Nox blinked. She was confused, relieved, and disturbed all at once by the abruptness of the boys’ halt. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to ask. They’d stopped. The fight was over.

A beetroot rolled from its place on the wooden shelf to the floor with a soft thump, the only evidence of the ceased scuffle. Baffling stillness stretched for a long moment. The boys took one step back, then another.

Nox and Amaris exchanged uncertain looks. They were still tense, prepared for whatever horrible trick or ploy their attackers were plotting.

“What?” Nox asked, her single word barely a breath. Her back remained rigid, muscles flexed to run, eyes wild. She wasn’t sure what she was asking. What made them attack? What made them stop? What possessed them to be such horrid, hateful pigs that they’d make another discarded orphan’s life any worse than it already was?

The bullies created space as they untangled themselves from the mess they’d made. Achard looked between his companions wordlessly. Still half feral, Nox continued to clutch the shattered bottle. She looked at Amaris, who continued to glare at the boys, fists clenched at her sides.

“Go, and don’t come back,” Amaris said. Her voice trembled as she called after them.

The only noise was that of Nox’s blood dripping to the ground from where her hand had been cut by the bottle. Soon, the rhythmic sound of blood was joined by the scuffling of shoes as the boys turned and wordlessly left the kitchen. Once the door swung shut behind them, the sounds of infuriated accusations drifted from the hall through the door until there was nothing to hear.

“What was that?” Nox blinked rapidly at Amaris.

The younger girl shook violently, rippling fear and adrenaline clear on her face. Nox had never seen her make such a bold assertion. From the tremble of her chin, it looked like the very act of standing up for herself was about to make her cry.

“Are you—” Nox started.

A yelp from the hall beyond told them that either the boys or the flour-pasted footprints had been discovered by one of the orphanage’s guardians. Within seconds, Matron Mable burst into the kitchen. From the wildness of her expression to every tense muscle of her body, Mable dripped with panic. Evidence of their brief fight littered the kitchen, spilling from the pantry to the flour-marked footprints leading out into the hall. There were only seconds between understanding the severity of what had just occurred contrasted against the impending doom that was approaching.

Mable locked eyes with Nox. Using two frantic words, she pleaded, “He’s coming!”

Nox understood.

The fight didn’t matter.

The boys were meaningless.

The bishop was coming, and he was going to see Amaris.