“Look, Scratch.” Brella ran a hand over one of her long brown braids. Someone—a child, probably—had poked flowers in between the strands, little blue buds that looked like they belonged in the loamy earth of Brella’s hair. “We barely have a plan. We love our sister, so we’re doing whatever we can to get her princess back. And because . . .” She breathed for a moment, eyes closed. “Because it’s the right thing to do. You might not understand—”

“I understand.”

Brella winced. “He’s not a great king, Scratch.”

Had it been only two days ago that she was passed over for commander? It felt like an eternity. “He has his faults.”

“A great deal more than faults.”

“Well, if what you say about a conspiracy is true . . .”

“Scratch. Do you really not—” She tugged at a braid. A flower popped out and landed on the ground, disappearing into the brush. “Of course you don’t.”

Scratch bristled. “Of course I don’t what?”

Brella’s nostrils flared. “I keep forgetting you’re a soldier.”

“If you could refrain from making these cryptic little comments about how you disapprove of me being a soldier, never mind that the cornerstone of this excellent plan you have is for me and James to do ‘our thing,’” she curled her fingers in quotations, “and ‘our thing,’” more quotations, “is what we do as soldiers. We fight. You got us so that we could fight. I don’t see what the problem is.”

Brella stared at her for a moment. Then she exhaled, all the fight floating off her body like dew.

“You wouldn’t,” Brella mumbled as she turned away, walking off toward the chatter and firelight of the bandit’s camp.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

If Scratch had lived through a more awkward morning, she couldn’t remember it.

On one side of camp, Brella hunched over a plate of eggs, spooning them into her mouth while Vel looked her over with concern. Across the fire, Lollie silently waved off a band of older Snatchers, several of whom were making a valiant attempt to keep the littlest of the bunch away from their leader. Tension hung over the camp like wet canvas, the atmosphere close and uncomfortable.

Scratch didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Luckily, Temperance spared her the choice, nuzzling into her shirt and making low, mournful noises.

“I don’t want you to go.”