I’m eating tongue-fruit under the steady watch of stone eyes, sitting on the floor in the room of faces.

The portraits seem to know that I have questions.

But the Sea-Singer’s stare reminds me that it takes a questioning girl to do difficult things. And I can still remember the feeling of singing for someone — for Linna, Linna, Linna. Seeing her eyes light up at the sight of golden birds.

My cheeks ache. I realize I’m smiling. Even the dust, drifting like the tiniest stars imaginable, looks beautiful to me.

Until I hear the ringing.

It’s so loud, it makes the portraits hum against the walls.

And then Bly appears, leaving wet footprints that tell me he’s been at the cave again.

“It’s the Bell of Secrets,” he says. “They ring it when rulers tell hidden truths.”

Hidden truths. Hiddenhall.

Another rumble sounds through stone.

“They ring it a few times in the New Sorrows, then carry it out to the Featherrut —”

But I don’t hear the rest of his words. My thumb smarts. I drop the bowl of tongue-fruit. It lands with a crack on the floor. Dust billows, coats my lips. I run out of the room.

“Wait,” calls Bly. “Running feet are never wise —”

But I cannot answer and I cannot wait. My eyes would show my guilt. Yesterday, there were footsteps in Hiddenhall, and now the Childer-Queen is going to speak a secret.

I know, I know, I know.

She heard me singing.

Everyone has gathered around the Featherrut to hear the Childer-Queen’s announcement.

Wives check their reflections in palmfuls of smoothed gold. Soapstresses follow, some of them holding the hands of small children. Masters laugh, opening their mouths wide enough to take the sun on their tongues. Turnaway girls waft at their sides. Even men who are not Masters have come, their hands calloused, their feet naked. They are the ones who turn shimmer into trays and trinkets, the ones who catch the eels that Mr. Crowwith sends through the skydoor. They are the ones with no musical talent. The ones followed by silence. The ones Blightsenders do not see. The invisibles. I see them. Maybe because my feet were also once cold. Maybe because I know what it is like to see and not be seen.

But I can’t think of them now — men and boys who know salt and dirt and metal far better than I. Because the sea is coming for me.

I push past waists and jutting hips, hard backs and soft bellies, to get a clearer view. An old Master spills his drink — tongue-fruit juice, red and sticky — on my shoulder. He says, “Excuse me, miss,” before he sees I’m a turnaway girl, his eyes falling on my pierced ear, his face contorting into a look of disgust. “Get out of the way,” he grunts. I push on until I can see into the Featherrut through a clash of elbows, staying hidden.

Hiddenhall.

Don’t tell.

Mr. Crowwith waits in the middle of the sunken feather shape, a large golden bell at his side. He clangs a hammer against its shining patterns, and the sound rings out again. It’s a beautiful sound, but Mr. Crowwith looks as though he’s biting down on a knife.

The Childer-Queen appears then, walking past the statue of Rullun Harpermall and stepping down the three stairs that lead into the Featherrut. Her gold shoes tread the ground so quietly that she seems to be floating. The First Mother would be proud. She makes her way toward Mr. Crowwith. The people of Blightsend sigh for her, reaching out to brush her sleeves, which are sewn with iridescent fish scales. Her dress is the color of sea foam. The veil over her face is stiff as a cage.

When she reaches his side, Mr. Crowwith rings the bell again, wincing.

“Today,” says the Childer-Queen, “is the Festival of Secrets. This evening, you will send confessions out to sea. But the morning is set aside for my hidden truth.”

The Festival of Secrets.

Sounds like a good day for a singing girl to die.

“The Festival of the Sea-Singer always gives me nightmares,” the Childer-Queen continues. “Last night, I crept out of bed without anyone knowing.” All the Masters cheer, lifting their hands and clapping. The bells on their sleeves chime viciously. Wives and soapstresses whisper and nod their approval. Turnaway girls are silent. Everyone thinks the secret is over.

But the Childer-Queen keeps talking. “The night had cleared of clouds. I wanted to see the stars.”

Whoops and bell-sounds dwindle.

“As I was walking,” she says, “I heard a magnificent voice, singing. It seemed to rise from nowhere. From below the ground.”

Below the ground.

Hiddenhall.

And still I wait for the Childer-Queen to tell her secret. Still I wait for her to declare my death.

Mr. Crowwith rubs his jaw as though he has a toothache.

“And the strangest thing occurred to me,” continues the Childer-Queen. “The voice. It sounded. It sounded like the —”

But the Childer-Queen doesn’t get to finish her sentence. Because Mr. Crowwith takes her hand, squeezing her fingers hard enough for her to cry out. She tries to pull away, but he bends to whisper in her ear. He grabs her arm and shoves her away from the Bell of Secrets, up the steps and out of the Featherrut, through the parting crowd and back toward Sorrowhall. She struggles and struggles, but he pushes her on.

Masters clap uncertainly, their sleeves shimmering with bells. Wives fix their skirts, kissing one another’s cheeks, as if they’re sharing secrets of their own. They clip off on their wooden heels. Soapstresses shuffle. Turnaway girls are led away.

I’m cold inside, like I’ve swallowed a raw eel. But I’m alive, alive. The sea won’t take me today. I trip through the clamor. All I want is to get away from the Featherrut. Away from everything. Away from Blightsend.

But I know that’s as stupid as wishing a caged bird into flight.

No one leaves this place — not princes and not Childer-Queens. Not even birds with gloss-sweeping wings. Let alone a questioning girl with nothing but secrets and fear in her pockets.