But no one comes to my aid. Maybe they’re all curious. Maybe they’re all obsessed with “parts.”
Would it be awkward for me to crawl under the table and die? Instead I let my rage burn through and glare at him until he blinks and turns away.
“Where’d you get that Godstone?” asks one of the second years.
“Is it true you don’t believe in God?” asks another.
Suddenly the questions are pounding at me so fast I can hardly keep up.
Have you been inside the empress’s private chambers? Have you ever met an animagus? Are you betrothed to anyone? Is it true you like other girls? No, I heard she and Prince Rosario are lovers. How’d you get that funny name? Is it true you used to be a slave?
Their words are a weight, pressing and pressing in until I feel too small to be a real person. I can’t help it: My shoulders hunch, my head droops; I coil in on myself until they’re no longer the ones making me feel small anymore. I’m doing all the work myself.
“Red, are you all right?”
It’s the only question that gets through, and I look up and find Aldo’s peering face. His concern is palpable. Hearing my true name is a lifeline.
I unfurl. And I force a smile for the benefit of everyone around me. When in doubt, smile, Mara always says. Men are stupid. Smiling puts them at ease. “I’m fine,” I tell him, and it almost feels like the truth.
The questions keep coming, but I ignore them, shoving slop into my smiling, smiling face. I don’t know what the afternoon holds, but all these boys are going to regret harassing me when they had a chance to eat.
I don’t wait long before being proved right. Guardsman Bruno calls us to attention. “First years, line up against the wall!”
We do as asked, many leaving their bowls hardly touched. Servants scurry to clear the tables while we mill about, eventually lining up shoulder to shoulder, backs against the stone wall of the mess.
Guardsman Bruno walks down the line, hands clasped behind his back. “We have an opportunity here,” he says. “With so many of us gone, our stable is nearly empty. So you are going to clean it. From top to bottom.”
Someone groans. The second years look on with obvious amusement.
“Empty the stable completely of straw and hay, scrub the floors and walls, oil the hinges, make repairs to the gates, polish the spare tack, reset the rattraps, and replace the entire area with fresh straw.”
“That’s going to take all day,” someone whispers, too loudly.
“And well into the night,” Guardsman Bruno snaps back. “So you’d better get to it. Follow me.”
He leads us down a dark corridor, past another bunk room, and into daylight. We’ve reached the dusty riding arena, which is shared with the palace Guard. The palace itself is at our backs now, a huge edifice rising high to block the worst of the sun’s afternoon rays. Before us is a long narrow stable, huddled up against the walls that encircle the palace grounds. Atop the walls, between crenellations, I glimpse the helmets of palace guards as they walk their rounds.
“That’s a lot of stalls,” Aldo says.
“Thirty-six, to be exact,” Bruno says. “Be grateful we’re not cleaning the army stable. It’s even bigger.”
Horses peek out over the lower doors of a few stalls, hoping our approach means treats or at least a little exercise, and I’m sorry to disappoint them. The majority of stalls are vacant, just like Bruno said.
To the left is an empty wagon. Leaning against it are several pitchforks.
“Any volunteers to polish tack?” Bruno says. The Arturos raise their hands, and he directs them toward a stable hand for guidance.
“And who wants to muck?”
I raise my hand. I did plenty of mucking when I was a little girl living in the free villages. It’s been years, and my memories of that time are foggy, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the body remembers.
Bruno indicates that I should grab a pitchfork, along with Aldo, Valentino, and Pedrón. We are to remove all the straw from the empty stalls and dump it in this wagon, which will haul everything away once we’re finished.
The wooden handle feels rough in my hands. My calluses are different these days—from gripping a sword or dagger, from the string of a bow, from knitting. I hope they hold true.
“You know,” Aldo says as he plunges his pitchfork into a pile of manure, “this Royal Guard thing might be a swindle. Maybe it’s just a way for the crown to get free labor.”
“That’s good, right?” Valentino says. “Keeps our taxes low.” He winces as he bends over. Clumps of manure are already sticking to his beautiful blue silks.
“Go easy, Valentino,” I say. “Work in the back of the stall where the Guards can’t see. We’ll cover for you.”
“No, we won’t,” Pedrón says.
“Yes,” I say, glaring. “We will. Just like we might cover for you someday.”
Pedrón considers this. Then he shrugs and gets to work.
“Thanks, Red,” says Valentino.
An hour later, the wagon isn’t even half full, and a stable hand comes to check our progress. He’s a short fellow with long sideburns and weathered skin, and he sidles so close that I can smell the horse musk on his skin. I resist the urge to step away and make more space for myself.
“Everything all right?” he asks, and his breath smells like something crawled into his mouth and died screaming. “Any questions?”
“We’re fine,” Aldo assures him.
“Glad to hear it.”
I’m considering whether or not to tell him to back off when I feel his hand at my waist. Of their own accord, my fingers bend, my knuckles aim for his windpipe.
I stop myself just in time. Because he’s not taking liberties. He’s slipping something into my pocket. Something light. A note, I’d wager, though I don’t dare pat my pocket to check just now.
“I’ll let Guardsman Bruno know you’re all doing a good job,” he says, and the stable hand walks off, whistling a merry tune.
“That was weird,” Valentino says between pained breaths. He’s tossing out one forkful of straw for every three of ours.
“Hector told me they’d be evaluating us,” I say. “All the time, no matter what we were doing. So I’m sure that stable hand will report back to Bruno for true.” I’m dying to reach into my pocket. The imperial spy network uses pickpockets and sleight of hand to pass messages. Or maybe it’s an enemy, and the note contains a threat.
“You know the prince consort well, do you?” Aldo says.
I freeze, pitchfork raised, unsure how much I should say. Once again, I fall back on the truth. “He was going to be my adopted father, remember?”
“Oh. Right. Well, I thought maybe that was all for show.”
Pain needles my gut, as though Aldo had sifted through my mind for my worst fears, plucked them out, and stabbed me with them. It was all for show.
Valentino says, “My father thought it was a political ploy. To force people to start accepting the Invierno presence in Joya.”
“I’m not an Invern—”
“I’ll never accept Inviernos,” Pedrón says. “Inviernos killed my uncle.”