“Do you not like it?” Percy asked anxiously. “Aramis loves mint, and Galen loves oranges, but I didn’t really know what you like, and I know the north is full of those ugly trees….”

They were all staring at her—and Ranka realized she’d been standing in total silence, tears streaming down her face, staring at the cake a boy who never should have cared about her had picked out just for her, on a day that wasn’t really hers to celebrate, because he knew she’d spent a lifetime being denied the chance.

“It’s perfect,” she said, her voice strangled, and then, “Wait, do you think I eat pine cones?”

“No comment.” Percy cleared his throat. “Anyway, given our luck, this may be the last birthday any of us see, so I figured we better celebrate.”

“Oh, good,” Aramis said dryly. “This was all far too sincere. I was getting worried. I’m glad you found a way to ruin it.”

He beamed. “I’d say the setting is to humble you, but the truth is I didn’t know where else I could trick you both into visiting last minute. And I didn’t think the stables or getting attacked by winalin witches in the mines would make for a very celebratory affair.”

Galen and Aramis glanced at each other, and Galen turned to Percy with a twinkle in his eye. “I might have somewhere in mind.”

47

FROM THE HIGHEST POINT OF the palace, it felt like Ranka looked down upon the entire world.

Below her, Seaswept sprawled in an endless expanse of velvet blue, the night broken by the lonely beam of a lighthouse standing watch over the bay, beckoning distant ships in from the safety of an endless, dark sea. It’d been short work for Galen to bring them up. From up here, the palace grounds were small and indistinct. Even Seaswept seemed like a distant, breakable toy. They’d settled on a thin blanket to count down the minutes until the twins were officially eighteen, nibbling on pastries and huddling against the chill of the ocean-fed breeze.

And they had gotten hopelessly, irredeemably drunk.

They sprawled on their backs, pausing between bites of pastry to giggle and pass the wine. Percy was the only one still somewhat collected. Galen and Aramis had long since abandoned any sense of decorum and were pointing at the stars like children, both of them grabbing at Ranka’s hands every few minutes, asking her if the stars above Isodal were the same ones that watched over Witchik, and if they carried the same names, too.

Percy observed them with raised brows. “You’re all a mess.”

Ranka didn’t care. She felt happy. She felt good.

“Don’t worry. If we fall off the roof,” Aramis slurred, “Galen might catch us.”