Then Kira Rachel asked my name.
“Sofia,” I said.
And then I was Sofia again, the girl who had sneaked into the artists’ workshop and practiced over and over, determined to get each line of drawing and each stroke of the brush right, to mix the colors so they looked real and not garish, to do what I did best no matter what.
She reached out and stroked my hair, which was clean and free from lice. I had to admit my latest captor had been generous with hot water, soap, and towels as thick as horse blankets.
“I am Rachel Mendoza,” she said, “but you may call me Kira Rachel. You are far from home. You must feel lonely and bewildered. What can I do to help?”
“Can I have my painting back?” I asked. “I know the magistrate sent it to the man, because when they handed me over, they gave him a le
