20

Then

“GO on then,” Orlín said, raising his hand to strike her.

Mula flinched and darted out of the kitchen doorway, where the innkeeper had been lying in wait for her. It had been a whole day, and she still hadn’t spied out their guests’ supplies.

Reluctantly, she dragged herself back up the stairs to the dormer rooms. The scents of fresh-baked bread and leek soup and dogmeat stew followed her from the kitchen, tortured her, as she crept toward one of the doors.

She was a hollow girl, she’d known it for some time, but there was nothing like hunger to remind a body. It felt as though emptiness clawed at her, threatening to eat her away.

The two men had left in the morning, Orlín had assured her. The south-facing room should be empty. Mula put her ear to the door and listened. Nothing.

The door pushed open easily. She peeked inside. Relief flooded her, for the room was empty save for two cots and a single bulging travel pack. She closed the door silently behind her and tiptoed forward.

The pack was made of thick leather, with a flap that tied it closed. She fumbled with the knot, flipped it open.

The most amazing smell she had ever smelled walloped her in the face. Saliva swamped her mouth.

She reached inside, rummaged through, until she found it. Dried leaves wrapped around something glorious, something magical. She peeled them back and drew in breath.

It was dried meat. Nothing more. But it smelled better than any dried meat she’d ever had. She couldn’t help herself. Her hands brought the meat to her mouth of their own accord. She bit down. Flavor exploded on her tongue.

It was venison, still a little tender, smoked and salted, cured with a bit of sugar and something else she couldn’t identify. She could eat this forever. Every day for the rest of her—

A rough hand gripped her shoulder, spun her around. She almost choked on the venison.

“Hello, little thief,” said the Joyan man with the eye patch.

Mula couldn’t say anything back. Her mouth was too full.

He snatched the rest of the meat from her hand. “Come with me,” he said, and he dragged her across the hallway to the other room.

The two women were inside, sitting on their cots, the Invierno standing over them. “Look what I just found,” said the eye-patch man, thrusting the girl forward. She tumbled to her knees, scurried across the floor to the wall, where she huddled as small and tight as she could get. “She was after this.” He held up the packet of meat.

The girl could finally swallow. She said, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to steal! It was a black thought, and I tried to make it go away, but it smelled so—”

The plump woman reached for her, but Mula flinched away, knocking her head against the wall.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” the fine lady said. “Here. Have more.” She grabbed some meat from the pack, tossed it at Mula.

The girl snatched it from the air, shoved it into her mouth quick. The taste made her want to weep.

“Look at me,” the fine lady said, and Mula tried, but it was terrifying, looking into those deep brown eyes that were trying to see inside her. “If you weren’t there to steal, why were you in that room?”

Mula froze.

“Did the innkeeper put you up to it?”

Mula said nothing. The fine lady grabbed another piece of meat and tossed it to her.

The girl snatched it from the air, shoved it into her mouth.

“Mula? Is that your name?”

The girl shrugged, chewing as fast as she could. This was the most food she’d eaten at one time in as long as she could remember.

“Please answer my question. It’s an easy one, yes?”

Mula said, “I wanted to know what merry jam smelled like.” There. A partial truth. Not so bad to say.

Gently, the tall woman said, “But did Orlín put you up to it?”

They weren’t going to let it go. “No. I did it my own self.” But her words were shivery and she couldn’t make herself look the fine lady in the eye, no matter how hard she tried. The lie echoed in the room around her. Shame clogged her throat.

The Invierno had been silent until now. He leaned forward and said, “God hates liars.”

Yes, Mula agreed silently. And me most especially.

The fine lady rose from the cot and began to pace in the tiny room, turning and turning and turning, a thumbnail between her teeth. Finally she whirled, faced the eye-patch man. “We have to leave. We can’t risk staying.”

“No!” Mula said, scrambling to her feet. “He’ll say it’s my fault! He’ll . . . If you stay, you can bleed me. Right now. For free.”

“What?” said the tall woman.

Before Mula could explain, the eye-patch man grabbed her shoulder. “You’re staying right here until we’re packed up, with everything accounted for.”

“Careful, Belén,” said the tall woman. “She’s just a little girl.”

“I’m not! I’m big!” said Mula, squirming, but the eye-patch man held her fast.

They gathered and sorted and organized with incredible efficiency. Within moments, they were cloaked and booted, packs slung over their shoulders. Together, they hurried down the stairs, Mula trapped in the middle like a sausage in a blanket.

The common room had filled with villagers coming in for their evening ale. The air was wet and hot with hard-worked bodies. Two men Mula recognized from the market stood in the corner, playing their vihuelas. A few people clapped along.

Orlín wove through the crowd toward them, a wide, false grin on his face. Mula knew that grin. It meant he was on the edge of rage. He just needed a little push.

“Some ale for you all?” he asked cheerfully, but his eyes roved their full packs. “I also have dandelion wine in the cellar, which we save for our higher class of customer.”

“We’re leaving,” said the fine lady.

Mula didn’t see the blow coming, but suddenly, she was on the floor, blood leaking into her eye from a gash on her forehead. The room swam. She clutched for the nearest bench, trying to make sense of the world.

“What did you do?” Orlín advanced on her. “Were you caught stealing again, you filthy little rat—”

The music ceased. The laughter was whisked away as if by a wind. Stools scraped. Embers popped in the hearth.

“Leave her be,” said a quiet, deadly voice.

Mula peered at the innkeeper, blinking. It took a moment to parse what she was seeing: the tall woman, her lips at Orlín’s ear, her dagger at Orlín’s throat.

The plump woman in fancy braids looked on, horrified. She whispered, “Oh, Mara, what have you done?”

The knob in Orlín’s throat bobbed against the dagger. “It’s the height of rudeness,” he said calmly, “to threaten a man in his own home.”

“It’s worse to beat an innocent child,” said the tall woman named Mara.

“The mule is mine,” the innkeeper said. “I can do whatever I wish with it. Do you tell the cook to be gentle with the turnips?”

Mara pressed the dagger into his skin. Blood welled at the tip.

Mula wanted to run, as far and fast as she could. She’d seen enough common-room brawls to know it was always the littlest ones who got hurt. The weakest. The ones who tried to hide under the table. The ones who couldn’t get away because their heads were pounding and their vision was blurry.

Besides, Mula knew something no one else did. The fancy braided lady had a sparkle stone. If she wanted to, she could burn the whole place down.

The silence grew long.

Finally the plump lady said, “Mula! How much did this man pay for you?”

The girl had no idea. The day she was sold to Orlín was one of the gaps in her memory. She thought hard. Did she imagine that she remembered the glint of copper as it clinked into the monster lady’s hand?

Just a few coppers, then. She was sure of it. Pride made her say, “Three . . . three silvers.”

The fancy lady turned to Orlín. “I’ll buy her from you.”

Mula gasped. Everyone in the common room began to murmur.

Carefully, the woman named Mara lowered her dagger. A slow smile spread across Orlín’s face.

He said, “I fed the mule, raised it, clothed it. I can’t let it go for less than eight silvers.”

The fancy lady frowned. “I need to do some trading to come up with that much coin. How about I give you three silvers now, to feed her and care for her tonight, and seven more when I fetch her in the morning?”

Ten silvers! It was an unheard-of price for a slave, even one who could be bled for a few coppers once in a while.

“Deal!” Orlín said.

They spat into their hands and shook on it.

The fancy lady crouched down and peered into the girl’s face. Even though the room was spinning, the girl saw gentleness in her eyes.

“You bought me,” Mula said, her voice full of wonder. “You bought me!”

“No! I didn’t buy . . . just . . . stay strong. I’ll be back for you in the morning.”

The fancy lady and her companions swept out of the common room, into the cold night. Mula stared after them. Light filled her soul. The vihuelas picked up where they left off, and it felt like they were singing just for her.

Finally she could bear it no longer, and she yelled to anyone who might listen, “Did you see that? A fine lady bought me! I’m going to be the slave of a fine lady!”

Mula did not sleep one bit that night. She gave up eventually, sat on her bedroll, brought her knees to her chest, and went over that moment again and again in her head. A pair of kind eyes looking deep inside her, really seeing her, telling her to stay strong. I’ll be back for you in the morning.

Orlín did not keep his word, refusing to feed her breakfast. Then he demanded that she remove the shift she was wearing. She didn’t care. As soon as it was light, she bounced naked out the door to wait on the stoop. She saw them in the distance, at the edge of the trading square. They were checking over the horses, strapping packs to their saddles, talking among themselves.

Fear shot through her like an arrow. Maybe they had forgotten about her. Or maybe it had all been a lie, and they didn’t intend to take her with them at all. Joyans are known for lying, Orlín always said.

Her legs twitched to run after them, to beg them to take her away, and she was just about to give in when the fine lady and her companions began walking toward her.

“Where are your clothes?” the lady demanded.

“You bought me,” Mula said. “You didn’t buy my clothes.”

The fine lady took a deep breath. She sent the eye-patch man into the inn to settle their agreement with Orlín.

The tall woman, Mara, said, “I’ll go fetch her something to wear,” and she hurried off.

The Invierno man stared down at the girl, and Mula stared right back. She’d once killed a man who looked very much like him.

He’d cut the false black out of his hair, and now it was close shorn and yellow-white. “Are you a . . .” She almost said “White Hair,” but then she remembered the Invierno word. “An animagus?” He had a sparkle stone too, she was almost sure of it, but it didn’t sing to her the same way as the one the fine lady was hiding. “You look like an animagus. But your hair is ugly.”

The Invierno bristled. “I am a pr—”

“Storm!” the fine lady snapped. More gently, she said to Mula, “Storm is my dear friend, and you will mind him always.”

“Oh, yes,” Mula said. “I will mind perfectly. You are going to be so glad you bought me.”

The woman just stared down at her. She obviously didn’t believe the girl.

“I can cook a little!” she said, quick before the lady could have any regrets. “I can clean, scrub laundry. I’m good at changing rushes, fetching water. I’m big, so I can carry a lot of firewood.”

“How old are you?” the fine lady asked.

Mula shrugged.

“Do you have a name besides Mula? I don’t want to call you that. No one should call anyone that.”

“Sometimes Orlín calls me Rat.”

“What about before you were with Orlín? You had a mother, yes? What did she call you?”

Mula was sad to disappoint her new master so soon, but she said the truth anyway: “I don’t remember.”

The fine lady frowned deeply. “A little girl ought to have a proper name.”

“Like what?”

“How about you name yourself?”

Mula’s mouth dropped open. “For true?”

“For true.”

“Anything?”

“Anything you want.”

The Invierno called Storm leaned forward. “A name is a grave matter.”

Mula nodded. “I will think hard about it.”

The fine lady smiled. She had a beautiful smile, soft and kind and wise. “Just let me know when you’ve decided.”

Mara returned with a blouse for her, which fell all the way to her knees. They lifted her onto one of the horses—a giant near-black creature that danced in place—and the girl was too filled with wonder and amazement to be even a little bit scared.

They rode east, away from the village.

The girl dared to ask, “Where are we going? Joya d’Arena is west. . . .”

“A very good friend of mine is missing,” said the fine lady. “We have to find him. His name is Hector, and you will like him very much.”

“I’m big,” the girl said solemnly. “I can help.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Mara, riding beside them.

“By the time we find him,” the fine lady said, “we can introduce you using your new name.”

She was going to have a name! A true name. A perfect name. Something a little bit Joyan, but a little bit Invierno too, just like her. It would be the most beautiful name she could think of. The strongest name she could think of.

Mountain jays called after them, and a crisp breeze whisked the clouds through a cornflower sky, heralding a crystal-sharp winter. The girl who would never be called Mula again felt the hollow space inside her filling up, with hope and warmth and maybe even her very own self.