The man’s eyes crinkled and he glanced past Jacin. Turning, Jacin saw that Cinder and Scarlet had followed him, though they were standing a respectful distance back.

“Winter would trust him with her life,” said Scarlet. “I say we open it.”

The doctor hesitated a moment longer before moving to the foot of the tank and tapping some commands into the screen.

Jacin tensed.

It took a moment to notice any difference, but then he saw a bubble of air form against the glass encasement as the liquid drained out through the bottom, complete with the quiet sound of it being sucked through some invisible tubing. Winter’s profile emerged above the blue-tinted liquid. The difference was striking, to see the lingering redness in her lips and the occasional flutter beneath her eyelids.

She was not a corpse.

She was not dead.

He was going to save her.

Once the liquid had drained, the doctor tapped at the screen again and the lid opened, sliding off the base on skinny rails, leaving a shallow bed where Winter lay.

Her hair, damp from the gel, had settled in limp clumps around her face, and her skin glistened where the light struck her. Jacin reached for her hands, unlacing her fingers so he could slip his own palm beneath hers. Her skin was slick and the blue tinge around her fingernails was obvious now.

The doctor started to remove the needles and tubes from her body, the life forces that had kept her blood oxygenated without breath, that had kept her brain and heart functioning while she slept in peaceful stasis. Jacin’s gaze followed his deft, wrinkled hands, ready to knock the old man away if he thought he was doing something wrong. But his hands were steady and practiced.

Slowly, Winter’s body began to recognize that it was no longer being assisted. Her chest started to rise and fall. Her cold fingers twitched. Jacin set the vial beside her body and lowered himself to his knees amid the scattered branches and flowers. He placed two fingers against her wrist. The pulse was there, growing stronger.

His gaze returned to her face, waiting for the moment when her eyelids would open. When she would be awake and alive and, once again, completely unattainable.

He flinched. It was all too surreal, and he’d almost forgotten. Winter, crowned with flowers and resting upon a bower of tree branches. She was still a princess, and he was still nothing.

The reminder haunted him as he waited. Memorizing her sleeping face, the feel of her hand in his, the fantasy of what it would be like to witness her still, sleeping form each day.

A footstep padded behind him and he remembered that they had an audience. The crowd was pushing in, not so close as to be suffocating, but closer than he would have liked, given that he’d forgotten they were there at all.

And here he’d been thinking of bedrooms and daybreaks.

Scrambling to his feet, Jacin waved his hand at the crowd. “Don’t you have an uprising to plan or something?”

“We just want to know she’s all right,” said Scarlet. She was holding an empty vial in one hand.

“She’s waking up,” said the doctor.

Jacin swiveled back around in time to see her eyelashes twitch.

The doctor had one hand on Winter’s shoulder, the other holding a portscreen over her body to monitor her systems. “Organs are reacting normally to the reanimation process. Her throat and lungs will be sore for a while, but I suggest we go ahead and give her the antidote now.”

Winter’s eyes opened, her pupils dilated. Jacin gripped the edge of the tank. “Princess?”

She blinked rapidly a few times, as if trying to shake the remnants of oil from her lashes. She focused on Jacin.

Though he tried to stifle it, Jacin grinned, overwhelmed with relief. There had been so many moments when he’d been sure he would never see her again.

“Hey, Trouble,” he whispered.

Her lips stretched into a tired smile. Her hand bumped into the walls of the tank as if she wanted to reach for him, and Jacin scooped it up and squeezed. With his other hand, he lifted the vial of antidote. His thumb unscrewed the top.

“I need you to drink this.”

Seventy-Four

Winter vaguely recalled Jacin helping her sit up and tipping a vial against her mouth and a tasteless liquid spilling in. It was difficult to swallow, but she squeezed Jacin’s hand and forced her throat muscles to cooperate. The world smelled like chemicals and her skin felt oily and she was sitting on a bed of some sort of slimy gel.

Where was she? She remembered the regolith caves and the wolf soldiers, the thaumaturges and Scarlet. She remembered the people and the trees. She remembered a crooked old woman and a box of candies.

“Princess? How do you feel?”

She slumped against Jacin’s arm. “Hungry.”

“Right. We’ll get you some food.” It was strange to see him showing so much concern. Usually his emotions were written in a code she couldn’t break. But now he looked past her and asked, “What does it say?”

Following the look, Winter saw an old man wearing a face mask and holding a portscreen. “Her vitals are returning to normal, but it’s too early to tell if this is a result of being awoken from stasis or because of the antidote.”

It occurred to her, like a muddled puzzle fitting together, that they were outside and surrounded by people. Winter listed her head and a curl of damp hair slithered across her shoulder. There was vivacious Scarlet and there were the wolf soldiers that had failed to eat them and there were many, many strangers, all curious and worried and hopeful.

And there was her cousin, her metal hand gleaming.

“Hello, friends,” she whispered, to no one in particular.

It was Scarlet who smiled first. “Welcome back, crazy.”

“How long before we know for sure if it worked?” asked Jacin.

The doctor glided the portscreen back and forth above Winter’s arm. She followed the device, noting how it seemed to be scanning the rash of bumps and blisters on her skin. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

Running her tongue around her parched mouth, Winter lifted her hand toward the false daylight. False now—but not for long. Sun rays could be seen brightening the horizon. Sunrise was upon them.

The rash was thick on her skin, rings of raised flesh piled on top of one another, some ready to burst. It was horrifying and grotesque.

If her lungs had been functioning, she might have laughed.

For the first time in her life, no one could say she was beautiful.

Her attention caught on a particularly large spot, as wide as her thumb was long, situated between her wrist and the base of her palm. It was wiggling. As she stared, it grew little legs and crawled up her arm, dodging its brethren like an obstacle course, skittering over the tender skin of her inner elbow. A fat spider scurrying up her flesh.

“Winter.”

She jumped. Scarlet had moved closer and was standing at the foot of the tank, arms akimbo. She, too, had dark spots, and though there were not as many of them as Winter had, they stood out more on her pale skin.

“The doctor asked you a question.”

“Don’t snap at her,” said Jacin.

“Don’t coddle her,” snapped Scarlet.

Winter glanced down to check that the rogue spot had returned to her wrist before looking up at the masked doctor.

“I apologize, Your Highness. May I take a sample of your blood?”