“I’ll see about getting you something for the future, but this time—”

She breaks off when the door opens again and Blaise, S?ren, and Heron slip in, all dressed in plain clothes from the Smoke and long cloaks.

“Ah, perfect,” Artemisia says before they can so much as say hello. She traipses over to Heron and tugs his cloak off. His bewilderment is clear but he lets her take it.

“It’ll swamp me,” I say when she hands it to me. It came down to Heron’s knees and he’s at least a foot and a half taller than I am, with shoulders that are twice as broad.

“Which means that dress will be well and truly covered,” she replies.

I shrug it on, laughing when the hem pools on the ground around me.

“You’ll have to walk carefully,” she says with a smirk. “Though I doubt it will be harder than trying to balance in those heeled slippers they’ve been forcing you into.”

She has a point there. I gather the material of the cloak in front of me and take a few tentative steps. It isn’t too bad, I suppose. Certainly manageable.

“All right, what’s the plan then?” I ask them.

* * *

—

As it turns out, the plan—if it can even be called that—involves walking out of the palace and taking horses from the stable near the front gates. It’s far less subterfuge than I’m used to, and as we walk through the brightly painted city bursting with afternoon life, I can’t help but feel naked, even as I sweat under Heron’s overlarge cloak.

“This isn’t Astrea. You aren’t a prisoner,” Blaise tells me, seeing my discomfort.

“King Etristo doesn’t want me going to the camp,” I remind him.

“And he won’t know,” Blaise replies, jangling a velvet bag of coins, the same one he used to bribe the riser attendant to take us to ground level. “Money solves most problems, I’ve found.”

“And I suppose you aren’t going to tell me where you happened upon so much of it so quickly after we arrived here?”

Blaise shrugs and flashes me a grin that reminds me of how he used to smile in the years before the siege. He’s lighter here, happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. Not that I can blame him for that—it’s easier to feel happier when there isn’t an ax hanging above your neck at all times. Sta’Crivero might not be ideal, I’m the first to admit that, but it’s infinitely preferable to the Kaiser’s court.

Blaise seems to be thinking along the same lines. He looks at the city around us with a peculiar expression on his face, half awe and half fear.

“It is something, isn’t it?” he says, his voice low. “All the color and the art and the happy people…I see the appeal.”

I nod, looking around as well. “You were right, though. It’s not home,” I say.

Blaise is quiet for a moment. “You’re my home,” he says finally, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “The place we happen to be is inconsequential.”

A smile tugs at my lips and I’m tempted to reach for his hand, but with the others here I stop myself. It’s not just about S?ren—in the three days he’s been out of the brig he hasn’t said anything that can be construed as romantic—it’s about the others as well. We’re a team. We have to be if we’re going to save Astrea. If Blaise and I form our own team, that would tarnish us somehow.

Still, I let the back of my hand brush the back of his hand as we walk, and the warmth of his skin sends a tremor through me.

* * *

—

Blaise was right—as soon as a few coins change hands, the stable boys bring out four horses for us. Each one tall and intimidating and graceful, ranging in color from a pale reddish brown to black as the night sky. I’m struck again by how even Sta’Criveran horses are embellished with jewels and ribbons braided into their manes and tails, like they’re getting ready to go to some kind of party.

In another life, I would have learned to ride a horse—I might have even been good at it like my mother was—but in this life I wouldn’t know where to begin. I have vague memories of Ampelio leading me around the palace grounds on his horse, but that wasn’t the same thing.

Blaise, Artemisia, and S?ren mount their horses while Heron lifts me into the saddle of the one we’re going to share. I was relieved when he offered to ride with me, because at least with him I won’t have to fret about where to put my hands or how close we’re sitting or the warmth of his skin. And I feel a lot safer with him than I would with Artemisia, who I’m sure will take every opportunity to gallop and jump and show off.

Heron swings up in front of me and I knot my hands around his waist, struggling not to look down at the ground. Though the horses seemed large enough when I was standing next to them, sitting on the back of one is a whole other matter. It feels like I’m so much farther up, and the chances of falling off…well, I won’t think of that. Instead, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on Heron’s back and pretend that I’m on solid ground.

But as soon as we take off, it’s impossible to pretend. Each step the horse takes jostles me to my bones, and I tighten my grip on Heron, sure that I’m going to fly off at any moment. The hot, dry wind whips through my hair as we cross into the desert that surrounds the capital, grains of sand stinging my skin. I manage to get my cloak over my face to cover it without falling off. I can’t imagine how the others are doing, since they can’t cover their faces without blocking their much-needed sight.

Somehow, time passes and I don’t fall off. I don’t think I could ever grow used to the jostling pace and the wind, but it eventually does become almost calming in its predictability. The journey yawns out in front of us, but before I know it, Heron is pulling the horse to a halt.

He hops down onto the ground before holding out his arms to help me. “The Prinkiti says it’ll be easier to get into the camp if we go on foot.”

I take hold of his arms and let him help me down, squinting into the distance where I can just make out another wall—this one much different from the one around the capital. That wall was tall and gilded and regal, a promise of what awaited inside, but while the wall around the camp is nearly as tall, it’s a grisly-looking thing of craggy, uneven stones that don’t appear to have ever been cleaned. There is no grand, ornate gateway, instead a small wooden door in one corner that’s easy to overlook.

The capital wall was made to keep people out, I realize. This wall was made to keep people in.

THE TWO GUARDS STATIONED ON either side of the single door wave us through without question, which strikes me as odd until I realize that those swords sheathed at their hips aren’t meant for those trying to enter the camp.

“Visitors happen often enough,” Heron tells me, answering my unasked question. “I was walking around the palace invisibly last night and I heard some people talking about it. The refugees are cheap labor, so people will hire them when they have some kind of task they need done. Jobs no one else wants to do—construction work, sewing cheap clothing, stable mucking. And they pay them next to nothing to do it, because they can.”

Dread coils around my heart and squeezes.

As we come out through the other side of the door, though, I nearly lose my stomach altogether. After the ornate shine of the capital, with its bright colors and elegant spires, the decrepit state of the refugee camp seems all the more ghastly. The streets are cramped and dirty, with clusters of shacks on either side, none of which could be larger than a single room. Thatched roofs look ready to collapse and the wooden doors are moldy and hanging off their hinges. The smell of dirt and rot hangs heavy in the air. I’m tempted to wrap the edge of Heron’s cloak around my mouth and nose again, but I resist, worried about how that might come across to the people who live here.

And the people! Men and women and a handful of children crowd the streets and peer out from cracked open doors, all dressed in dirty scraps of clothes that don’t cover much more than absolutely necessary. A couple of children who can’t be more than five are completely naked and caked in grime. Their hair is matted and cut short or shaved completely, even the women’s. Cheap labor, Heron said, and it shows. They are all callused fingers and rough, sunburnt skin stretched too tight over muscle and bone.

The way they look at us hollows me out until I can’t feel anything, not even the ground beneath my feet. Their eyes are hungry and wary and fearful, like they aren’t sure if I’m here to feed them or spit at them.

“We should have brought food,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else.