“Kind of you to notice.” James kicked a chair away from the table for her. “Join us, why don’t you?”

The lads, as it turned out, also had no memory of forming the blood bond. They had woken up dizzy and tangled before stumbling into the living room to discover Nana, who helpfully assured them that this sort of memory lapse was to be expected.

“Nothing to worry about,” James trilled. “Just your average, run-of-the-mill fair folk stealing memories, blood magic ritual, our minds are too mortal to understand, blah blah blah sort of thing.” He winced. “She’s in there with Gultin now. Apparently, he’s not doing as well as I am.”

“How can that be?” Scratch accepted Vel’s proffered mug of something steamy and coffee-like but somehow . . . sparklier? “You got hit much harder.”

He shrugged. “Apparently his struggle is not of the physical sort. Nana said we could talk to him when you woke up. I figured we ought to do it together.”

“How about we don’t and say we did?” she muttered, but she was already standing, reluctantly leaving the beckoning baked goods behind. She followed James to a door with a cheerful white daisy painted on its face. He opened it, releasing a cloud of warm air scented with rot.

“Oh, gods.” James covered his mouth. “It smells like the field hospital in Kyria.”

“Come in,” Nana called from the dank darkness. “He’s awake.”

With a shared wince, they entered the dim room. Curtains were drawn over every window, letting in only slivers of orangey light. Nana sat in a rocking chair beside a low, small bed. The covers were crisp and white, like a healer’s robes.

Gultin lay propped on stiff pillows. He had always been big, even as a kid at the Academy. Scratch remembered the first time she had seen him, this galumphing thing with too-large ears and a nose that had already been broken so many times it had morphed into a multi-planed prism of flesh. He rarely smiled, only grimaced, pacing the grounds with the sure-footed stomp of a man who looked for fights and won.

He smiled now.

“Hello, Keyes. Bowstring.” There was a blankness about his face, his open eyes and docile, pleasant mouth. He looked both younger and older, less hardened of expression, but wizened beyond his years.

“Gultin.” A small bench appeared—or had always been—beside the bed, and Scratch took a tentative seat. James remained standing, hovering near the door.

“Gultin,” he squeaked. “You look well.”

“You always look well,” Gultin replied, regarding James with lightless eyes. “I rather fancied you at the Academy. I thought of asking you to walk with me, but Father would have disapproved, so I beat you instead. Do you remember?”

“You beating me?” James swallowed. “I remember.”

“Sorry about that.” He turned to Scratch. “Did you take the princess?”

“No.”

“Kill her?”

“No.”