Lucian called together the Monts in the meeting place of Yata’s house. It was the home he grew up in with his father, but three years past, he had decided it was best for Yata and her sisters to live there and for him to find a smaller cottage.

He hadn’t called many meetings in his time as leader, but he had spent too many sleepless nights thinking of what Kasabian had told him by the stream, and he knew it was time to speak to the lads and their families.

“So now the valley is theirs,” his cousin’s wife, Alda, snapped. “That is all it takes. They arrive on our doorstep, and we allow them to restrict our lads from entering land that rightfully belongs to us.”

There were sounds of disgust around the room, and Lucian tried to make eye contact with anyone who might take his side. Perhaps his cousin Yael or his neighbor Raskin.

“They damaged much-needed produce, Alda,” Lucian said with patience. “They pissed in the stream in front of the women.”

Some of the Monts laughed. Alda stood. Now she had an audience, and Lucian knew he was in trouble.

“And you’re telling me,” she said, looking around for support, “that you never once crossed the river from Osteria to Charyn in the ten years we were up in those hills? That you never once destroyed Charynite property or relieved yourself in the river.”

Lucian sighed. “That was different.”

There was a chorus of disapproval at his words.

“How different?” Alda yelled. “How were you different from our lads?”

He thought a moment. “Different in the sense that our Charyn neighbors in the hills of Osteria were part of their army. But our Charyn neighbors now are exiles themselves. Can I remind everyone that we took that hill in Osteria without the permission of the Osterians, yet they allowed us to stay?”

“How dare you compare,” Alda shouted.

“Lucian, our people were in exile!” Miro, his father’s dearest friend, said. “These people aren’t.”

“And may I also add that our lads were not interested in the valley until the Charynites moved there,” Lucian said.

“You started this,” Alda said. “By going to Alonso and returning wed to that idiot Charynite girl. A disgrace to the memory of your mother, Lucian. A disgrace, and it’s made us the laughing-stock of the kingdom. ‘The wife Lucian sent back,’” she mimicked. “Do you hear them mocking Lord August of the Flatlands or the elders of the Rock village in such a way?”

Lucian clenched his fists with rage.

“The pact was made between my father and hers, and I honored it in my father’s memory,” he said, fury lacing his words.

“Says who?” his cousin Gwendie called. “Who heard of this pact except for the girl’s father? You’re gullible, Lucian. And weak, and you believe anything the enemy says. Shame on you.”

“Shame,” the others shouted.

“Your father died at the hands of a Charynite,” Alda hissed. “Shame on you.”

She walked out with her sons in tow.

“Give him a chance,” Yael called out. He was Jory’s father, and regardless of what was said tonight, Lucian knew Jory would have his ears boxed by both his ma and fa when he got home.

“We’ve given him enough chances,” Pitts the cobbler said. “What has he done to keep the enemy from the foot of our mountain? Nothing! He can’t even find the culprit behind Orly’s bull going missing every night. How hard is that, Lucian? It’s a bull with more brains than you have.”

Lucian’s eyes met Yata’s, and he saw pain there. Please don’t be disappointed, Yata. Please, he begged silently.

He swallowed hard. “I stand by what I say. I don’t care what you think of them. I didn’t think I cared what I thought of them. I still don’t. But I care what I think of us, and when one of their men gave me a lesson on how they would like their women treated . . . well, it shamed me. And it made me realize that I did care and that Saro would be horrified?”— his eyes met Jory’s —“and disappointed that our lads would treat the women of any kingdom in such a way. You may say shame on me for believing what the enemy says, but I say shame on all of us if we condone the behavior of our lads.”

There was silence a moment.

“The lads do not enter the valley,” he said firmly. “And if any of you have issue with my ruling, I will send a message to beloved Isaboe and have this mountain put on curfew.”

He pushed past the crowd and left the courtyard.

Phaedra of Alonso sat by the stream that evening and wrote a letter to Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands. It had been a week since a horse and cart had arrived from the village of Sennington with a letter and a gift.

Phaedra had read the letter to Kasabian and Cora as they studied the object at the back of the cart.

“What does it all mean?” Kasabian asked.

“Well, here in her letter, Lady Beatriss writes that she used to cook for her village, but she no longer needs it and I should put it to good use.”

It was an oversize clay pot, which took three men to remove from the cart and place on the ground.

“There,” she said, pointing where a campfire was set up beside the stream.

“What are we going to do with it?” Cora asked.

Phaedra thought a moment. “I think we’ll make pumpkin soup.” She looked up at the caves where some of the camp dwellers were staring down at them. “And invite the whole village.”

Later that day, Phaedra crossed the stream with a bowl of soup in her hands and held it out to Tesadora, who sat with the girls cooking trout over an open fire. Tesadora studied it.

“I don’t eat orange food.”

“That’s silly,” Phaedra said, wondering where she got the courage to call Tesadora silly. “You eat green food and red food.”

“Orange is a ridiculous color for food, I say.”

“I’ll have a taste,” the Mont girl named Constance said. Somehow Tesadora had inherited two Mont girls who had come down one day with Phaedra’s Mont husband and never returned home. “I’m sick and tired of fish.”

Phaedra held out the spoon, and the girl slurped it, making a face. “Something is missing.”

Constance jumped up from where she sat and searched around their herb garden before coming back with a small leaf that she began to shred, stirring it into her soup. Constance tasted it again and nodded with approval, handing it to Japhra.

“Strange,” Japhra said. She didn’t speak much. Phaedra had heard someone say she had a gift when it came to cures, but that the Charynite soldiers had broken her inside.

Japhra held it out to Tesadora. “I’ve seen you eat carrots,” she teased. “They’re orange.”

Tesadora took a spoonful of the soup and swallowed. “Tomorrow we’ll show you how a soup is made,” was all she said.

The next night, even Rafuel’s mysterious men had left their cave and Tesadora’s herbs gave a fragrance to the soup that had the more reserved Charynites coming back for seconds.

“You’re sure I’m not poisoning you?” Tesadora called out to one of the camp dwellers who had refused to see her. “Because if I’m not poisoning your food, perhaps you can come and see me about that open sore on your arm.”

The night after that, they made a fish stock that caused much flatulence and even more laughter.

And so it was that Lady Beatriss’s boiling pot became the reason the cave dwellers came out in the open and began to speak to their neighbors. Phaedra drew up a roster, and each night it was a different person’s turn to cook, and sometimes she’d see them venture over the stream to speak to the Lumaterans about recipes. Later, Phaedra completed her letter and showed it to Cora.

“Ask her if she has any need for her bread oven,” Cora demanded.

But Phaedra did no such thing, and it was only after she sent the letter through her Mont husband that she wondered what had possibly happened to Lady Beatriss’s village that would mean she no longer had use for the pot.

Lady Beatriss read Phaedra’s letter in the palace village three days later. She was there with Vestie, collecting some fabric for a dress she promised to make her for Princess Jasmina’s second birthday. She could see outside the shop to where Vestie was speaking to some of the children, but the next moment Vestie was running off and Beatriss looked out to see her daughter fly into Trevanion’s arms. He was with two of his Guard.

Beatriss went outside, but she took a moment before she approached and acknowledged them all politely.

“We’ll speak later,” Trevanion said to his men, dismissing them. Her eyes caught his and he looked away, his attention on Vestie. But Beatriss had seen the dark flash of desire she recognized from their years together.

“Is the cart close by?” he asked quietly, taking Vestie’s hand.

“Just at the smithy,” Beatriss said.

“I’ll walk you there.”

Beatriss didn’t have the strength to argue.

“A piggyback,” Vestie pleaded, and he bent down so she could climb on.

As they walked alongside each other, Beatriss felt the coarseness of his arm beside hers.

“You don’t seem yourself,” he said, and she heard regret in his voice.

“I’m not quite sure I know who myself is anymore,” she said sadly. Who was Beatriss of the Flatlands without her village? Without her sorrow? Without Trevanion of the River?

When they reached the buggy, he lifted her up to the seat of the cart and she felt her lips against his throat, heard his ragged breath. She would have given anything to hold on a moment longer. When she was settled, he hugged Vestie to him and placed her beside Beatriss.

“The queen speaks of having Vestie come stay and help with Jasmina. She’s becoming a handful.”

“It’s the age,” she said quietly. “Tell the queen we’ll speak of it soon.”

She rode away, all too aware of how long he stood waiting. Vestie waved until her arm was weary, then was quiet for most of the journey.

“Is there something wrong?” Beatriss asked, staring out at the village of Sayles where a plow team was at work preparing one of the fields for planting. Even the awful smell of cow dung in the air was progress. A richly fertilized field would produce a good crop, and Beatriss could not help comparing the emptiness of her village to this one.

“Mama?”

“Yes, my love.”

“What’s an abon . . . abobination?”

“A what?” Beatriss said, looking down at her daughter. Sometimes Beatriss thought she’d never see anything so magical as her child’s face. It made her think of the poor cursed Charynites. How strange it was to feel pity for a people who had been the enemy for so long.

“Abobination.”

“You mean abomination. Why?”

“Kie, son of Makli of the Flatlands, called me one today. He said . . . He said I don’t have a father and that I’m an abob . . . abomination.”

The air seemed to whoosh out of Beatriss’s body, and she steadied herself, fighting not to react.

“It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

Beatriss forced a smile. “He was just being silly, my love.”

But Beatriss could not allow it to rest and that afternoon, when Vestie was learning her letters with Tarah, she rode her horse to the home of Makli, whose farm was in Fenton. Makli and his family were exiles, and Beatriss had had little to do with them since the kingdom was reunited. She knocked firmly on their door and waited. When Makli’s wife, Genova, answered, the woman looked taken aback.

“Lady Beatriss,” she said politely.

“I was wanting to speak to both you and your husband,” Beatriss said firmly, trying to keep the quiver from her voice. How many times had she heard Tesadora mock her in the days when they first became friends? “How can you fight the world with a quiver in your voice, Beatriss of the Flatlands?”

Makli came to the door and stood behind his wife. “Is there a problem, Lady Beatriss?”

“Actually, there is. Your son spoke a word to my Vestie today. He called her an abomination, and I presume that a wee boy would not know such a word without having heard it from an adult. A boy his age would not understand the absence of a father in my child’s life unless he heard it spoken in his home.”

“I’m not sure I like what you’re accusing, Lady Beatriss,” the woman said stiffly.

“And I’m not sure I like hearing my daughter ask me what such a word means,” Beatriss said, and there it was. The quiver. “And I would ask you to refrain from speaking my business in front of your boy or I will report it as slander.”

She walked away. Report it as slander? Was there such a thing? Would she go to Trevanion and Isaboe and say, Makli of the Flatland has slurred my name in front of his family, and I want him banished from the kingdom?

“I don’t like your threat, Lady Beatriss,” Makli called out.

“Leave it, Makli,” his wife said. “Come inside.”

“Don’t come here again threatening us. Someone like you,” Makli said.

Beatriss stopped in her tracks and turned around, then walked back up to their cottage door.

“Someone like me?” she asked.

Makli pointed a finger at her face, and his wife pulled him back.

“I say that if she is the daughter of a Charynite,” he hissed, “she is an abomination, and if she is the daughter of a Lumateran, then you are a liar. Those of you who were trapped inside always believe you had it worse, but what are we to believe?”

“How dare you!” she cried.

“I dare because good people like Lord Selric and his family lost their lives in exile,” he shouted, “and no one celebrates their bravery or thinks to take care of those who have survived in Fenton.”

“Enough, Makli,” his wife said.

“Yet all we hear of is how brave those trapped inside were. Brave Lady Beatriss. Well, perhaps brave Lady Beatriss was not as virtuous as they say. Perhaps she spread her legs for every Charynite or Lumateran who sang her praises.”

Beatriss slapped his face with a cry, and it stung her hand. Makli’s wife closed her eyes a moment, an expression of regret on her face.

“How could you possibly want to compete about who suffered most?” Beatriss said sadly. “For if you want to covet that prize, take it! Take it, but don’t bring my child into your bitterness.”

Later, Beatriss sat on the front step of the long house with Tarah and Samuel.

“Perhaps one more time,” she said quietly to Samuel. “We’ll try one more time, and it may just be the three of us. If it doesn’t work, I’ll have to let you both go.”

“We’ll go where you go, Lady Beatriss,” Samuel said. “There’s plenty of work in town, so if you go to town, we’ll be there with you. But if you say let’s try one more time, then we’ll work these fields one more time. And if you say ten more times, then we’ll work the land ten more times.”

Beatriss looked away, fighting tears. She gripped their hands.

“I’m forgetting what the truth is, friends,” she said.

“We were here, Lady Beatriss. We saw it all, so when you forget what the truth is, you come to us and we’ll remind you.”

In the days that followed, Beatriss could see the sadness on her child’s face as more of their neighbors left the village.

“I was thinking of a special treat, my love,” she said to Vestie one morning. “You could go to the palace and stay with Isaboe and Jasmina.”

“And Trevanion?”

“Of course.”

And on the day Vestie left, the blackness inside Beatriss was so fierce that she didn’t have the strength to get up the next morning. Or the morning after that. Or the morning after that.