“Thank you,” Scratch choked out, “for the pants.”

Brella hummed acknowledgment. “Not for rescuing you?”

“That too.”

“I was sorry to see you demolish that other pair.”

Scratch raised a shoulder with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “They were tight.”

“They looked expensive.”

Another weak shrug. “They had already been ruined.” Even before they ripped. Her knees had spat blood onto the fabric when she was shoved to the hard stone of the dungeon, and who knows what filth had ground its way into the weave. She hadn’t seen much in the dim light of the Shaes’ living room, but she had caught the dark, wet stains that bloomed like bruises in the red fabric.

“So . . .” She tapped a nervous rhythm on the borrowed pants. “Do you come here often?”

“To the forest?” Brella raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“And who guards you against bandits then?”

She shrugged. “I have more brothers. They’re a little more, uh, weapon-proficient than Vel is. And I have . . .” She mulled over the word. “Friends.”

Scratch chose the least thorny path. “How many more brothers?”

“Not including Vel? Six.”

Scratch stumbled. “So, with Iris, there are . . . eight of you?”

Brella shook her head. “Seven boys, seven girls. Fourteen.”

“That’s a lot,” Scratch commented, realizing only after the words spilled out how unnecessarily obvious they were.

Brella snorted. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Sorry,” Scratch mumbled. “I was surprised.” She leapt over a branch that Brella, with her long legs, had calmly stepped over. “It was only me and my mother growing up.”

Where was Purpose now? Probably tucked away in her nice little house with thick walls and windows that kept the draft out. It had been a gift of sorts, from daughter to mother, bought with saved-up soldier’s wages. It hadn’t been a peace offering as much as a cashing out of obligation. Here, Purpose, take this house and leave me alone. Now, Scratch didn’t have to feel guilty when she thought of her mother servicing men well into her middle age. Scratch had, at least, spared her mother that effort. Normally, she didn’t think about Purpose Keyes at all.

How long until Purpose heard that Scratch was a fugitive of the crown? Surely guards would show up at her door, demanding answers. Would they believe Purpose when she said she hadn’t spoken to her daughter in two years? It was implausible, sure; they both lived in the Royal City and Scratch had plenty of time off to go visit. But it was the truth.

Scratch imagined her mother answering the door in her house dress, her uncut blond hair hanging limp and stringy around her small face. Were her cheeks still hollow, bugging out those blue eyes like twin siren’s pools? Would she cry when the guards told her what her daughter had done? Would she smile?