Gradually the cheering dies down. The monastery bells cease, though I know they’ll take up again tomorrow and probably every day for a week, as is the tradition when a royal heir is born.
As the noise subsides, an odd muffled sound turns my head. To my right, Aldo is bent over slightly. It takes me a second to understand. He is quietly weeping.
He notices me noticing him and he peers at me through teary, long-lashed eyes. He blinks. Wipes his eyes. Composes himself. “Good news, right?” he says through a timorous smile.
“The best news,” I tell him.
I reach out to pat his shoulder, but he flinches from my touch, and I let my hand drop.
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.