Nila’s legs felt like lead as she walked down the long, carpeted corridor, her fingers tightly interwoven with the soft wool of Iris’s sleeve.

She was no longer wearing her tattered kitchen rags. Iris had helped her take a bath, and forced her into a soft, dark green tunic woven from thick brushed cotton and a pair of dark trousers that actually fit her narrow waist. On her feet were the shearling-lined leather boots. They were warm, solid, and comfortable, but Nila still felt utterly naked without the layer of kitchen soot to hide her face. She felt like an impostor dressed in a queen’s garments, walking toward a jury...