Ranka crawled forward on her knees, feeling along the walls, pressing her ear to them. Boots clacked in the street outside, and somewhere a stray dog barked. Ranka peered through the gap and saw no one—only a fluffy black cat nosing at some trash and a street sign that read FELLHAVEN.

The feeling drained from her.

“In the mines,” Ranka said numbly. “I thought I saw a ghost.”

The door creaked open.

“Not a ghost,” an all-too-familiar voice said. “Though I do feel like one these days.”

Foldrey Wolfe leaned against the frame, a golden pin gleaming on his chest, and gave them a humorless smile. “Hello, children. I suppose we have a lot to discuss.”

63

ARAMIS AND PERCY STARED AT Foldrey. Their bodies were rigid, their lips half-parted in shock. Above Aramis’s head, a single beetle scurried up the wall, its black carapace winking in a beam of sunlight. For a long, terrible moment no one spoke. Ranka blinked several times, but the ghost in front of her did not evaporate.

“Foldrey,” Aramis whispered. “You’re alive?”

Foldrey watched them wearily. “I know you must have many questions—”

“It was you,” Aramis said thickly. “All along, guiding the Hands. Sabotaging my work. Ensuring it was only ever dead winalin witches we found—it was you.”

Foldrey watched her, and in that precious beat of silence Ranka willed for him to say something, anything, besides what they all now knew to be true.

But Foldrey simply nodded. “Yes.”

“How?” Aramis whispered. The agony in her voice was palpable. “Why? You—you lied to us. All this time? You were supposed to protect us. We trusted you, Foldrey. We trusted you with our lives. Mother and Father trusted you. You were family—you were—you bastard.”

Foldrey remained quiet as Aramis unraveled, the shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced than usual. How many men had he lost to Ongrum’s cause? How many had been loyal and died? How many others had gleefully switched sides?

Foldrey did not gloat. But he did not seem particularly sorry, either. Only tired. The man waited for them to be quiet, and his eyes flickered. “I never intended for you to know,” he said, his voice soft. “I never thought you’d get so close with winalin—not until she arrived. Not until a cure became possible.”

Every missing piece clicked together with terrible clarity: Foldrey, urging her to leave. The way the public opinion had turned against Ranka when she wouldn’t flee.

Foldrey, intending to lead her into the city to kill her, insisting they leave him behind to die when the Hands swooped in to save him from the winalin witches he’d used as bait.

The Hands, manipulating Ongrum so easily, as if whoever led them was knowledgeable enough of the northernmost covens to know who was most likely to betray their fellow witch.

Ranka went cold.