“Of course I did.” She pulled a frayed thread at the corner of her apron. “I know I was unreachable. When I was . . . crying, I mean. If you needed me for anything.”

“But I didn’t.” Scratch reached out, laying a hand on Brella’s. She took it as a victory that Brella didn’t flinch away. “You saved us. You and Vel, calling Nana. And if you hadn’t gotten Hester—”

“Hester.” She licked her teeth. “That was his name? The man I killed?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t worth telling Brella how mediocre Hester had been, how mean and petty, even as early as the Academy. He was still a person. That was the rub of it. No matter who you killed, no matter how antithetical to your needs their living was, they were always people. “Hester. And, Brella, of course you felt . . . bad.” Brella was right: soldiers really weren’t poets. “This was your first kill.”

Brella snatched her hand back, face paling. “My first?”

“Maybe your only one. I just, I mean that we’re on a rescue mission to get Frances. We don’t know what we’ll run into. You might have to—but hopefully not.” The last bit of color drained from Brella’s face. “This could be it. One and done.”

A line of tension appeared by the corner of her mouth. “One and done?”

“I don’t mean—” She cursed herself. “I just mean that everyone’s first kill is difficult. When I had my first—”

“How many people have you killed, Scratch?”

The question hit with the abruptness of a blast of sunlight. Her eyes stung, angry tears gathering that she dared not spill.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t—”

“A lot, okay? I’ve been in the King’s Guard for years. I’ve killed people.”

Brella’s nostrils flared. “You don’t know how many?”