a man named Orlín who had bought her from the monster woman over a year ago. Life was better at the inn, even though she worked sunup to sundown. Even though shiny callus rings on her wrists and ankles indicated that she was tied to her cot each night after her work was done.
A good worker, the monster woman had said, as she and Orlín agreed upon a price. But sometimes she tries to escape.
Mula knew these things had happened the same way she knew that the desert became hot in summer—it was assured, incontrovertible knowledge, even though she couldn’t place herself there. She didn’t actually remember.
When her basket was full, she began pulling herself up the steep stone steps leading to the kitchen. Halfway up, she stopped, gasping.
Because the back of her neck was prickling, and her limbs hummed with energy. It was almost like a song in her blood.
Familiarity grated at her. She had felt this before; she was sure of it. But when? Sometime while she lived with the monster woman? No, it was before that. Mula thought hard.
Flames engulfing a wooden shelf. Smoke making her lungs scream. A sizzling puddle of blood . . .
The basket fell from her hand. Turnips and meat strips spilled, toppled down the stairs, plunked onto the damp dirt floor. She hardly noticed.
Her hands shook, and she couldn’t get enough breath. A sorcerer was somewhere in the village. Maybe even here at the inn. And he had a sparkle stone with him.
She had to hide. If an animagus saw her, he would surely burn her. He would know, just by looking at her guilty face, that she had stabbed another animagus once, stabbed him so bad he died.
Mula half ran, half tripped down the steps, ignoring the spilled, dirt-encrusted turnips. She ducked beneath the stair and lodged herself in a tiny space behind a mead barrel. The girl pulled her knees to her chest and held herself in the tightest, smallest ball.
Her skin continued prickling. Her blood continued to sing, making her limbs twitch and her pulse race. She squeezed her eyes tight but couldn’t keep the tears from leaking out.
Hours later, the cook found her.
“There you are, you lazy half-breed,” he said. He had yellow teeth and foul breath, and arms so skinny a girl would never guess he spent so much time tasting food. He scooted the heavy mead barrel aside and grabbed her by the ear. “Out with you. Gather up the turnips and the meat, scrape off the dirt as best you can, and get yourself up to the kitchen. Do it quickly and I won’t tell Orlín you’ve been shirking.”
But the sorcerer was still nearby. She could feel it in her bones. “I . . . can’t.”
He backhanded her across the face, so hard she crashed against the mead barrel, bruising her spine. She struggled to her feet, put a hand to her stinging cheek.
“Disobey one more time and there’ll be a whipping in it for you, and nothing but bread crust for a week. Now get to work.”
She bent to retrieve the fallen basket. She grabbed a turnip, wiped it against her sleeve to clean it, and placed it inside.
Satisfied, the cook began to climb the stairs.
“Wait,” Mula called out in a trembling voice.
The cook turned.
“Is the bad man up there? Inside the inn?”
“Huh? Oh, you mean the White Hair?”
Mula nodded.
“He’s finishing up a bowl of stew. Might stay the night.”
The girl froze. Her ears were ringing now. Her face and neck filled with heat.
“Is that why you’re shirking? You’re afraid of the White Hair?”
“Y . . . yes.”
The cook gave her a sympathetic look. “Can’t say I blame you. I try to steer clear myself. Better get used to it, though, because war is coming, mark my words. And when the White Hairs march their Invierno army west to Joya d’Arena, we’re going to see plenty of them.”
Mula gaped at him. An army of monsters led by sorcerers. Something like that could burn down the whole world.
“You’re lucky, mule girl,” the cook said. “To live here in one of the free villages. We may not have nice roads or fancy castles, and sure, trying to farm these mountain slopes is like coaxing grain from a stone, but at least we’re left alone. Better to break your back bettering your own life than to die in some fancy lord’s war, hear?”
“Hear,” Mula whispered. She wasn’t lucky, no matter what the cook said. She had never