She couldn’t read all of it, but the general gist was that the treaty had invited demons into the city, the Star Isles were killing their country from the inside, the drought was a punishment from Solomei for not purging the unclean witches from their land, and the only way to reclaim their country was to join the Hands and fight back. Galen was hardly even mentioned. The leaflet made it seem like everything was her fault.

She tossed it aside. Let the Hands sow their zealotry all they wanted. They were as doomed as the rest of the city if winalin wasn’t stopped.

Ranka scented the sickness before she saw it.

A small, squat building, mashed between two crumbling townhomes, loomed into view. A sigil of two open hands marked the door. Warm light and the bitter scent of antiseptic spilled into the street. Even at this late hour, there was a steady murmur of voices, a thrum of bodies, some ill, some in pain, all of them seeking care, comfort, or answers. The outside was abandoned. Only a fat little gray-and-white cat lay curled in front of the door. It cracked open one green eye to glare at Ranka, gave a pitiful, high-pitched meow, and went back to sleep.

What would a princess want with some crowded, shoddy clinic? The palace infirmary had its own healers. No doubt the palace clinic was the best in the city, if not all of Isodal—not to mention clean, quiet, and private.

Ranka waited. A few fishermen shambled past, picking scales from their forearms and mopping the sweat from their brows. Ten minutes crept by, then twenty. People trickled in and out of the clinic, but Aramis never emerged.

Before Ranka could lose her nerve, she crossed the street and stepped through the door.

Light washed over her.

The building was smaller than she’d expected—bright, clean, a little too warm. A woman glided past, her dark hair slicked tight against her scalp, the lower half of her face concealed by a sanitary cloth. She knelt in front of a dockworker whose pale cheeks were peeling and tilted his face up to hers.

“I think you’re just dehydrated.” Her voice was older, all warm brass. “But I can give you something for the sunburn.”

“Take a seat,” a familiar voice chimed. “We’ll be right there.”

Ranka turned, and her mind ground to a halt.

Aramis Sunra stood before her.

The fine silks she wore within the palace were gone, replaced by dull brown robes and slippers. Her mass of curls was twisted up on top of her head, save for a few that’d wormed loose and were now plastered against her forehead by a thin layer of sweat. A sanitary cloth concealed the lower half of her face, but Ranka would have recognized those dark brown eyes anywhere.

They gawked at each other.

Ranka blinked. “Hi.”