Colorful was a word for it. It was also stinking and clamorous and spicy and terminally interesting. Pregnant with possibilities and risk. The bubble that usually protected the princess heir of the Fells had burst, and multiple sensations flooded in—the sights and smells and raw emotions of the queendom she was to rule one day.

She grappled with the notion that it was only context and clothing that made her recognizable. Was that really all she was—the random occupant of a spot in the lineage of queens? Could any girl be chosen off the streets, dressed up, and put in her place? Did she have any natural ability to do this job?

The Guard was thick on every street, bristling with weapons and bravado. Yet no one recognized her. There was no undercurrent of rumor as there would be if her disappearance were common knowledge. Puzzled, she stopped and asked a shopkeeper sweeping his steps to tell the news.

“Somebody said there was a kidnapping,” she said. “Is that why the Guard’s all about?”

The shopkeeper shook his head. “Don’t know nothing about a kidnapping. It’s those murders in Southbridge. The Guard is searching every tavern, inn, and warehouse in Ragmarket. Bad for business, it is. I say, if the street rats want to murder each other, let them.” He glanced about, lowering his voice. “They say it was that Cuffs Alister. He’s as bloodthirsty as they come.”

Raisa couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. Cuffs was trailing half a block behind her, as if he hoped he wouldn’t be seen—by her or with her, Raisa wasn’t sure.

It was somehow thrilling to know he was back there, in pursuit of her, like in the story of Hanalea and the highwayman.

But this wasn’t a story. This was real. And she meant to find out what was really going on.

The towers of South Bridge loomed ahead of her. The guardhouse crouched hard by the bridge, on the Southbridge side. It was a squat, sturdy, stone building with tiny barred windows. A paved courtyard surrounded it, with stables behind for the horses. The Gray Wolf banner flew overhead, proclaiming that this was the queen’s outpost, even amid the squalor of Southbridge.

The line for the bridge was longer than usual. A half-dozen fully armed guardsmen stood at each end, questioning all who sought to cross. Raisa’s stomach did a sickening flip. Surely she’d be recognized by anybody who’d been sent out specifically to find her.

On impulse, she turned aside into a bakeshop. Inside, it was relatively clean and well kept, with displays of sticky buns and meat pies and pastries. The boy behind the counter wore a slouched red wool muffin cap to contain his hair.

“Good morning to you,” she said. “I would like eight sticky buns, wrapped for travel. And your hat.”