Then the answer came with the faint rumble in the earth beneath her thin pallet. Her own gut frosted over.

They never should have taken the sinners’ teeth.

“Get the prince and grab what you can.” Pa was a blur in the night, rushing from one Crow to the next, then dragging the prince to his feet. The rumble only grew. “Up, Highness. The Oleander Gentry are coming.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE CAT AND THE KING

The prince was barefoot.

In her sixteen years, Fie had learned many a hard lesson when it hit her right in the teeth: Always watch the crowd. Always know your way out. Never go into town alone.

And on the nights you burn sinners, sleep with your sandals on.

Jasimir’s toes slipped on a mossy tree trunk as Fie struggled to hoist him to the nearest branch, choking down a frustrated scream. Thunderous hoofbeats welled in the ground beneath them; Crows darted about camp, scrambling to cover their tracks. Though the prince’s heel was braced on Fie’s shoulder, his hands shook too bad to find purchase on vine or bark. But Pa had said to get the prince out of sight—she had to get them clear—

Tavin pulled the prince from the trunk. “Fie, you go first—pull him up—”

Up. The word was a shackle breaking.

Nails in her sandal soles chewed through bark and moss as up she went, easy as walking a stair. The strap of her loose mask cut into the flesh at her throat, the heavy beak banging against her spine. From the corner of her eye she saw other Crows scaling the trees as well. Wretch had strapped the rolled-up pallets to her back. Swain bore their meager stash of maps and scrolls, the cooking pot bouncing at his side.

She didn’t see Hangdog at all.

Up. If she lost the prince, she lost the oath.

Fie crawled onto the first branch. She whipped her robe over her head, twisted it into a rope, then looped it where branch married trunk. The prince seized a handful of crowsilk and began to climb.

“Fie!” Pa stood below. He threw a tooth up to her, then dashed away once she’d caught it.

The tooth sang in her fist, so loud and clear that she near dropped it when she kenned what she held.

Orange torchlight pinpoints glittered far, far down the road.

Up. Fie knotted the priceless tooth into her waist-sash, then yanked the cloak to hurry the prince.

But this bough wouldn’t hold her, Prince Jasimir, and Tavin as well. Once the prince sat steady, she scuttled up to a sturdier branch.

“You can’t leave me!” Jasimir hissed, wide-eyed.

He was panicky, he was learning a new kin of fear. She had to remember that. But some Crows were more merciful than others.

“Bring up your Hawk boy, lackwit,” she shot back, “then you pass me the cloak—”