My sister blinks, but she doesn’t have a sharp comeback to that. Maybe that head wound is worse than I thought. “Fine,” she sighs. “Just let me wash up.”

Without warning, I realize I’m so devastatingly exhausted that I can hardly stand, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself by crossing to the beds at the center of the room. Instead, I press my back against the wall and slide to the floor. My knees fold to my chest, and I start unlacing my boots.

Isolde looks strangely vulnerable without her black clothes, discarded like an old shell in a pile on the floor. Her soft sand-colored undershirt and leggings are exactly the same as mine, a mirror image I’m not used to.

After unwinding the bandage that wraps around Isolde’s head, Olani prods my sister’s thick skull. Her movements are surprisingly gentle. She tilts Isolde’s face to examine her eyes. “What did you say your name was?”

“Isolde Graygrove,” she says. It’s been so long since I heard my real surname that the sound of it rings in my ears. For a second, I wonder if we should have given false names, but then I realize we couldn’t keep that up for the unknown days (or weeks) ahead. Besides, our family name isn’t instantly recognizable, unlike some people, so it doesn’t really matter. “And my sister, Seelie.”

Olani nods. “Olani Fullbrace.”

I don’t bother mentioning that we already knew her first name. I don’t say anything at all. I just stare at the flat plane of my open palm, decorated by enchantment. I roll my hand back and forth and watch the arrow adjust itself to point one constant direction—to what?

Olani digs through a small bag previously hidden by her cloak. She pulls out a jar and dabs an oily substance on the gleaming wound at Isolde’s temple before winding it with a fresh, white bandage. “Now your arm.”

Isolde obeys, holding out her bare arm. “Ow! Careful.”

Olani applies more of the stuff from the jar to her arm. “Don’t be a baby. No one learns how to fight like you can without their share of pain. This is nothing.”

Isolde offers a crooked smile. “Yeah, well. I’ve never been stabbed before.” The smile slips briefly before hoisting itself back up.

“Sorry about that.” Olani doesn’t meet her eyes, focused instead on her fingers as she nimbly ties off the bandage.

Isolde shrugs with her uninjured shoulder. “Don’t be. No one’s gotten the better of me like that in a long time.”

“Guess you’ll have to practice more for next time,” Olani says lightly. They exchange a wavering look of amusement.

Fantastic, I think. At least they’re getting along.

“Okay, ch—Uh, Seelie. Your turn.” Her attention on me is clinical, but it still makes my skin crawl.

“But there’s nothing wrong with me!” I protest.

Isolde gives me the look she gives when I’m being especially difficult and childish. “Seelie, don’t make a scene. Look at yourself.”