But it didn’t matter that Rune wasn’t a witch or related to Nan by blood. Under the Red Peace, it mattered that Rune hadn’t turned Nan in. When the Blood Guard came for her grandmother, they would declare Rune a sympathizer and execute her alongside Kestrel Winters for the crime of not turning in a witch.

This was their only chance to escape.

Rune was hurriedly packing her things when a message arrived from Alexander Sharpe, her oldest friend.

Someone’s betrayed you, it read. The Blood Guard know your plans. Soldiers seized the fisherman earlier this evening and are waiting for you in his cove.

But the news in Alex’s message got even worse: The roads leading out of town are closed off and they’re arresting anyone who doesn’t have permission to be traveling.

There was nowhere to run; they were trapped in Wintersea House. They could hide, but for how long?

You need to report her, Rune. Before it’s too late.

The message was clear: if Rune didn’t turn Nan in immediately, they were both going to be executed.

Refusing would earn Rune a brutal death. But Nan was her grandmother. The person Rune loved most in the world. Turning her in would be like carving out her own heart and handing it over. So she brought the note to Nan, trusting her grandmother would know how to get them out of this.

She remembered the look of steel in Nan’s eyes as she read the note. But instead of coming up with a new escape plan, she said: He’s right. You must report me immediately.

Horrified, Rune shook her head. No. There must be some other way.

Nan pulled Rune into her arms, holding her close. Rune could still remember the smell of the lavender oil dabbed behind Nan’s ears. My darling: they’ll kill you if you don’t.

Rune wept and ran to her room, locking herself in.

If you truly love me, said Nan from the other side of the door, you will spare me the agony of watching them kill you.

Rune’s eyes burned with tears; her throat choked on sobs.

Please, darling. Do this for me.

Rune squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to wake from this nightmare. But it wasn’t a nightmare. These were her choices: turn her grandmother in or die a grisly death at her side.

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks.

Finally, Rune opened the door and came out.

Nan squeezed her in a fierce hug. She stroked Rune’s hair, the way she used to do when Rune was a child. You must be very clever now, my love. Clever and brave.

With Lizbeth’s help, Nan put Rune on a horse and sent her galloping into the night.

Rune remembered the biting wind and pelting rain. Remembered the way her body trembled. The night was freezing cold, but the fear in her heart was colder.

She could have refused to do it. Could have marched straight up to the soldiers and handed herself in instead of Nan.

But she didn’t.

Because deep down, Rune didn’t want to die.

Deep down, she was a coward.

Drenched and shivering, Rune stumbled into Blood Guard headquarters and spoke the words that would doom her grandmother.

Kestrel Winters is a witch planning to escape, she told them, forsaking the person she loved most in the world. I can take you to her. But we must hurry, before she gets away.

She led the Blood Guard straight back to Wintersea, where they arrested Nan, dragging the old woman out of the house while Rune watched, silent and still. Holding everything in.

It was only after the soldiers were safely away that she collapsed to the floor and wept.

Rune had spent the past two years trying to make amends for that night.

But Nan was right: turning her in had proven Rune to be as loyal to the New Republic as the rest of them. More loyal, even. After all, what kind of person betrayed their own grandmother? A person who hated witches above all else.

The lives of countless witches now depended on that ruse.

Rune’s trembling hands squeezed Lady’s reins, and the leather strips bit through her deerskin gloves as she scanned the foggy streets of the capital. If she was lucky, the Blood Guard would detain Seraphine at a holding location. The Guard would wait until they hunted down a few more witches before transferring them to the palace prison together.

If Rune was unlucky …

The thought of the alternative—Seraphine already imprisoned beneath the palace, waiting to be purged—made a sick feeling surge in her stomach.

Rune pushed her horse harder, trying to outrun it.

That’s what she needed to learn tonight: whether Seraphine was still alive, and if so, where the Blood Guard was keeping her.

As she and Lady arrived in the city center, a massive domed structure arose out of the gloom, rivaling the palace in magnitude.

The opera house.

There would be witch hunters within, not to mention Tribunal members. Some of them were bound to know where the new holding location was.

The opera house’s copper-domed pavilion, where carriages dropped off patrons, came into view first. Five massive columns, each one rising to five stories in height, bordered the pavilion.

It always surprised Rune that the Good Commander allowed it to remain open. Shortly after the revolution, patriots ransacked the opera house, stripping it of much of its previous splendor. Paintings, statues, and other decor hearkening back to the Reign of Witches were smashed, burned, or thrown into the sea. But the interior, with its gold leaf and red velvet seating, remained—a stark reminder of the decadence of the witch queens.

As they entered the pavilion and Lady slowed to a trot, an elderly stable hand dressed in a trim black uniform stepped forward from the entrance arch.

Rune dismounted. As her silk flats hit the stone walkway, her legs nearly buckled beneath her. Every bone in her body hurt from riding so hard to get here tonight.

“Citizen Winters. You’re mighty late this evening.”

Rune winced internally at the familiar voice. She preferred the younger stable hands to this old patriot. The young ones stood in awe of not only Rune’s wealth and connections, but her reputation as a hero of the revolution.

Carson Mercer, however, remained unimpressed by Rune, and his low regard unsettled her. Did he suspect her, or was he just a miserable old man?

“The opera’s half over.”

At the disapproving tone of his voice, Rune stepped into her role. Pushing back the hood of her fine wool cloak, she shook out her hair, letting it fall in a sea of rust-gold waves. “I prefer to miss the first act, Mister Mercer. It’s so tedious, otherwise. All you really need to know is how it ends. Who cares about the rest?”

“Indeed,” Carson said, narrowing his eyes. “One wonders why you go at all.” He turned to lead her horse toward the opera stables.

Not liking the edge in his voice, she called after him: “For the gossip, of course!”

The moment he was out of view, Rune anxiously tapped the secret pocket sewn into her gown, where her vial of blood lay hidden. Comforted, she forced the curmudgeonly stable hand out of her mind and entered the opera house—where members of the Blood Guard would be gloating about their recent capture. All Rune had to do tonight was keep her ears open and ask the right questions, and by the time the curtain fell, she’d have the information she needed to save Seraphine.

She passed several children begging for coins or food on the way in. By the marks carved into their foreheads, she could tell they were Penitents. The descendants of witch sympathizers. Meaning someone in their family had refused to inform on a witch, or had hidden one from witch hunters.

Instead of executing or imprisoning the descendants of witch sympathizers, the Good Commander carved the Penitent symbol into their foreheads, letting everyone know what they’d done. It was a warning. A way of dissuading others from helping witches.