Brella sat at the base of a large oak.

“I want to show you something,” she said.

Scratch shuffled over, past the dying embers from the fire they had used to roast the roots and leftover bread they had eaten for dinner. The glen Brella had selected for the night was small and tree-lined, with just enough space for two bedrolls and a tiny fire. They had huddled around the flames, close and giggling, while the sun set around them in pink and orange streaks, and the moon rose, fat and white and eager.

“What is it?”

Brella pulled something small and square out of her apron pocket. “A book.”

“Why is it,” Scratch asked, getting comfortable against the tree, so aware of her body pressed against Brella’s side, “that everyone brought a book but me?”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t plan to be arrested and then broken out of the dungeons and then dragged along on a rescue mission.” Brella sniffed. “Your lack of forethought is appalling.”

“Myriad apologies.”

“Anyway, it’s not just a book.” Brella tapped the cover. “It’s a collection of every decree that’s come out of the castle since the beginning of King Ingomar’s reign.” She indicated the last few pages of the book, which were in noticeably better shape than their brethren. “I add on new ones when I get them.”

“How do you get them?” Scratch carefully took the book from Brella’s hands, holding it in her palms like an unhatched egg. “Decrees are usually read aloud in the city square.”

“I pay someone in the castle.” There was a cocky sparkle in Brella’s voice. When Scratch looked up in openmouthed surprise, she spotted a matching, wicked glint in Brella’s eyes.

“You do?”

Brella nodded. “I have for years.”

“Years?”

“And a very discreet printer.” She snatched back the book, leaving Scratch stunned and empty-handed. “If I had my way, everyone would have one of these.”

“Why? I imagine it’s terribly boring.”

Brella laughed in a soft, smooth sort of way that made Scratch’s stomach clench.

“Shall I read some to you?”

Scratch’s mouth went dry. “There isn’t any light.”

“I have remarkable vision.” Brella opened to a page near the end and cleared her throat. “This paragraph pertains to the citizens of the newly annexed lands, known forthwith as Kyria and the Western Wilds. The parties above indicated shall share in the triumphs of our land as well as our many offerings and spoils. The parties shall therefore be liable for yearly taxation, without exception. For the children, their national status flows from the maternal side, so as for a mixed marriage, the mother of the child provides official blood. In a second generation . . .” She dropped the book. “Scratch, are you listening?”

“Of course.” She stifled a yawn. “Thrilling stuff. Great read.”