Nox wrapped her finger around a rather large radish and sat next to Amaris again, allowing them to slip into their familiar embrace. “You can close your eyes and pretend it’s candy. Though raw radishes are a bit sour…and bitter… On second thought, this might be a challenging game of make-believe.”

“I’ve never been good at pretending. Things are what they are,” Amaris sighed.

“That they are. Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to want something more.”

Nox looked at the radish in her hand, turning it over as she examined the magentas and whites of the root. She thought of Amaris’s earlier question and landed on an honest, simplified answer to why they needed to continue to hide. “You’re worth more than the bishop would know how to handle,” she said.

“What about you?” Amaris asked, looking up with her soft, lavender eyes.

Amaris’s tone made it sound like she didn’t care too much about the response—she’d simply been talking to make conversation. There’d been nothing malicious or insensitive in Amaris’s question, but Nox didn’t know how to answer it. Nox knew it wasn’t her value that kept her away on market day, nor was it her need to avoid questions of the church that had her hiding in the pantry now. Agnes had favored Nox from childhood and trusted her to shield Amaris when prying eyes came to Farleigh. Perhaps being the dependable hand of the Gray Matron was her value, even if it was a title and set of duties that should have gone to one of the other matrons, not to an orphan.

Nox opened her mouth to answer when a sound came from the kitchen, stopping her response. It didn’t sound like Matron Mable. The scraping of shoes and the disorderly noise of more than one body in the space jostled beyond the door.

“Did you hear something?” Amaris whispered.

“Shh,” Nox said, her muscles tensing with a peculiar readiness. The girls stilled as they listened to the evidence of scuffling with wide eyes.

With a burst of light from the hearth and a wave of heat, the pantry door flung open. Three silhouetted shapes pressed into the doorway.

An angry, defensive jolt struck Nox like lightning. She was on her feet before the others had the chance to take a single step inward. Her face tightened, fists balling at her sides.

Amaris was slower to react, still scrambling to her feet as Nox positioned herself to defend.

Of all the nightmares at Farleigh, between the chores, the matrons, and the threat of being sold off to the highest bidders, it was insult upon injury to have to manage the fragile egos of Achard and his friends. Nox was no stranger to their tripping feet, their jeers, their sniggered words or their punches. Agnes’s preferential treatment of Nox had been just another target on her back.