But I don’t have time to be offended because Isolde has already moved on. “The compass?”

During the chase, I’d managed to forget why my hand was going numb. But the silver metal is still in there, and when I hold my hand up, my stomach drops. Intertwined loops are marked into my skin, like the petals of a blooming flower, surrounded by a thread-fine circle. Four points. The impression of an arrow piercing the design, intricately spanning from the dip of my wrist to the space between my middle and ring fingers. I can feel the magic simmering in the silvery ink, like an infection, if I concentrate.

Isolde grabs for me, but I pull away. Urgency tightens her voice. “Does it hurt? Are you okay?”

“Okay,” I echo. Another deep breath as I try to make my heart beat normally, to make the words obey. “I’m not... I can’t do this right now. We can look at it when we get home. Are you okay?”

“I’m always okay.”

“Isolde.” I fold my arms and look her over. She collapsed in the street. I saw how exhausted and battered she was, but she seems fine now—unless she feels worse than she’s letting on.

“Seelie.” She parrots my name back to me in the same serious tone. Finally, she allows herself a grin. “I’m fine. What about that guide or whatever he was? Is he still...?”

The question trails off into empty air. I stare down at my palm, remembering the voice, the cold, disinterested stare. The half second that his eyes met mine before he disappeared and a flicker of genuine surprise shone in their flat white depths.

This time, I let her take my hand and brush her fingers over the design, as if she was holding the compass. It was her touch that awakened him the first time, after all. But nothing happens. “He’s gone,” I say. Which is a relief, because if I started projecting sarcastic apparitions whenever someone touched me, I might actually disappear into the forest never to be seen again.

“Okay,” Isolde says, releasing me. “Since it looks like neither of us was mortally wounded...that was pretty cool.”

“Yeah, well.” I huff, crossing my arms. One hand fidgets with the hem of the opposite sleeve. “Don’t start getting sloppy and expect a faerie to show up to fix everything with magic. This has been, hands down, the worst birthday ever.”

My twin laughs softly, and I let myself relax a little. Tonight has gone about as wrong as it possibly could, but we’re walking away together, in one piece. I can still hear the Revelnox celebration behind us, but it all fades as we move quickly down the dark, empty streets no one bothered to decorate.

Isolde considers a small flask she must have taken from someone’s pocket earlier. She unscrews the top, sniffs at the contents, shrugs, and—before I can stop her—raises it to her lips, drinking deeply.

My senses are coming back to me, and even the horrible smell of the city is strangely calming. I’m okay. Everything is okay.