I’ll learn the magic. I’ll get the truth from Isra. She already tells me

more than she knows. More than she should ever tell an enemy.

I tell her nothing that matters. I tell her stories to earn her sympathy

and lower her guard. I labor hard beside her and keep my temper in check,

slowly winning her trust. I tease her into thinking we are friends. I play the

damaged weakling, sighing and groaning and stumbling through my work in

the field even though I’m getting stronger every day. By spring I will be

completely healed.

If she lets me out to gather the bulbs in a week or two and I return,

she will let me out again to gather herb shoots in the spring. That is when I

will return to my people. I will bring them the roses and hope and life. I will

see my son.

I have to believe he’s still alive. Our chief knew these months would

be hard. She will have had the women dry the cactus fruit harvest so it can

be rationed throughout the winter. The men will find small game in

burrows beneath the sand; the women will boil poison root until the poison

is gone and only the mealy meat remains. The Desert People will live to see

spring, and I will bring them hope and magic.

With a soft grunt, I shift the books from my shoulders to the floor,

stacking one on top of the other. I stand on top of them, dipping my heels

down and up, building the strength in my lower legs, the running muscles.

I will have to be fast. By the time I escape, every moment will be

precious. Every moment is precious now, but there’s nothing I can do. Not

yet. The best use of my time is to spend it getting stronger, and gaining the

further trust of the queen.

I should have kept my mouth closed today. I don’t owe Isra the truth,

and the Smooth Skins’ outcasts are nothing to me. Let them suffer. They

have food and safety, two things my people would give a year of their lives

for. And their queen cares for them. In her way. Enough to worry about

whether they are soft and pleasing to the eye.

Phuh. Her obsession with Smooth Skin beauty is disgusting. All this

from a girl who can’t even see. She’s planting a garden of dreams to cure an

imaginary disease she’ll never bear witness to, when with a word she could

abolish the outcast camp and end the custom that displeases her.

“Queen of fools,” I mutter.

It’s days like these that remind me why I hate her. I’m grateful for

every one of them. I can’t afford to forget. I can’t afford to enjoy the way

she sighs with happiness when I finish a story. I can’t afford to admire how

hard she works. I can’t let myself grow comfortable on the dirt beside her

as we share bread and apples from the basket she brings. I can never take

her muddy hand in mind and promise her that the winter will end and the

pain and loss she feels will fade the way mine did after my mother’s death.

I can certainly never tell her that she is out of her mind, and all the

rest of her people with her, if they don’t see the beauty in her. In her green,

green eyes, in her smile big enough to light a room, in the way she walks

like she’s dancing with the ground beneath her feet, each step careful and

graceful and—

“Fool,” I whisper as I step off the books and move closer to the

window.

I grit my teeth and direct my gaze toward the roses—reminding

myself why I’m here—just in time to see a woman creep from the shadows

of the orchard. I can’t see her face or what she’s wearing in the dim

moonlight, but I know immediately who she is.

Isra. I recognize her walk, the way her hips sway beneath her clothes,

the careful reach of her toes as she moves across unseen terrain. I know

her. I do. Even in the dark.

The knock on the door is soft, but it still makes me jump.

I feel like I’ve been caught doing something worse than staring out

my window. Maybe I have. I can imagine what Gare would say about my

knowing a Smooth Skin girl so well.

The knock comes again, and I turn slowly to face the door. My

evening meal came hours ago. There shouldn’t be anyone near my room

until morning. The Smooth Skins have great trust in their locks and keys.

The only time I’m guarded is when the soldiers escort me to the queen’s

garden.

So who is here now?

The flap at the bottom of the door swoops open, and a small package

slides along the floor. I tense on instinct, my claws shuddering in their beds.

I approach the bundle carefully, keeping an eye on the still-swinging

flap of wood through which my meals are shoved. This is the first time

something else has come through. I squat beside the package and unfold

the linen holding it together. Inside is a piece of paper with simple words

written in an even hand, and a thick coil of rope with a large hook on one

end.

I begin to sound out the words on the paper, but haven’t gotten past

“Gem, I need—” before the sound of a key turning in the lock makes my

head snap up and my claws extend.

I lift my arms as the door swings open to reveal Needle, Isra’s maid,

standing on the other side. Her large brown eyes get even bigger when she

sees my claws, but she doesn’t scream or turn to run. She only blinks and

swallows and points a thin finger to the package.

Having my claws out begins to feel … strange.

“Ridiculous.” That’s the word Isra uses for the hated dresses she’s

forced to wear to the Smooth Skin eating rooms and the endless Smooth

Skin banquets. In some ways, Isra is a stranger here, too. I know that. I

know that’s why Bo treats her like an invalid and her advisors treat her like

a child. Still, I didn’t expect this note. There are some words I can’t work

through, but I understand enough to decipher its meaning.

I finish, and I am … shaken.

If anyone finds out what she’s done, she really will be locked away in

that tower of hers. Not even a queen can go against her city’s wishes like

this and not be punished. At least, not a queen like Isra, a blind, broken

queen without the love of her subjects or the trust of her council.

I have to stop her. And if I can’t stop her, I will have to help her. I may

hate her, but I need her. She’s the only reason I’m allowed out of this room,

my only chance to steal a future for my people.

I hand the paper to Needle, who wastes no time tearing it to pieces.

She’s loyal to Isra, then. That’s something. Maybe not enough to keep the

soldiers from discovering mine and Isra’s absence, but it’s something. I take

the rope with the hook and begin to move past her, but she stops me with

a hand on my arm.

I look down and down and down at her. She is half a meter shorter

than Isra and more fragile in every way, but the stubborn glint in her eyes

reminds me of the queen.

Her lips move without sound. I watch her, and after a moment I think

I understand her silent plea.

Keep her safe. Please. Keep her safe.

Maybe Isra does have the love of at least one person.

“I would never hurt her,” I assure Needle in a hushed voice.

She stares up at me for a long moment before stepping back and

pointing to the end of the corridor, where a window large enough for a

Desert Man to crawl through opens out onto the royal garden. The guards

passed down the path outside the barracks only a few moments ago. I

should have just enough time to reach Isra, talk her out of leaving the city,

and get back to my cell undiscovered.

I don’t waste my breath telling Needle more lies. I turn and run.