They hung from the ceiling and the walls, they were piled in great silver and bronze stacks on the floor, and tiny, half-carved wooden ones were collected in little bundles. Wooden chimes swung overhead, making low, mournful sounds, while glittering metal ones tinkled constantly. Even the bookshelves had wind chimes nailed onto either side of them. Ranka stepped farther into the room, swaying as melody wrapped around her. What corners of the room weren’t filled with wind chimes were covered in books—piles of them, heaps of them, cast haphazardly across the floor with their bindings cracked and stacked against the walls. A single bed had been shoved into the corner, also piled with books, the sheets balled up. The only thing that seemed out of place was a table that had a white sheet messily thrown over it. Sugar lingered in the air.

“Where are we?” Ranka asked.

Percy pulled a pocket watch from the folds of his robe. “Galen’s room.”

“Why do you have the key to Galen’s room?”

“Not important. Now, if I timed it right—”

The door slammed open. A gust of wind swirled into the room, knocking books from the shelves and setting off the wind chimes in a mad array of tinkling. Galen burst into the room and his face fell. “Oh, you bastard.”

Aramis was only a step behind him. At the sight of her, Ranka froze—but Aramis was too busy scowling at Percy. “Percy, I thought Galen was going to cry.”

For the first time she seemed to notice Ranka. Ranka’s heart skipped a beat—but there was no anger in Aramis’s eyes. Only concern.

“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Ranka asked blankly.

Aramis folded her arms. “Percy sent a guard with a note saying you set Galen’s room on fire.”

“What?” Ranka blurted. “Why?”

Galen crossed his arms, looking more than a little ruffled. “That was my reaction. Very funny, Percy. I don’t see why it was nec—wait, what happened to my table?”

Percy took a long pause, as if they were all going to solve his inane plot in the few seconds he gave them, and sighed. “I have to do everything myself, don’t I?”

With an overdramatic flourish, Percy ripped the sheet off the table and cast it to the side. The scent of sugar burst into the air, twice as strong as before, and the sheet fluttered to the ground, revealing a table laden down with a dozen different pastries and three little cakes he had almost certainly—very poorly—decorated himself. A few bottles of definitely stolen berry wine sat on the corner.

Percy scratched his head, and for the first time since Ranka had met him, he actually looked nervous.

“Um,” he said. “Happy birthday.”