“Because—” I stop myself from blurting out something snide. I’ve been treating Ragne like a buffoon, but the more time I spend with her, the more I suspect she’s far cannier than she lets on. She just lives by different rules.
“I’m making vomit,” I say, telling the truth for once.
“Can’t you just . . .bleh?” Ragne sticks her tongue out.
“I can, but this doesn’t feel bad.” I take the pitcher of water from the washbasin and pour some into the scrap bucket, then add the sour milk, slosh it around a few times, and leave it to marinate overnight in the privy closet. “In the morning, I’ll pretend to be Gisele’s maid and
tell the other servants she’s sick. Then we can sneak out of the castle.”
Ragne wrinkles her nose. “Confusing. Why don’t you just leave?”
“Adalbrecht—the margrave who owns this castle—won’t let me. He . . .” I try to think of a way to help her understand. “You know how you don’t like to eat meat? Adalbrecht’s the opposite. Helikesto eat other people up, he likes knowing they’re in his belly.”
“If he tried to eat me, I would leave forever.”
“Well, I can’t change into a bear, so it’s dangerous to leave alone.” I rub my eyes. “Did your mother say anything?”
Ragne tilts her head. “I told her it was not fair to give you a curse but not tell you how to break it. She said . . . if you can’t figure it out, then that’s the problem.”
“Helpful as ever,” I grumble.
“I don’t think it’s fair. If the curse wasn’t going to kill you, then you could solve it in your own way. But you do not have time, and it is wrong to make you waste your days looking for the answer. So I bothered her until she gave me a hint.” Ragne smiles with all of her sharp teeth. “Mother said to remember you are cursed to have what you want.”
I pull off the gloves and examine the rash of rubies. They’ve spread up to both wrists now, little glittering scarlet pockmarks. If this is what Eiswald means by what I want . . .
She’s not wrong. But . . . amI?
“Am I just supposed tonotwant gemstones?” I scowl. “That’s like asking me to not want to eat.”
Ragne shrugs. “That’s all she said. But we will try again tomorrow. Where are we going?”
I go to my wardrobe and rummage in the very back, under boots and scarves and stockings, until I find what I’m looking for: a tattered dress in faded rusty red. Falbirg red.
I haven’t worn it since we left Sovabin. But tomorrow, I will need to throw myself on the mercy of someone who has no reason to give any; she will know this red on sight.
I rock back on my heels. “We’re going to find an old friend.”
`
I almost make it out of the castle without incident Wednesday morning.
The classic spew gambit executes without a hitch, as it always does. When Trudl knocks on the door a little after sunrise to summon Gisele to breakfast, I answer the door as Marthe, with a plaster over the ruby, heavy soot-shadows swiped under my eyes, and an apron and skirt splashed in, well, the contents of the scrap bucket. It isveryripe. In fact, Ragne’s helping, retching in the privy closet from the smell.
Trudl stumbles back, gasping, “I’ll tell the margrave. How bad is it?”
“She’s been at it for three hours,” I say with a dead-eyed kind of exhaustion. “At least another day. Maybe two. She won’t keep anything down but water.”
Another of Ragne’s gags punctuates the sentence.
Trudl’s eyes water. “High Gods and Low lend you strength, Marthe.”
And thus I buy myself at least a day to work with. (Maybe two.) I can still smell the fake vomit as I hurry down the servant corridors.
“You there,frohlein.” Barthl’s voice stops me as I’m about to slip out the kitchen door. “Hold a moment.”
I turn around, keeping my eyes downcast. I know it’s not about the ruby teardrop; I made sure the plaster and gauze was set before I left, and so far everyone’s bought the story about the glue burn. Still, I almost never run into Barthl as Marthe, and if he places the old Falbirg uniform under this servant-issue cloak, I’ll have to come up with some lie. “Please, sir, my mistress is very ill. I need to fetch her—”
“Yes, yes, you’re going into Minkja, correct?” Barthl’s voice is all business. I venture a glance up and a tiny nod. His hound-dog face is even more haggard than usual, a slight dusting of stubble on his normally clean-shaven cheeks. Even his short mouse-brown hair looks out of sorts. He shoves a sealed, unaddressed envelope my way. “Take this with you. There is a tavern in the Madschplatt called the Broken Lance. Leave this with the man at the counter.”
