“Of course not. Because they want this city to hate you. They want winalin to succeed.” Ongrum’s gaze pinned her to where she stood. “You say the Hands have your blood. That it was the key to making this horrific disease even more infectious and deadly. But who gave it to them?”

Ranka couldn’t breathe.

They’d been so careful to conceal the actual lab. She doubted even Galen could find his way back. Foldrey was dead. Percy was too haunted by his role in winalin to jeopardize a cure.

That left only one.

“Ranka,” Aramis said, horrified. “I would never—”

Ranka removed her hand from Aramis’s shoulder.

“Oh, Ranka. My naive, lost girl,” Ongrum said softly. Sadly. “You always want to believe the best in people. But look what it got you and Vivna back in Belren. Look what it’s getting you now. Pleading for their lives. Fighting your own coven to protect the rulers who embolden their people to burn us alive.”

Tears slipped down Ranka’s cheeks. Aramis had hated her at first, she knew. But that night on the roof—the moments they had after—hadn’t the twins and Percy become a kind of family? She had been so reluctant to trust them, and so glad when she did.

Could it all really have meant nothing?

Could it all have just been a lie?

Ongrum seemed to take up the entire room. The lines of her face were deeper, the hue of her hair shifting from gray to streaks of silver. Gone was her normally stoic expression, the harshness in her eyes. Her face was open, raw, and eager.

“Look at you—my little girl, all grown up, poised to end a kingdom or save it, with no clue what you should do.” Ongrum pursed her lips. “We can fix this world together. You and I, Ranka, in your rightful place as my second. I know you’re scared, child. I know you’re confused. But you knew this day was coming. And you know who you belong to. Who your family is. You know I love you, don’t you? You know you are the only daughter I’ve ever truly had.”

Ranka swayed where she was. Ongrum said she loved her, but some of things she’d done hadn’t felt like love. Thirteen years of memories flashed behind her eyes. Of Ongrum, teaching her to palm a knife, to start a fire, to track a deer by following star-bright flecks of blood on snow.

Of Ongrum, the day they met.

A house, a street in Belren, the echo of her sister’s cries, and a witch.

Ongrum had been a force of nature even then—all pale skin and dark hair, with a lined face and scarred hands. She’d knelt in front of Ranka, those dark eyes bright and inquisitive. “And what’s your name?”

“Ranka,” she’d whispered.