The woman flashed her teeth, less of a smile than an expression of frustration. At Bitterblue? Or at whoever was making her play this role?

“Don’t you think you’re getting greedy?” she said.

Bitterblue held her eyes for a moment, knowing that this woman probably guessed she couldn’t walk; understanding that she’d placed the bowl on the floor to mimic feeding a pet.

Humiliation is just a feeling, she said to Giddon. You’ve known humiliation. So has Po, and my mother, and practically everyone who’s ever mattered to me. I can know humiliation too.

Carefully, she got out of bed, doing her best to balance, managing a few steps. Finally falling, trying to land on her knees and elbows to spare her hands. Her breath came out in a small cry.

She crawled to the bowl. There was no spoon. It hurt to lift the bowl, but she managed, drinking messily at the woman’s feet. The stew was full of meat and vegetables; it was delicious. But salty. When she’d finished, the woman bent, took the bowl from her, and left, closing and locking the door.

Curling up around her still-growling stomach, Bitterblue wished for a drink to quench her rising thirst.

—

She stayed by the door for a while, curled in a ball, caught up in a realization. That last time Giddon had gone to Estill, to smuggle people through the tunnels. He’d been away for weeks, then come home, fallen into bed. She’d woken him, read him Skye’s letter, gone off to check her records of trade. Come back in a fury about her lost zilfium.

He’d comforted her, planned this trip with her, changed his entire Council schedule to come to Winterkeep with her. And it was a silly thing to realize suddenly, here in this room, ridiculous that it should mean everything suddenly, but—while Giddon was in those tunnels, his birthday had passed. He had an August birthday. It was now October. She’d forgotten all about it. She hadn’t even wished him well.

Giddon, she thought. I’ve been so self-centered. And you never are, ever. You’re unhappy somewhere right now, and I can’t help you.

She forced herself to sit up.

I’m going to get out of this room, and wish you a happy birthday, she thought.

She pushed herself back to the bed.

—

It was strange, wasn’t it, the way she kept falling asleep? Bitterblue began to wonder if she’d been drugged.

She woke yet again, to hunger, thirst, and another peculiar, fox-related thought: that she really, really, really shouldn’t tell anyone about all the foxes she’d seen before.