“My mother’s house.” Scratch gave up, flopping onto the floor, crossing her legs. Brella reluctantly joined her, slowly lowering herself onto the oversized wooden planks. “It wasn’t great.”

Brella raised her eyebrows in dawning awareness. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I bought her a new house so she’d stop harping on about everything I needed to be grateful for. The things she supposedly did for me.” Scratch sucked in some air. It shuddered through her. “I send her money so she doesn’t have to . . .” She absently scratched a line across her thigh. “Work.”

“What sort of work?”

“Trade.” She shrugged. “When she worked in brothels, it was okay. But when she had men in the house, I didn’t really have anywhere to go. I liked the brothels, though. We always had food.”

“You were hungry.”

Scratch nodded. “The Academy recruiter saw me nicking apples. Thought I looked trainable.”

“You looked hungry.”

She turned her face to Brella’s. There was something new there, strange and soft. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I—Scratch.” Brella furrowed her brow, considering. Then she reached out. “Can I?” Scratch held her hands open, and Brella clasped them loosely, so gently. Brella’s hands were warm and rough, bigger than her own, with very square, very clean nails. “I want to do this with you. The blood bond. It’s my choice. I’m making it.”

Shock struck her, cold and then warm, seeping into her shoulders and down to her ribs. “But you hate soldiers.”

“You’re not a soldier anymore.”

Scratch tried to pull her hands back, but Brella gripped, firmly, keeping them in place. “You’re not, Scratch. Not anymore.”

“I could be again,” she insisted, and tugged.

“Do you want that?” Brella asked. Her fingers were strong on Scratch’s palms, digging down into the flesh. “Really. Think about it. For that king? The king who denied you the promotion you deserved.”

“Not for him. For her!”

Brella let go so abruptly that Scratch nearly tipped over backward.

“For her?” Brella asked, stunned.

“Frances.” Heat rushed to her face. She cast her eyes down, feeling stupid and juvenile. “I know it sounds . . . wishful. I just thought that if we brought her back and the people knew, or we told people . . . I don’t know, that their king was corrupt? They like Frances, I know they do. We could keep her safe. And she could . . .” She winced. “Take the throne?” she squeaked.

Brella didn’t move for so long that Scratch was sure the magic of the room had frozen her in place. Then, her lips curled into a small smile, then bigger, showing her teeth, and she was laughing, gulping in air as she whooped and giggled.

Scratch pouted. “It’s not that funny.” She hunched into herself, crossing her arms over her chest.