In the Western Wilds, the people lived in trees. They rested on branches and built their homes among the leaves. She had seen slat bridges stretched between trees like toothy grins, connecting house to house, window to window. And on those bridges she had seen archers, lying flat on their bellies, waiting for the Ivinscontians to tear them down to earth. Spear fighters shocked by daggers, dropping one after the next. They hadn’t come quietly, but they came.

She suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

“Scratch?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She swallowed thickly. Her throat felt tight. “I’m getting tired.”

“We should sleep.” Brella stood, taking her little book with her. “Shall I take first watch?”

“No, I’ll do it.” She managed a weak smile. “I have a lot to think about.”

Brella hesitated. She looked like she was about to reach out, her eyes darting between Scratch’s hand and her own. Instead, she walked to her bedroll and slipped inside.

“Goodnight, Scratch,” she murmured, her eyes already closed.

Scratch settled herself against the tree. She tried to think about what Brella had said, those unjust laws and closed guilds, but her mind had other plans. Each time she blinked, she was back at the Academy, staring down a pudgy, pink boy. And then she hit him. And she hit him and hit him and hit him until he was down and shrieking. And then someone said “She doesn’t have a scratch on her!” and it stuck.

She had thought she knew what that name meant. Now, she was certain she had no idea.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Scratch was in a warm, shabby room. It was late. Darkness awaited outside the drawn curtains, but a fire flared on the hearth, bathing the room in yellow-orange light. A group of people sat in mismatched chairs around the fire, some sipping ale, others chatting in low tones. A tang of apprehension curdled the atmosphere, and every so often eyes darted toward the door, though it remained closed.

“How long should we wait for her?” asked a voice Scratch knew, a voice that meant comfort, even before she could assign it a name.

“Relax, Brella.” She knew that one, too: Vel. “The head maid probably asked her to do some last-minute thing.”

“Doesn’t respect her time,” offered a third person: an old, stout woman who perched on a stool, her body as round and smooth as a puffball mushroom. Her hand shook as she brought a long-stemmed pipe to her mouth and sucked. “Always keeping her after her shift’s over. Never paying her her due.”

“Mrs. Callin, I do hate to rush you,” interjected a young man. He wore spools of thread on each finger like a handful of rings. “But if we wait too long, I think Vel’s gonna wrap me up and eat me like a spider.”

The old woman—Mrs. Callin—clicked her tongue at the man. “Hush, Dale.”