She cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it, wincing. Sunlight. Blinding sunlight. She took a deep breath, bracing herself, and opened her other eye, letting both adjust. A blanket of white snow swam into focus, and Crier became aware of other things: She was lying on her stomach. The ground under her cheek was rough, sharp-edged. Not snow. Shells.

Her back felt like one big pulsing bruise. The pain flickered to life at the edges of her awareness like fire devouring parchment, and Crier wished she could go back to being unconscious. There was one point in particular, just off her spine, where the pain was burning from beneath the surface of her skin, a deep ache. She cataloged the rest of her body, wiggling her toes and fingers. Her spine was not broken, then; she had control over all her extremities.

“You awake?”

She froze. It took a moment for the voice to register as Hook’s. “I think so,” Crier said, and started to roll over, but was stopped by a hand on her arm.

“Careful,” Hook said. “Don’t move. Your back’s messed up bad.”

“It hurts,” she whispered, feeling very young.

“You got shot twice. Once in the shoulder, once lower down. The first bolt just glanced off your shoulder blade, the wound’s not too deep, but the second one’s nasty.”

Crier blinked, trying to remember. It felt like her skull was full of water, heavy and dark, brain sloshing around in it. “Who . . . ?”

“The border guards,” said a second voice. Bree. She sounded . . . angry? “Got you pretty good. Anyone else would be dead right now.”

Something sharp and cold in her memory, a pinprick of fear. What happened? What was she forgetting? “How did we escape?” Crier asked. Slowly, she pushed herself up on one elbow so she could see them. Hook was crouched a couple feet away, staring at her, eyes wary. Behind him, Bree sat in the crushed white shells, spinning her double-sided dagger between her fingers. The twin blades winked in the sunlight. White shells—were they back in the Queen’s Cove?

She bent her arm awkwardly to touch the wound in the middle of her back, gauging how bad it was. The flesh was warmer than usual, her body working to heal itself. Her fingers came away wet with violet blood.

Her violet blood.

Hook opened his mouth, but Bree cut him off. “How did we escape?” she sneered. “Wasn’t too hard, actually. The guards got a bit panicked when they realized they’d just shot Lady Crier. Gave us the upper hand.”

“No,” Crier said automatically, even though she knew it was futile. “No, I’m—I’m not—”

“Is it true?” Hook asked. Now Crier understood why he looked so wary. Her ally, her very first maybe-friend. Oh gods.

“Of course it’s true,” Bree said. “I told you she couldn’t be trusted, I told you I thought I saw her eyes flash gold—”

“Bree,” said Hook. “Give it a minute.” To Crier, he said again, “Is it true? Are you the sovereign’s daughter? Lady Crier?”