1
D ESPERATION WAS A POWERFUL MOTIVATOR . C ATALEYA Donant let it push her to rise before the sun.
She hadn’t slept, because she wasn’t a morning person, and she needed to be a morning person for her plan to work.
The other children in the orphanage were still sleeping, her shared room a chorus of even breaths, light snores, and the nonsense that Sofía always murmured under her breath.
Caya got dressed in silence, finger-combed her curls, and crept out into the hallway.
She could hear the matrons downstairs making everything perfect for today’s scheduled tours.
Everything needed to be perfect—but not for them.
After all, in a truly perfect world, today was the day Caya would be adopted.
At seventeen, her chances were laughable.
Aspiring parents wanted newborns and toddlers, children they could nurture young enough to overcome any perceived flaws in their nature.
Even three weeks into the Coronet, Kindred Orphanage saw increased foot traffic from welks hoping to add to their own familial numbers or witches hoping to seem like magnanimous benefactors to their neighbors and inferiors.
Every year, she hoped and she tried. Every year, she was passed over for the younger children.
Caya had come to the orphanage at eight years old, and the matrons’ eyes had filled with the kind of pity that made it clear they knew what she didn’t: She would never have a family again.
For a while, she had accepted that. The matrons became her parents.
The other orphans became her siblings. She played games and did chores and had three meals a day under a roof that only sometimes leaked.
But with her eighteenth birthday approaching, her bed would be emptied to make room for a newer, younger orphan—and Caya would be turned out on the streets to make her own way in the world.
If this was her last chance, she would give it her all.
The streets of Rojanea were unkind to a woman alone.
Caya glided down the stairs, coming to a stop by the broom closet.
The door hung open, most of the cleaning supplies removed for use, but she found a mop and a bucket near the back.
She followed the hum of voices to the dining hall, where Mother Lupe and Mother Felicia were having a loud argument about whose turn it was to chop the onions for tonight’s stew.
Mother Lupe wore a simple pale blue dress with a wide skirt beneath a half apron; Mother Felicia was in mint green, her braids hidden beneath a matching bonnet that was dotted with fake pearls.
Caya knew they were fake because she’d stolen one once, only to be laughed out of the market stall where she’d tried to fence it.
A valuable lesson, in more ways than one.
Both matrons turned to look at her, suspicion lighting their eyes. Caya beamed.
“I thought you might need some extra hands to prepare for the day,” she said, lifting the bucket and shaking it for emphasis. “Where do you want me?”
Mother Felicia folded her arms. “I want you to return upstairs. Whatever trouble you’ve come to start—”
“No trouble, Mother. My only goal is to do what I can.”
For some reason, this only made them more suspicious.
Granted, Caya had a long and fond history with trouble.
She didn’t chase it, but it still found her to be an engaging companion.
She was particularly good at getting other children into it, as most mischief in the orphanage could be traced back to one of her suggestions.
Wouldn’t it be fun to go cliff diving? I bet you couldn’t put this pin on Mother Lupe’s chair without getting caught.
How many spice buns can we steal before they notice?
Boredom was as powerful a motivator as desperation, and Caya was so often bored.
Today, she drew herself up to her full height, squared her shoulders, and adopted her most innocent expression. “I know I’m too old to catch the eye of any of the parents, but I want to help wherever I can. You won’t hear a word from me otherwise. I swear it.”
Mother Felicia looked at Mother Lupe. Mother Lupe looked at Mother Felicia. Caya imagined herself as a player in a troupe, giving the performance of a lifetime. Her honest expression was etched in immovable stone, and her body language remained open and guileless.
“All right,” said Mother Lupe, swiping a hand over her freckled cheeks. “If only because we’re behind and could use extra hands.”
Kindred had made sure that Caya, like all the children in the home, was no stranger to work.
There was a chore schedule made fresh at the start of every week, posted in their rooms and in the kitchen, and adhered to as closely as the laws of the land.
Caya was meant to work the gardens, laying mulch and plucking weeds, but, if there was ever a time to do more than her share, it was here and now.
Her callused hands scrubbed pots and pans, mopped wooden floors, swept thick carpets.
She dusted windowsills and straightened wooden frames, chopped vegetables for stew and beat the dirt out of welcome mats.
By the time the sun rose, her cheeks had darkened from the exercise, and she’d made herself so useful that the matrons didn’t send her upstairs when the first of the parents began to arrive.
Stifling a yawn, Caya spun into the entrance hall.
It was already sparkling, but the matrons were too busy sycophanting to notice.
The couple in the doorway were dressed in the latest fashion: the woman in flared sleeves with an embroidered bodice, the man in a plum tunic and dark breeches.
Pearls lined her neck. Gold rings decorated his fingers.
They wore their wealth as if they were walking museums, eager to show off, which meant that they had come into money very recently.
The old families—even the ones who had lost their lands and their titles after the coup—tended to be more modest in their appearance.
The amount of ducado they had to spend was revealed in their entitlement, their power, not in gold and jewels gaudily splashed over their bodies.
For a moment, Caya fell backward into a memory of palace floors and silk sheets, imported desserts and carriage rides. A musical giggle rang in her ears, a relic from another time. A better time. A time when the Seawards reigned.
Then she forced herself back to the present, where she was a beggar in need of someone, anyone , to give her a home.
Caya smiled. “Welcome to Kindred!”
The couple peered at her over Mother Lupe’s shoulder.
She saw the matron tense, clearly debating whether to excuse Caya or ignore her entirely, and she returned to her unnecessary work with the kind of demure industriousness she hoped these people wanted to see.
Maybe she was too old to be a daughter, but she could certainly be a servant.
A permanent place in a household would still be better than the streets, even if that place was on her knees with her elbows buried in dirty water.
Mother Lupe stepped to the side to allow the couple farther into the house.
Although it neared autumn, it was still a hot day, the air outside thick with humidity.
The man waved a hand in front of his sweating face, and a handkerchief appeared between his fingertips.
He wiped it over his skin until he was pink-cheeked but dry.
Caya’s smile cracked.
He was a witch.
As the man passed the cloth to his companion, Caya’s fingers tightened around the handle of her broom. A crafter from House Vida, then, stopping in before the next Coronet event.
Every summer, the magical upper class reminded the welks of Coventry of their place by excluding them from their festivities.
The social season known as the Coronet promised six weeks of galas and balls, dinner parties and charity showcases—but it also promised six weeks of cutthroat political scheming.
The more witches bound to a House, the more powerful that House’s magic, and the Coronet was their yearly excuse to recruit.
Caya remembered a time before Coventry had been ruled by these selfish magic wielders, who had fled persecution in the neighboring country of Domingo to find sanctuary under the reign of Coventry’s royal family, the Seawards.
These magic wielders had betrayed the Seawards by overthrowing them and replacing their dynasty with three new High Houses—one for each type of witch magic—led by three elected Magisters.
They crushed dissent with increasing violence and restrictive laws until there were very few welks left with the time or energy to fight back.
Though she had loved the Seawards, Caya didn’t hate witches enough to join any sort of rebellion.
She knew one brewed in the corners of Rojanea, but that was the kind of trouble she didn’t court.
Still, she would never feel comfortable around witches.
Ten years was not enough for her to forget what they’d done. What they’d taken.
The witches had been banished from Domingo, but Coventry became more and more like their former lands every day. Buildings cropped up in the Domingan style. People had adopted the Domingan fashions. Food was a mix of Coventry staples and Domingan essentials.
It was a strange thing, to watch her country’s death rattle in real time. Soon, there would be no one left to miss what it had been like before.