Nomi made a noise in the back of her throat, as if she were choking. Serina wondered why she cared so much about Malachi’s fate. Was it just because she felt guilty for trusting the wrong brother, or had she developed actual affection for him? That was hard to imagine. Serina remembered Nomi’s horror at being chosen as a Grace.

But people could change. Serina certainly had.

Still, if Nomi had felt something for Malachi, surely she would never have betrayed him. Serina didn’t have all the details yet, but she had the sense there was more to the story than Nomi had had a chance to share. As there was more to Serina’s.

“Let’s move him to the infirmary,” Val said. He gestured to a couple of the women loitering in the open walkways, and they helped him lift Malachi’s limp form. Serina was grateful; her own injuries still ached from carrying Oracle up the mountain.

When they’d gotten Malachi settled on a pallet in a shadowy corner of the ballroom, away from the injured women, Val handed Serina a glass bottle of disinfectant and clean dressings. Nomi and Maris watched, eyes wide.

Serina dabbed at the rim of the wound, gently prodding at the skin. She found a needle and thread in the leather bag, careful not to jostle her patient, and sewed up the wound.

Behind her, Nomi swallowed loudly. “You—you can—”

“I was always good at embroidery,” Serina said wryly. She wrapped thick pressure dressings around Malachi’s torso. He shifted, his handsome face twisting into a grimace, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“There’s a slash on his arm too,” Val said softly. He cut the jacket away from the ragged skin.

Serina worked quickly, smoothing salve over the ridge of stitches when she was done. “That one’s not so deep.”

Nomi was curled into herself, her olive skin ashen.

Serina couldn’t tell if her sister was about to vomit or faint. She wiped her hands clean on an extra dressing and put an arm around her. Her own stitches pulled, and her arm and ribs ached, but she ignored the pain.

Nomi didn’t relax. “Is he going to be okay?”

Serina glanced at Malachi again. He was breathing steadily and she’d felt a strong pulse in his wrist, but he still looked awful. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

She sat with Nomi and Maris for a few minutes, holding vigil over the rise and fall of the Heir’s chest. Holding her sister’s hand.

Val went to see if anyone else needed the extra medical supplies. When he returned, he said softly, “We should check on the guards.”

Serina nodded. With a groan, she stood up, her wounds flaring to life. Nomi’s grip on her hand tightened. “Where are you going?”