Radu looked as though he was going to lose his stomach again, so when they were excused Lada dragged him through the corridors and out into the streets. She had already explored as much of the palace grounds as they were allowed to. They passed the mosque, swirling minarets reaching up to pierce heaven itself. She wished they would—wished they would poke a hole through the sky and shower God’s wrath on this whole city. Then they would see whose god was real.
But perhaps not. She was not in Wallachia. Even the god she had been raised with was absent here. Perhaps the sky would consume her in the wrath of the Ottoman god.
They passed a high wall surrounding a lush garden, trees drooping their heavy green boughs over as an invitation. Lada saw a fig tree laden with ripe fruit just out of reach. Her stomach growled. It was Ramadan, and she and Radu were expected to observe the fasting. Lada stole food and secreted it away whenever possible, but most days she went hungry from dawn until dusk. In the corner, where the wall met the side of a small building, a sprawling, ancient grapevine clung. She climbed it, hoisting herself onto the wall.
“We should go back,” Radu whined, looking around. He rubbed his ribs anxiously, no doubt imagining a hook tearing through his muscles and organs. Radu had lost weight since they arrived, and not simply from the fasting. His cheekbones stood out starkly, making his eyes appear even larger.
“Fine. Wait there. By yourself.”
He scrambled up after her, almost toppling over the wall in his haste. They crawled onto a branch, working their way down a tree until they could drop to the ground.
The smell was not right. The green scent was too pungent, the sweetness of some flower a shade off. The mosque loomed overhead, watching. But the serpentine paths bordered by trees and wild hedges that Lada wandered made the garden feel secret. She picked several figs, offering one to Radu. He refused, so she threw it at his head.
Biting into her fig, she trailed her fingers along the rough, waxy leaves of an untrimmed hedge and pretended she was in Wallachia.
Radu heard it first. “Listen,” he whispered. “Someone is crying.”
“And it is not you. What a wonder.”
He glared at her, then strode forward with purpose. Hissing, Lada chased after him. For all Radu’s fear that they were trespassing, he was a fool and would get them caught. She turned a corner and grabbed his vest, only to stop at the sight of a boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, curled up on the edge of a reflecting pool, weeping.
“Are you hurt?” Radu asked.
The boy looked up, his black eyes framed with lashes so thick they caught his tears and held them. His hands were covered in marks, vicious and purple. His face, too, had been punished. A bruise was forming on one cheek.
Radu peeled off his vest and soaked it in the pool. He placed the wet cloth gently over the boy’s hands to soothe the hurts. Lada had never let him do the same for her, and she had certainly never done it for him.
The boy watched, spine straight, considering them as he looked down his long, straight nose. His full lips were pursed against the pain. “My tutor,” he said. “Father gave him permission to hit me for disobedience.”
Radu dipped his hand in the water and brought it up to the boy’s cheek. The boy seemed startled. He regarded Lada with expectant imperiousness, as though inviting her, too, to attend to him. She folded her arms and looked down her hooked nose at him. “If you are too weak to stand being hit and too stupid to avoid it, then you deserve more pain.”
Anger flared the boy’s nostrils. “Who are you?”
Lada leaned against a tree, plucked another fig, and took the biggest, messiest bite she could. “I am Lada Dragwlya, the daughter of Wallachia.”
“You should be fasting.”
She spat the pulpy skin at his feet, and took another bite.
He frowned thoughtfully. “I could have you killed for that.”
Radu trembled, starting to bow.
“Oh, stand up, Radu.” Lada grabbed his shirt and yanked him upright. “He is a stupid boy. If even the tutors are allowed to beat him, I doubt the head gardener is under his command. He is probably a pampered captive, like us.” She felt no sympathy for the boy. He reminded her of what she was—powerless, young—and it made her angry.
The boy stood, stomping a foot. “I am no slave. This is my city!”
Lada snorted. “And I am the queen of Byzantium.” She turned on her heel, pulling Radu along.
“I will see you again!” the boy called. It was not a question, but a command.
“I will burn your city to the ground,” Lada called back over her shoulder. The boy’s only response was a burst of surprised laughter. Lada was shocked when her lips answered with their first smile in weeks.
Lada furiously scrubbed the blood from her nightclothes.
As she did, she cursed her mother, for making her a girl.
She cursed her father, for leaving her here.