I give one last weak try. “We don’t know—” I whisper.

“Isn’t it worth a shot?” Isolde squeezes my hand. “Seelie, we have to follow this thing or find a way to get rid of it. I might not be an enchanter, but I wouldn’t even know where to start looking to get rid of magical tattoos trapped under your skin. And whoever those people were, they wanted it, too. They’re probably already looking for us now.”

“Oh.” I knew that already, but it still feels like a blow to hear it put so plainly.

“We have to try.”

I frown. We don’t have to do anything, besides survive. Our current situation isn’t home. Not by a long shot. But it’s the closest thing I have right now. I’ve always lived on routine and familiarity, clung to it like a life raft in a storm. Maybe because some part of me (a part I prefer to keep locked away) still feels like I belong in the faerie realm of constant, unchanging summer.

Isolde’s hand pulls mine away from the vial. The tiny forget-me-not flowers inside, now uncovered, glow with soft blue light. My sister lifts the bottle away from my skin, frowning thoughtfully. She’s clearly remembering the last—and first—time that I dug deep into my reserves of magic.

The last time we saw our parents.

I’d had no choice but to leave, and of course Isolde was going with me. It was the only way I could spare our parents from the pain they’d brought down on our family just by loving me. But we also knew that if we just disappeared, they would stop at nothing to bring us back home. That our mother would insist that sheltering us, and paying the price, was what they were meant to do.

So I’d waited until the latest hour of the night and called on my magic to steal the memory of their daughters—all the emotional ties that held us together—from their peaceful, sleeping minds. The memories floated like a blue mist in front of me before I reached for one of my mother’s dozens of scattered jars and vials and trapped them inside.

After that, I’d been struck with a headache so bad that I briefly lost my sight. As I faded in and out of consciousness, Isolde had dragged me away to our getaway vehicle. I couldn’t remember anything after that until I awoke the next afternoon, so weak I could barely stand. My parents’ memories were stolen but safe, as long as I kept them trapped in the bottle. If they escaped, I didn’t know if they’d return to Mami and Papa or disappear forever. The mist inside the vial, which was still clutched in my fist, had resolved itself into the shape of forget-me-not blooms.

Magic has a cruel sense of humor.

Ice shivers down my spine.

Isolde reaches to tuck her pinky finger into mine—a promise. I let her, despite the weird, numb feeling frosting over my fingertips.