“We’re alive,” he croaked. “What a shame.”

If Percy could be annoying, then he was all right.

Aramis’s eyes flew open.

“Galen,” she cried. “No!”

Aramis pitched forward and Percy caught her. Aramis scrambled against him, and then her eyes cleared as she took in the room, her look of horror replaced by one of confusion as she registered unfamiliar walls—and the witch who sat across from them.

“You,” Aramis snarled. “What is this? Where’s my brother?”

Percy put a hand on her knee. “Hey—”

“Percy? Why are you all bruised? Are you all right?”

“Aramis.” Percy gripped her by the shoulders. “Calm down. Breathe. We’re not in the palace, we’re in Seaswept. Ranka broke us out.”

Aramis watched him with wild eyes, her chest heaving, and Ranka didn’t dare move. Maybe Aramis would forgive her—maybe she’d see clearly the position Ranka had been in. Maybe—

“She broke us out?” Aramis’s laugh was sharp and cruel. She eyed Ranka with a look that could have wilted grass. “How convenient. Where are we, then? Are the Skra waiting on the other side of this door to kill us?”

Ranka frowned.

“What, nothing else to say now, witch girl? You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Let me guess—you’re here to force me to unlock your blood-magic for you. Or you want information about Galen. Or…” Her voice faltered, and Aramis’s eyes flashed. “Say something, you massive coward.”

Ranka’s eyes stung, and she hoped against hope that the dim light concealed the wetness in them. When she spoke, her voice was rough and shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You’ve doomed us all and you’re sorry?” Aramis waved a hand. “Well, how lovely. Ranka is sorry, everyone! Even though she destroyed the vaccine, turned the palace over to an enemy coup, probably got my brother killed, kidnapped us, and dragged us to some random hellhole in the middle of Seaswept, she’s sorry.”

Ranka sat there, took every bit of it. She deserved it. But her mind spun. Something about this wasn’t right. The Hands had had every reason to leave them for dead—instead they’d saved them. Bandaged and cleaned them up with expert hands.

“Ranka?” Percy asked. “Where are we? Who saved us in the mines?”

“I don’t know,” Ranka said faintly. She chewed on her knuckles. “I was so tired. And I caught a familiar scent that didn’t make sense, but I could have sworn—I thought I saw—I don’t know….”

The Hands had saved them. Healed them. Which meant, for now, they wanted them alive.

Why?