Fake. Pretty, but fake.

From far away, the glittering gold gates and shining marble arches almost fool me. Then we get closer to our potential new workplace. With a glance, I see that the arch is actually made of mrablin, a cheap, easily deteriorated rock that only looks like marble. And something about the way the gold gleams strikes me as strange. As we pass one of the gate doors, my hand brushes the metal. Like I expected, a small amount of the color rubs off on my fingers. Flecks of paint.

I shake my head. This was too easy to figure out.

Riveirre tilts her head, glancing between me and the gate. I stuff my hands into my pockets and ignore her. We walk up to the entrance and knock on the door. It swings open on well-oiled hinges.

A man stands there in a pressed uniform. "Business?" he inquires imperiously.

"Here for a job. Marcí said you had an opening. Sent this." I lift the letter.

"Mrs. Marcí Dae?"

"Are there a lot of Marcí's in your fantastically large hamlet?"

He narrows his eyes and takes the letter. Giving a single glance to the envelope, he hands it back. "I don't deal with personnel. You'll have to find the steward for that."

"Well, where's the steward then?"

Behind me, Riveirre murmurs in Errelian, "Quit being rude."

I glance over my shoulder. "What? I'm just asking where the steward is."

The butler clears his throat. "I doubt the likes of you are going to last long here, but it'll be fun to watch you get thrown out at least. The steward is in the council hall, getting things organized for tomorrow's meeting." He steps back, letting us in. "Through that door, two halls down, third room on the left."

I start off.

Back in Xela, there was a fair every year where a bunch of people dressed up like they were from the town's history. A lot of them dressed as simple folk—pioneers, farmers, blacksmiths—but some dressed like they were the people that were going to oversee the place. Crisp cotton suits, tailed jackets, intricately carved wooden buttons.

This is what I think of when I see the man evidently in charge of whether we get a job. His outfit bears enough likeness, and with his fair hair slicked back and the self-important, smug smile he sports, he's a carbon-paper copy of those fair-goers. He stands in the center of the large room, directing a flurry of people. "Those chairs need to be in line, Emmrick, not zig-zagging back and forth like some drunkard."

He turns to two men carrying a large potted plant onto a dais that faces the chairs. "What addle-brain told you two to bring that monster in here? With it and the podium, where do you expect the councilmen to stand? Ankle-deep in soil? Get that out of here!"

A servant boy hurries up to him, a folder tucked under his arm. "Sir?"

He spins on him. "What now?"

"Lady Veradeaux says she wants you to handle these reception arrangements."

"Reception? We've never had a reception before. I swear, every year she makes these things more and more elaborate. We're stretched thin as is." He snatches the folder from the boy's outstretched hand. Pulling out a pen, he flips through the pages, scribbling notes as the work continues around him.

Considering that interrupting him when he's writing is probably better than when he's mid-yell, I stride up to him. "You're the steward, right?"

He glances at me. "Scat."

"I'm going to take that as a yes." I drop the letter onto his stack of papers. "Recommendation from Marcí Dae."

His head turns sharply. "Who exactly do you think you are?"

"Your soon-to-be employee." I smile.

He scowls. "Wipe that smirk off your face and get out, or I'll call the guards."

Smirk? That wasn't a smirk. As I open my mouth to argue, Riveirre steps around me. "Sir?"

An exasperated growl escapes through his teeth. "What?"

She freezes. Great, Riveirre. Way to lose us our chance at this job.

Then she speaks, slow yet purposeful. "You seem busy."

He coughs out a strangled laugh. "That's an understatement."

"We can help."

"Oh?" he sneers, amusement shining in his eyes. "You think you can oversee this lot of idiots, deal with all the paltry paperwork pushed at me, and see to Lady Veradeaux's growing list of demands while we don't have manpower enough to deal with them? That's what you think you can help me with?"

"No, but—"

The corner of his thin lips quirks up. "Well, then." He starts to turn, and something catches his attention. "You idiots! I told you to take that stupid pot out of here, not drag another one in. Where are you even getting these? Take them out!"

The men shuffle out of the room with their burden.

The steward glances back at us. "As the young lady so eloquently said, I am busy. So, once again, leave or I'll have the guards escort you out."

"Wait," I say, catching onto Riveirre's logic. "Didn't you just say you don't have enough people?"

He sighs, calling to a servant, "Go get some guards."

One of the workers nods, setting down the chair he'd been carrying, and hurries off. The steward returns to his paperwork, moving the letter to the back of his folder, and walks toward the dais.

I circle in front of him. "Hold on a second! You're shorthanded. Then hire us, and for the sake of all that is logical in this world, stop trying to throw us out! We'll tackle anything you can throw at us. At the very least, we can't do any worse than the idiots already working for you."

His eyes continue skimming the words on the page. Then a sly smile curls his lips. He meets my gaze. "You know what? You're right. And I have just the job for you. Emmrick!" A servant's head snaps up. "Show this man to Master Heizer. He's been requesting a new worker for ages."

The boy hurries over to me, gesturing toward the door we came in. "It's this way."

"Hold on. What about her?" My thumb jerks toward Riveirre.

"She can go to the reception hall. Emmrick, you can drop her off on the way."

"Yes, sir."

He leads us through the manor, leaving Riveirre in a ballroom. He offers a quick explanation to a woman leading a troop of maids in through another door, then takes me outside.

I glance back as we walk across the grounds. "Um, the manor's that way. In case you got turned around."

My sarcasm is lost on him. "I know. You're not working in the manor."

"Then where in skies' name are you taking me?"

"To Master Heizer," he answers simply.

I roll my eyes. "That much was obvious."

He doesn't reply, and I don't waste breath asking him more questions that he's obviously too obtuse or contrary to answer. As we make it behind the manor, a fence comes into view. Along with a long wooden building, it blocks off an open field.

Full of horses.

No. This can't be where he's taking me. There's got to be another building, somewhere beyond, and we just have to pass this one. Sean Rahkifellar is not a—

"I brought you a new stablehand, Master Heizer!" Emmrick calls, pulling the building's door open. Inside, the air is a musty mix of animal, wet wood, and defecation.

It smells like everything I hated about home.

From one of the stalls, a deep voice grunts, "Did ya now?" A shovel tosses a pile of manure into a wheelbarrow outside the stall. Two more shovelfuls follow before a man lumbers into view, pushing the cart out of the way. Broad shouldered, he stands with his feet apart, a confident hand resting atop his shovel's shaft. "Let's have a look at you."

I hold my ground. If he expects me to spin around like some sort of model, he's going to be standing there for a long time.

He studies me. "You got any experience in stable work?"

"No."

"Horses?"

My jaw clenches. "No." Why couldn't Leavi have gotten the animal job, and me the cushy one inside?

Shaking his head, he hooks a thumb through his belt loop. He glances at my guide. "Boy, you go back and tell that addle-brain of a steward to quit sending me hands that can't tell one horse's mouth from another's buttocks."

"I—um. I can't tell him that, sir."

Heizer snorts. "Get on out of here."

Emmrick scrambles.

The stable master tosses his shovel at me, and I fumble to catch it. "Come on, boy. We've got work to do."

He hastily gives me instructions for cleaning out the stalls and ambles away. Grimacing, I slide the shovel under a clump of manure. "Skies." I try to take shallow breaths; the smell is so strong, I can taste it. I sling the shovel over the wheelbarrow and dump the load.

Now I only have to do that a thousand more times.

Swallowing my distaste, I set to the work. Despite the cool temperature, a sweat builds at my brow. I struggle to keep a grip on the shovel.

When I'm almost finished with the first stall, the stable master shoulders back into it, moving past me. A frown creases his tanned face as he studies my work. "You're doin' it wrong."

I jam the shovel's head into the ground. "Then how do you want me to be doing it?"

He glares. "With less of a mouth on you."

"What mouth?" I spread my arms out wide. "All I did was ask a question!"

He narrows his eyes. Then he shoves me.

I careen backwards, tripping into the wheelbarrow. Cold, squishy muck and wet hay press against my back, and I shudder, trying not to gag. Skies, I'm sitting in it.

Heizer stands over me. "Boy, I don't care who you think you are, but I am in charge here, and you will respect me. I done told you how to do it—you only throw out the wet hay, you have to search for hidden manure, and you don't cover up wet patches. You, on the other hand, have wasted most of my hay, yet somehow managed to leave bits of dung and cover up the wet spots. That's talent, that." He shakes his head, irritated. "Get up."

I extricate myself from the wheelbarrow. The back of my shirt clings to my skin. I grimace.

"If you ain't gonna do a proper job, then you ain't gonna have a job. I don't care what the steward says." Grabbing the handle of the wheelbarrow, he flips its contents back into the stall. "Do it again. And right this time."

I only half-listen to him. Disgust coats my face as I try to move as little as possible.

"You bothered by the manure, boy? Here, let me help you." Grabbing my shoulder, he shoves me down, and I fall front first into the pile he poured out. The smell suffocates my nose. Bile rises in my throat, and I desperately swallow it down.

He pushed her. Grabbed her shoulder and shoved. She fell back to the floor hard, head smacking the table. Blood in her hair.

'Get up!' he yelled.

"Maybe now you'll do a better job," Heizer says, "not afraid to get your hands dirty." A chuckle rumbles out of him. "Now, get up and get to work."

Gingerly, I pull up. I refuse to look at myself, but I can feel it, all over me. I'm covered in feces. My skin crawls. "Is there not somewhere I can clean up?" I call as he's leaving. My fingers tap at my leg. One, two beats, three, four beats. One, two beats, three, four beats.

"Clean up when you get home," he calls. "And you go home when you get the job done." Then he's down the aisle and walking out the stable.

I pause. Swallow.

And do it again.