Lena shrugged as she pulled the fourth stitch neatly through the thin skin of the lid. Vigo was a miserable old goat, but she’d come to love him, and she knew he was right. As she leaned forward to make her fifth and last stitch, she felt the weight of the brass butterfly in her pocket. Her secret, ever since she had found it fluttering in the catacombs. She knew if anyone saw it, she’d be accused of stealing grave goods, a terrible crime for a cryptling—but somehow she couldn’t bear to let it go. It was the only thing she had.

“You’d make a good mortician,” said Vigo, limping around the body to inspect her work as she tied the thread and snipped it with a pair of small, sharp scissors. “You’ve got a steady hand, Lena—and you’re quiet, respectful.” She glanced up at him. She could tell his leg was hurting him today—the tension around his eyes and mouth showed itself in hard lines through his pale, papery skin. He had a wooden peg from the knee down, to replace the limb they’d had to amputate, but no matter how hard Lena tried to find him the right kind of padding, and the right sort of salve, the place where it met the stub was nearly always sore.

She smiled at him weakly and shook her head, setting down her needle. She couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t admit that because every option involved working in the crypts for the rest of her life, she didn’t feel like she had a choice at all. Subconsciously, she touched the mark on her face, a black stain as big as a child’s clenched fist. If it weren’t for the mark, she’d be ordinary. Imagine. Where would she be now? Maybe with my parents in a mansion in the upper town, eating sweets and laughing … Lena pictured strong sunlight spilling through tall windows, no cowl to shadow her face. She tilted her head slightly toward the glass roof, imagining how the warmth would feel against her skin.

“Lena?” Master Vigo shot her a concerned glance. “Are you all right?”