Raesinia was cutting vegetables for the endless cauldrons of soup that were the cornerstone of meals at Mrs. Felda’s. The diet of bread and broth was dull, but there were few complaints from the refugees. Every day, new stories trickled in about fresh atrocities visited on foreigners or other undesirables in the name of national security. Every night, Mrs. Felda led a prayer for the safety of those Marcus had already passed along to the Army of the East’s supply train, in which Free and Sworn residents both joined.

Beside Raesinia at the chopping table was the tall, severe young woman who’d returned with Marcus from the University. She attacked a pile of potatoes as though they had done her a personal injury, hacking them into irregular chunks with a long knife. Raesinia discreetly moved her own work a pace farther down the table, to avoid being pelted with flying bits of spud.

“Verdoht!” the woman said. It sounded like a curse. The knife jangled as it bounced on the floor, and the woman held one hand in the other, blood welling between her fingers.

“Are you all right?” Raesinia said, taking care to enunciate clearly. She didn’t recognize the language the woman was swearing in, but it had a far eastern tone. Most of the refugees spoke at least a little Vordanai, but their skill varied widely.

“No, I am not,” the woman said in a clipped, precise accent. “I am losing a knife fight to a folgaht potato. I doubt my honor will ever recover.”

Raesinia found herself smiling. “I can’t do much for your honor. How about your hand?”

“My hand is not bleeding too badly.” The woman wiped her palm on her trousers, heedless of the bloodstains, and peered at the long cut along her index finger. “I will survive, I suspect.”

“We ought to bind it up,” Raesinia said. “I doubt Mrs. Felda would appreciate blood as an extra ingredient in her soup.”

The woman smiled. “It might give it some more flavor.”

Mrs. Felda kept strips of clean linen handy for bandages, an essential precaution with so many children about. Raesinia grabbed one, dunked it in the boiling water of the cauldron, and gestured for the woman to hold out her hand. She gritted her teeth and hissed as Raesinia pulled the bandage on, but made no other complaint as she wrapped the wound and tied the cloth tight.

“There,” Raesinia said. “Can you still bend your finger?”

The woman tested it, winced, and nodded.

“What happened to the knife?”

“Over there, I think.” The woman pointed, and they fished around under the table until they found it, steel still spotted with blood. Raesinia tested the edge with her finger and found it dull.

“No wonder. This needs seeing to. Do you know how?”

“No,” the woman said. “This is my first time for kitchen work.”

“Come on. There’s a stone in the pantry.”

“Thank you. Ah . . .”