Evie's mother taught her to flirt, not wield a knife. Seduce a prince, not kill with a poisoned kiss. Her mother is lost in a fantasy where she's still a queen, Evie was born a princess, and titles mean something. But Evie was born on the Isle, and she survives.
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There are three wooden frames suspended over town square, hung by lines to stretch from roof to roof, bodies stretched across them like macabre angels, their blood staining dull cobblestones. The Lost do not clean it away. The bloody angels are a warning: the children are not to be touched.