“No. We need something more.”
“Whoever it was had big feet, worn boots, and a slight inward pronation. We should keep an eye out.”
Iván’s brows lift. “Good observations. Hopefully no one will notice us staring at everyone’s feet.”
“So what do we do next? Maybe get a message to Rosario and tell him . . . uh, Iván?”
“Red?”
My gaze has moved beyond him, to the shelves and their disarrayed contents. “Where is that dish full of tamarind candies? Didn’t you put it right back there?” I point.
Iván whirls. He swiftly clears the shelves of remaining items—a pair of socks, a rolled-up belt, an extra shirt—and tosses them onto the bed.
He says, “It’s not here. He must have taken it.”
“Getting rid of evidence?”
“Yes, probably. No, wait, let’s not jump to a conclusion. Maybe he was just ridding the room of molding candy.”
I make a sweeping gesture, indicating the whole chamber. “It’s not like whoever it was showed any care for this place.”
“True.” Iván’s lips press together as though in grim thought. Then he says, “I know your rib hurts more than you admit, so let’s go back to the bunk room so you can rest. While you do that, I’ll find the stable hand and get a message to Rosario.”
“I . . . thank you.” I must admit, this task of sussing out an assassin would be a lot harder if I had to do it alone. “What will you tell him?”
“The prince needs to know the poison isn’t being delivered only through duerma leaf tea—he needs to be testing all his food. And I want to ask him about Swordmaster Santiago. Find out what he thinks of the man.”
“That’s too much for one secret note.” I reach into Bolivar’s desk and grab quill, inkwell, and parchment. I dip the nib, but my first scratch produces nothing. I lick it and try again and finally get a good flow of ink. “We must keep words to a minimum, in case the note is intercepted.” I start scribbling.
“Was that part of your royal education too?”
“Yes.”
I blow on the ink to help it dry and show Iván what I’ve written:
Made small progress on our assignment. When can we meet?—IR
“IR,” he says. “Iván and Red?” When I nod, he adds, “I’ll get this to the stable hand messenger.”
“And the next time we’re given free time, I say we track down Valentino and see what he can tell us.”
“Agreed. Let’s go.”
We reach the bunk room without incident. Two of the Basajuan boys are taking the opportunity to rest in their cots. Aldo is back in Traitors’ Corner, cross-legged on his top bunk. He is staring at his ring—one of his precious three items—but puts it away when the door bangs shut. He looks up and grins to see me, but his grin falters a little when he notes Iván at my side.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks, his gaze shifting between us. “I thought you were going to take a nap.”
“I am. Had something to take care of first. Girl stuff.”
“Oh.” Aldo’s gaze drops back to the cards arrayed on his bed, as though he’s trying not to appear hurt.
Iván says, “I have an errand to run, but I’ll be back soon. The Ciénega del Sur boys are gone now, but I’d rather take precautions. So, with your permission, Red, I’d like to keep watch while you sleep.”
I blink up at him. It’s on my lips to tell him I don’t need watching over, but what comes out of my mouth is: “Actually, that’s a good idea. Thank you.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And with that, he leaves the bunk room to deliver our note.
“You and Iván seem to be getting friendly,” Aldo says cautiously.
I shrug. “Just like you and me, I guess. You know how it is. We denizens of Traitors’ Corner have to stick together.”
“Sure.”
Careful of my wounded rib, I lie on my cot and stretch out. A wave of cramping hits my gut, so sudden and fierce that I gasp.
“Red?” Aldo’s head peers down at me over the edge of his bunk. “You all right?”
I’m curled up in a fetal position now, my hand to my pelvis. My lower back feels as though it’s being squeezed in a carpenter’s vise.
“Oh,” Aldo says. “Your monthly courses.”
“Yes,” I breathe through the pain. “How did you know?”
“Mamá has a difficult time of it. Sometimes her pains are so bad she can’t leave the bed for two days. I used to help her a lot.”
“My pains aren’t that bad. I should be fine after a nap.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Let me sleep.”
His face falls. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, wait. Aldo?”
“Yes, Red?” he says eagerly.
“I need rags. I thought about taking some from the laundry, but—” Another wave of cramps takes my breath away.
Aldo jumps from the bed. “I’ll handle it. Just sleep.”
“Really? I mean . . . thank you.”
I reach into the drawer for my Godstone, then I tuck my back against the wall and pull my ink-stained blanket over my shoulders, making my own tiny cave. Distantly, metal clashes on metal—the second years must be practicing in the arena—and I find the sound oddly soothing.
I never nap; I can barely sleep at night, much less during the day. My cramps are ferocious. I was attacked last night in this very bed. But the soldier sickness knows no reason, and somehow, I feel my muscles relaxing. My bones are heavy; my heart beats with perfect, normal steadiness.
I cradle the Godstone to my chest, close my eyes, and sink into my mattress.
The brass bell clangs, and I spring from the bed before I’m even half awake. It takes a moment for my mind to catch up to my surroundings: The scent of slightly burned porridge indicates that dinner is ready in the mess. Several recruits returned while I slept, and they hurry to re-don their boots. Aldo is back on the top bunk. Iván is here too, as he promised.
At my questioning look, Iván gives his head a slight shake, and my heart sinks. Does that mean he wasn’t able to deliver our message?
“Later,” he mouths, eyeing Aldo.
Iván and everyone else heads toward the mess, and I move to pursue, feeling a little queasy. What went wrong? Are we cut off from communicating with Rosario?
Aldo puts a hand on my shoulder. “Wait, Red.”
He allows time for the other recruits to trickle away, then he reaches under his mattress and pulls out several long rags and a wad of straw. “The quartermaster didn’t have much to spare except this ticking for mattress repairs,” Aldo says. “For now, you can wrap it in these strips. Throw the ticking away when you’re done, but wash and reuse the strips. Mamá always preferred wool to straw. I’ll try to get wool for you later on.”
“Aldo,” I breathe as he hands the pile over to me. “This is perfect. Thank you so . . . wait, this fabric . . .” It’s tightly woven, dyed rich blue with black trim. I’ve seen gowns at Deliverance Day balls that were made of lesser material. “Is this your blanket? The one your mamá made for you?”