watch their princess pass. There was no fanfare. Far from it. Women stood with crossed arms, eyes tracking the progress of the group. Children peered out of alleys, expressions feral and hungry. Lydia felt hunted, imagining corrupted hiding in every shadow, and she let her vision drift out of focus so that she could see the life emanating from the people watching them. Some were bright. Most were not.
“Gods-damn it,” Killian muttered, his horse chomping angrily at the bit. He cast a glance at Lydia, and she shook her head. Nothing. Yet.
The carriage team’s hooves clip-clopped in unison, the plump animals tossing their heads, the plumes of their trappings sagging in the rain. Lydia’s skin crawled, and she fought the urge to step closer to Gwen. Be brave, she mouthed silently to herself. Then she looked over her shoulder.
The street was full of people, a silent procession following on their heels.
“Kil—” She caught herself. “Captain…”
“I know,” he said. Reaching down, he pulled open the coach door and said something to Malahi that Lydia couldn’t make out. But the angry twist of his jaw and the way he slammed the door shut told her all she needed to know. Keep going.
They wound through the streets, the crowd behind them growing. Then the carriage stopped. Lydia glanced once at the large warehouse, her stomach souring as she recognized the shelter. The smell of the place wafted over her, and she bit down against the panic rising in her chest. The feeling of being pressed in on all sides. Of being unable to breathe.
“Form up,” Killian barked, snapping her back into the moment. Instinctively, she fell in next to Gwen, forming a protective barrier as Malahi stepped out of the carriage, a parasol balanced over her head to keep her golden ringlets out of the rain.
If the Princess saw the masses watching them, she said nothing, walking straight toward the shelter door. Killian and Bercola flanked her like twin towers. Several of the girls walked ahead and the rest of them fell in behind, leaving the old men to watch over the horses and carriage.
“What is that stink?” Malahi demanded the moment she was inside.
“Shit,” Killian replied, then tilted his head sideways. “With hints of piss and vomit.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “Why does it smell like a latrine in here?”
“Because people must go where they sit.” The words were out of Lydia’s mouth before she could think. “They pack women and children and crippled soldiers in here as though they were cattle, no room to move. Barely air to breathe.”
“Lydia, shut your trap,” Bercola muttered under her breath, but Lydia barely heard the admonition as Killian’s eyes tracked to her, the muscles in his jaw flexing. But he said nothing.
Malahi faced her, and for a moment Lydia was certain the other girl would reprimand her for speaking out of turn. But the Princess only said, “You stayed here?”
“For a night. It felt like a lifetime, so I can only imagine how those who’ve been staying here for weeks—for months—feel. But the alternative is facing the deimos.”
The Princess’s eyes panned over the other guards. “Have any of the rest of you stayed here prior to joining my guard?”
A few nodded.
“Is it as she says?”
More nods, and Lydia tried to curb her irritation at having her word questioned.
“Why didn’t any of you say anything?” Malahi demanded.
The girls who had nodded looked at their feet and shrugged, and Lydia clenched her teeth against answering for them. Of course they hadn’t said anything—to escape from that nightmare had been a dream, and no one was fool enough to jeopardize that by suggesting that the shelters the Crown had created were any less than adequate.
Killian cleared his throat. “Because they—”
“I gods-damned know why they kept quiet, Killian,” Malahi snapped, then abruptly turned, picking her way through the filthy straw until she stood in the middle of the warehouse. “I want these shelters cleaned out every morning. Pay those staying in them to do it, if they are willing. And find more space for people. Another warehouse.”
“There is no space, Malahi,” Killian replied. “The city is full.”
“Full of those without means,” she replied. “I believe we’ll find that those with means have fled south and that there are many properties vacant throughout the city.”
“They’ll be looted,” he warned.
“I find myself not caring,” Malahi said. “Break the locks. If need be, we’ll break down the doors to the manors of the High Lords themselves.”