They call her Quintana the curse maker. The last female born to Charyn, eighteen years past.

Reginita, she claims to be. The “little queen.” Recipient of the words writ on her chamber wall, whispered by the gods themselves. That those born last will make the first, and blessed be the newborn king, for Charyn will be barren no more.

And so it comes to be that each autumn since the fifteenth day of weeping, a last-born son of Charyn visits the palace in a bid to fulfill the prophecy. But fails each time.

They weep for fear of hurting her. But she has no tears for herself. “Come along,” she says briskly. “Be quick. I’ll try to think of other things, but if your mouth touches mine, I will cut it out.”

Most nights she concentrates on the contours of the ceiling, where light from the oracle’s godshouse across the gravina shines into her chamber. She holds up a hand and makes shapes in the shadows. And inside of her, in the only place she can hide, Quintana sings her song.

And somewhere beyond the stone that is Charyn, the blood of a last born sings back to her.