And figuring out who poisoned Captain Bolivar.

I stretch out on my cot, the blanket wadded up at my feet, Bolivar’s key still clutched in my fist. I close my eyes and listen hard for anyone who might be stirring, but I hear nothing except the deep, even breathing of slumber.

More than anything, I need to join my fellow recruits in sleep. Tomorrow, I begin searching for an assassin while facing the notorious second day of training. But even though my limbs are like lead and my eyes burn with dryness, my mind won’t stop churning.

In desperation, I slip from my bed and curl up on the floor, my back to the wall. The cold stone is safe and solid, and at last I drift away.

I’m fleeing through the pine forest, barefoot in the snow, chased by a brass bell that won’t stop ringing, its crystal clash driving deep into my mind, shattering my thoughts, my sleep. . . .

My eyes fly open, and it’s a moment before I orient myself. I’m on the floor, chilled to the bone. My shoulder aches from my odd sleeping angle. A soft-cheeked face with long-lashed eyes is peering down at me. “Red? You all right?” says Aldo. “Did you fall off the bed?” He reaches for me. “Get up before Guardsman Bruno sees you.”