Winter looked her over. Anne-Marie’s fingers hands were soft and uncallused, her arms skinny and unfamiliar with work.

“You want to fight for that?” Winter indicated The Rights of Man. “You’re ready to die for it?”

“Yes,” Anne-Marie said, standing up a little straighter.

“You’re ready to kill for it?”

“Yes.” Though this time, she hesitated a little.

“Walk for miles in the mud? Carry a heavy pack? Eat squirrel or whatever else you can catch?”

Anne-Marie’s cheeks were reddening, but she remained standing. “Yes.”

Winter let out a long breath and turned to Abby, speaking quietly. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s very determined,” Abby said. “I also think she won’t last five minutes.”

“We can’t turn her away and let the others in,” Winter said.

“Leave it to me,” Abby said. “Tell her she can stay, and I’ll make sure she gets a taste of what things are really like. She’ll run home soon enough.”

Winter nodded. Turning back to meet Anne-Marie’s eyes again, though, she was uncertain. There was a determination there that struck a chord; it reminded her of another girl who’d run away from everything she’d ever known with the mad idea of joining the army.

Of course, nobody at Mrs. Wilmore’s ever had soft hands like hers. Still, Winter thought she deserved a chance. It’s the best I can offer, anyway.

“Captain Giforte will find you a place,” she said. “You’ll need new clothes, though. And you’ll probably have to cut your hair.”

Anne-Marie’s hand went involuntarily to clutch her golden curls. With an effort, she straightened up again. “Yes. Sir. I . . . understand.”

Barley, who had been staring skeptically at Anne-Marie, looked up at Winter. “We’re not the only ones, sir. There’s lots of girls from the Docks who’d join if they knew you were taking recruits.”

“I also have friends.” Anne-Marie patted her book. “They believe this.”

Great. There would be no way to keep this news from spreading across the city like wildfire. Just great. What the hell have I gotten myself into now?

Chapter Eleven

MARCUS

It had been a long time since Marcus spent much time in Farus’ Triumph. Superficially, things hadn’t changed much. The cafés around the edges of the vast square were still open, spilling cast-iron tables out onto the flagstones to take advantage of the weak autumn sun. The great equestrian statue of Farus V looked out as majestically as ever, surrounded by his worshipful coterie of water-spouting nymphs and swans. To the south, the Grand Span leapt from piling to piling, and a steady stream of pedestrian traffic came and went from the South Bank.