“I’m decent,” I say, studying the shirt. A large drop of blood already browns on the collar. A lighter spray patters the right sleeve, and a smear mars the left from when I wiped my nose. My stomach roils as I stare. Aside from the smear, I’m not entirely sure whose blood I’m looking at. “I really hurt those boys,” I whisper. With the skills I’m teaching you comes responsibility, Hector told me. You must use them wisely.

Iván says, “They had it coming.”

“But . . . Sancho’s face . . .” I can’t stop seeing the bloody mess, or hearing the whistle sound of his breathing.

What would Hector think of what I did?

Iván whips off his own vest; blood from his split lip has dribbled down his chest, and the vest will need a thorough soaking. “It was a brutal takedown,” he acknowledges, and somehow I know it’s a simple observation, not a judgment. “Efficient and deadly. Prince Hector taught you to fight like a street brawler.”

I grab a bucket and turn the spigot. Water pours out, unpleasantly cold on my hands, filling the air with a hint of brine. I’m glad to have a task right now, a sensation. Anything to distract me from my still-racing heart and needle pinpricks of firing nerves. It might be a while before I can sleep tonight.

“What works best on blood?” Iván asks. “Lye?”

“Just soak it in cold water. Do it fast before the stain sets.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Favoring my injured rib, I sit on a bench and dip my shirt into the bucket, letting it soak for several seconds. Iván follows my lead. “Have you never done laundry before?” I ask him.

“My brother always did the laundry,” he said. “We couldn’t afford staff for a while after . . . everything. So we divvied up the chores. I was the countship’s stable boy for several years.”

“Your brother did the laundry?” I say, gaping. “Lord-Conde Juan-Carlos was a laundry boy?”

“No, not him. My other brother. The one who died.”

“Oh.” The blood is already lifting from my sleeve, whirling up in tiny eddies. Or maybe it’s the torchlight playing tricks on my eyes.

“He was only twelve.”

I have a guess about what happened to Iván’s brother: “An Invierno killed him.”

“A sniper with a longbow. During the first big battle I remember.”

“Is that why you hate Inviernos so much?”

“Among other reasons.”

Iván’s bucket is trapped between his knees, and he rubs his thumb against his soaking vest, but he seems hardly aware of the action. After a long moment he says, “What about you? Why do you love Inviernos so much?”

“I hate them as much as you do. Maybe more. Well, except for a few. They’re not all bad, I guess.”

“Does that mean you hate yourself?”

I open my mouth to protest, but the words just aren’t there. For once, I have nothing to say.

“Fine,” he says. “Why do you hate some Inviernos so much?”