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.