“Why?” I say around a mouthful of food. We’re back to eating cornmeal sludge.

“Beto said Valentino took stuff, remember? I want to find out what it was.”

“You think it might have been sweet dream. Like the poison given to Bolivar.”

Iván nods. “If it is, we need to know who he got it from.”

Makes sense. Except . . . “If any of the ducklings have free time tomorrow, they’ll probably use it to visit Valentino. They practically worship him.”

Iván snorts, which takes me aback because it’s almost a laugh. I’m not sure I’ve heard him laugh before, or even seen him smile. “Ducklings. That’s appropriate.” He takes a bite of sludge, swallows, then says, “You might be right. If Valentino is seeing visitors, it will be hard to get him alone.”

“So maybe we investigate the captain’s quarters first, and visit Valentino at our next opportunity?”

“Fine. Now let me eat.” With that, Iván visibly cuts me off, tilting his shoulder just so. It’s not quite like he’s turning his back on me, but almost.

With a sigh, I slide down the bench to give him a little space, and finish my sludge.

It’s full dark. Everyone has finished running the wall, though only some of us earned free time. We were shown to the laundry area—a dungeon with a low arched ceiling, filled with basins and washboards that stink of sweat and lye—and given a brief lesson on how to clean our uniforms. It’s astonishing to me that so many of these boys have never in their lives laundered even the tiniest sock.

Afterward, a stray cricket serenaded us as we took turns doing our business in the latrine. Now we’re collapsed onto our bunks. Guardsman Bruno has just blown out the oil lamps, and the monastery has rung the tenth hour. I sink into the mattress, exhausted but grateful, Bolivar’s key now stuffed down my sock so it doesn’t fall out during my sleep. I’ve passed the first hurdle, survived the first cut. For once, I might fall asleep easy and stay that way.

I drift off, as effortlessly as a cloud in the breeze.

My eyes fly open when a hand presses down on my mouth.

“Unngggh!” I try to speak, but someone holds me fast. Hands are gripping my arms and legs too, pressing tight, relentless. I can’t move at all. I can hardly breathe.

“You got Valentino cut,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Beto. His damp breath is hot and so, so close.

I try to whip my head to the side, but the hand on my face presses down until the slats of my cot dig into my skull. Beto is going to break my neck.

“What’s going on?” someone asks blearily, and I can’t tell who because blood is rushing past my ears and bile is rising in my throat and there’s a pressure in my chest that’s familiar and comforting and terrifying all at the same time because it means I’m about to lose control of myself.