“Isodel is a small holding in the Hinders,” she says at last. “Near the merchant road, surrounded by terraced orchards and herds of sheep. As my father said, sometimes it falls on one side of the border, sometimes on the other. Joya d’Arena currently claims our land, but King Alejandro has not sent his tax collectors our way in many years. That would not be so bad, but he has not sent his soldiers either, and Perditos threaten our trade.” She glances at her betrothed, and Conde Paxón gives her an encouraging nod. “Without a good marriage, it will not matter who claims Isodel—there will be nothing left.”

I’m delighted at her forthrightness and her concise appraisal. But her father glowers, and her mother coughs discreetly into her hand. I’m about to break the awkward silence with an inane observation about the weather when a door slams. An unkempt girl of about ten, sun darkened and wind burned, dashes across the courtyard toward us.

“Tía Calla, Tía Calla!” she cries. A young nursemaid pursues her, but when she sees me, she falls to her knees, muttering apologies.

Not so the girl, who runs to Calla’s side. Her knees are badly scuffed. Nettles cling to her hair and hems, and her slippers are caked with dried mud.

“Lupita!” Lady Calla says with a pointed look. “This is the royal princess Alodia. You must curtsy to her and say ‘Your Highness’ and wait until she bids you rise.”

I expect an ill-behaved protest, but the untidy girl shows extraordinary grace, curtsying swiftly and perfectly. “Your Highness,” she intones with grave seriousness, though mischief dances in her eyes.

“Rise, Lupita.”

She jumps up as swiftly as she knelt, and looks back and forth between Calla and Elisa. “Is she the one? Are you the one? Are you the bearer of the Godstone? Can I see it?”

There are a few nervous titterings, but Elisa addresses the child calmly. “A lady never shows such things in public.”

Lupita nods. “But have you come to save us?”

Elisa’s face freezes, and I squirm with embarrassment for her. The thought of my sister saving anyone is absurd, a fact of which she is too well aware.

I’m dying to ask what they need saving from, but Lord Zito steps forward and says, “Conde, the sun is setting. Perhaps it would be best to continue this conversation inside.”

Chapter 4

4

ZITO, Elisa, Ximena, and I follow the conde and his mayordomo to the audience hall, which is dimly lit by grimy clerestory windows. The dry air smells faintly of incense. Dusty tables are scattered haphazardly throughout, covered with cold candles in various states of melt. It feels like a place that suffers human company rarely—a good place for secrets, perhaps.

Zito leans over and whispers, “You shamed Lady Calla’s father.”