Then again, it is our birthday. And it’s free.

I snatch up a glass and drain it, savoring the slightly sweet taste of the stinging, fizzy liquid. Wiping my mouth gracelessly on my sleeve, I place the glass back on the tray, maybe a little rougher than necessary.

The bubbles are already rising straight to my head as my eyes turn up, actually taking in the servant, who still hasn’t moved, for the first time. Blinking, I realize the man isn’t a man at all, only my age, maybe a little older.

Realizing I’ve just used the phrase my age, maybe a little older, I feel the need to clarify.

This boy doesn’t have dazzling green eyes or a crooked smile that makes me feel weak in the knees. This isn’t like that.

He’s just...here, towering over me, half-hidden eyes glimmering in the firelight. The only remarkable thing about him is his bright red hair, which curls over his collar in messy, shaggy waves.

I can’t see much of his face from behind his simple mask, but his cheeks and middle were round with what I would call baby fat if it didn’t seem so unlikely that he’d ever grow out of it. His boots are shiny and look too expensive, but his trousers are worn and dirty. The buttons of his ill-fitting servant’s uniform strain like the coat is struggling to hold on, but that doesn’t seem to affect his good mood. He grins down at me over the tray, like he knows something I don’t.

I hate him, and his expensive boots, and his absurd smile, instantly.

The sweet berry taste of the drink I gulped is still rolling over my tongue. It’s the best I’ve ever had, sweeter and sharper than the cheap cider and mead I can afford. Without invitation, I take another drink from his tray.

I expect my rudeness to chase him away before I can finish off the whole tray, but instead, he nods his head approvingly. When he speaks again, his tone has lost the measured politeness of a servant. “Nervous?”

My mouth twists into a frown as the liquid burns its way down my throat, savage and sparkling. “No.”

“Just thirsty, hmm?” He doesn’t even flinch as I slam the second glass down on the tray, and he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Might I recommend water, then? This stuff’s pretty strong—”

“Who exactly are you?” I interrupt. I don’t dare to raise my voice and draw unwanted attention. I need to stay calm, to avoid doing anything likely to get Isolde and me tossed over the bridge. Or, worse, noticed by the city guard.

“Someone like you,” he says, quiet and smooth. Like he’s telling me a secret and doesn’t really fear the consequences. “Though, I was wondering what it is you’re doing here.”

My breath catches in my throat, making my heart stutter and ache. His eyes don’t shine back at me, the light isn’t right for that, but how else could he know? Pain pricks my palms as my hands curl into fists. “A changeling?” I whisper.