“Just lunch,” Heron says. “But I can wait another couple of hours to eat.”

My stomach grumbles in protest, but I ignore it and nod. “I can, too.”

The others agree, though we all know it won’t be enough. Lunch for five won’t do much to feed the thousands here.

I step toward Sandrin and the woman.

“We only have a little food, but you’re welcome to it,” I say in Astrean, making them both stop their arguing and look at me. “As for valuables, we have some coins and my dress, though I hope you won’t take that from me, since it would be difficult to explain its absence to King Etristo. If he learns I came here, he’ll prevent me from returning. I’d like to return and bring more food.”

They both stare at me for an uncomfortably long time before the woman lets out a loud, irritated sigh and says something to Sandrin again. Most of it is lost on me but I hear the Astrean word for child again. I open my mouth to protest, but before I can she starts back inside her house, beckoning us to follow.

* * *

—

The woman’s house is only a single room a quarter of the size of mine in the palace. There is a small stove in one corner, four threadbare mattresses on the floor, and next to nothing else. Somehow, though, there are six other people crammed into the space, three men and three women, all with shorn or braided hair and ragged clothes. Not one of them is wearing shoes, even though the ground is barely cleaner than it was outside.

The woman who led us in motions to me.

“Queen Theodosia of Astrea, come to be our savior,” she says, her Astrean passable but heavily accented.

There are some chuckles from the others, but I try not to let them bother me. I can’t blame them for seeing me as a naive, overambitious child, can I? It might not even be that far from the truth.

“King Etristo has invited me to stay in the palace as a guest,” I explain. “He hopes to find me a husband with armies to help us defeat the Kalovaxians and reclaim our home.”

There’s more laughter at that, though the loudest comes from Sandrin.

“Queens don’t marry,” he says. “Have you been among the barbarians so long that you’ve forgotten that?”

My face grows hot.

“Some traditions are difficult to keep in times of war,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

No matter how true the words might be, Sandrin still scoffs. “One might argue that it’s most important to keep traditions in the midst of difficulty.”

Annoyance prickles at my skin. I don’t want to marry either, but I’m certainly not doing so because it’s easy.

“If you have an army you’re hiding somewhere, I’d be happy to take it, but I doubt that’s the case. If you have another suggestion, by all means, I would love to hear it.”

That, at least, seems to silence them. Even Sandrin looks somewhat cowed. Unfortunately, no one actually offers a suggestion.

“I’d heard of the refugee camp here and I suppose I’d gotten it into my mind that I would find happy Astreans here, ones lucky enough to have escaped the Kaiser’s tyranny.”

“Tyranny is everywhere, Your Majesty,” Sandrin says quietly. “The Kalovaxians don’t own the concept.”

“That’s very philosophical.”

He shrugs. “So was I, before,” he admits, voice becoming thin and wistful. “People used to travel hundreds of miles to hear me lecture on philosophy.”

“You’re Sandrin the Wise,” Heron says suddenly. “My mother heard you speak once. She said your mind had been gilded by the gods.”

Sandrin gives a harrumph. “She wasn’t the only one,” he says. “Now I’m Sandrin the Elder of Astrea.” He gestures to the people gathered behind him. “These are my fellow Elders, one from every country here. We keep the peace and we do what we can to make things easier.”

“I can’t imagine that’s a simple job,” I admit.

“It isn’t,” says another man, pale-skinned with close-cropped hair the color of copper.

I glance back at my friends, who all look the same way I feel. Shaken, like the world has shifted beneath their feet. And so full of guilt that it just might drown us. It isn’t our fault, I remind myself, it’s the Kaiser’s. But still, I should have known about this. I should have done something. Blaise catches my eye and nods, a thousand words passing between us without us voicing a single one out loud.

I turn back to the Elders.

“What can we do to help?” I ask.

* * *

—

The help the camp needs is simple enough. They need food, first and foremost, and our meager lunch is a drop in that pot. The Sta’Criverans deliver rations every week, leftovers from the capital, but more often than not the food has gone bad by the time it arrives. We can come back with more, take some from the palace kitchens that would still be fresh, but it will only ever be drops. Never enough to put meat on their bones or keep their stomachs from constantly growling. It will be a start, though, until we can think of another solution.

They need fresh clothes and soap and clean water—more things that we can bring only in small amounts, though there’s a lake nearby and Blaise, Heron, and S?ren make half a dozen trips back and forth on the horses, filling up whatever makeshift containers the Elders can find so that the refugees will have enough water to last them at least a few days.

While they’re gone, Artemisia and I thatch one of the sagging roofs—a process that is foreign to me but that Art seems somewhat practiced at. She climbs up onto the corner of a house, nimble as a cat, and instructs me to pass her handfuls of straw from the ground below. Art gains no small pleasure in bossing me around, but I know better than to take it personally by now, and it isn’t long before we fall into a comfortable conversation that lures out the neighbors, who have all been hiding from us since we arrived.

The children are the bravest, as children often are. Small and wraithlike, they have a surprising amount of fire burning in their bellies. A small cluster keeps daring one another closer, as if Artemisia and I are dangerous. The younger ones don’t even need dares; they wobble up on dirty, bare feet and stare at Art and me with eyes that take up most of their faces.

Artemisia is too preoccupied with the thatching to notice them at first, but I do.

“Hello,” I say to one of the children, who can’t be a day older than four, with bony arms and legs but a round belly. His golden skin and black hair make me think of Erik, and I wonder if he’s from Goraki as well—or if his parents are, at least.

He says nothing in reply, just continues to stare at me with solemn eyes, hands fisted at his sides. I set down the bushel of straw I’m holding and feel around Heron’s cloak, hoping to find something tucked away in the pockets—a bit of hardtack, a piece of candy, a coin—but there’s nothing except a snippet of string and balls of dust. When I pull my hands from my pockets, though, I hear a clinking sound and remember the dress I’m wearing underneath. The one embellished with jewels.

I hike up the cloak and reach for the dress’s diamond-trimmed hem. Each stone is the size of my thumbnail. With a sharp tug, I pull one of them free and hold it out to him.

He looks at it like it’s a weapon, which breaks my heart. For someone so young, he’s known far too much cruelty. But after staring at it for a few seconds, he seems to realize that it won’t hurt him. He takes it, grubby, rough fingers brushing mine. It sparkles in the sunlight when he holds it up, sending rainbows dancing on the ground below. Before I can stop him, he sticks it into his mouth.

“No!” I say.

He seems to realize it isn’t edible without testing the theory and spits it back into his hand, drying the saliva off on his rough-spun tunic. He looks up at me and grins broadly, teeth yellow and chipped, before scampering back to a woman I assume is his mother. I smile at her, and after a second of clutching her child in her arms, she smiles back tightly, nodding her head once.

After that, what timidity the other children possess disappears entirely. The whole flock of them presses in around me, with eager faces and dirty hands and words I only understand bits and pieces of.

“Whoa, slow down,” I say, though I can’t help but laugh. I manage to clear a bit of space between them and me before pulling a few more jewels from my dress’s hem, passing one out to each child there.

“You’re going to have some explaining to do when your maid finds that dress,” Artemisia says, peering down at me from the roof with an amused expression that seems wholly out of place on her. As she looks at the children, though, her amusement fades. “The Sta’Criverans believe the refugees are cursed,” she says, disgust punctuating her words. “As if misfortune is somehow contagious.”

“That’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard,” I say.