Downstairs, the men were dragging in cold air along with crate after crate of firearms stolen from the arsenal. The upper floors were almost abandoned—except for Sigi and Nan’s voices, coming softly from their bedroom. They went silent when they saw her. “Thea,” Nan said, with such gravity that Thea wondered if she somehow already knew. Thea’s voice left her. She couldn’t describe that moment in the guard station. Instead, she opened her bag and dropped the wooden hand onto her bed. The thin roots had turned reddish-brown with drying blood. Sigi jumped at the sight of it, but Nan only echoed the grief in Thea’s own eyes. “You figured it out,” Nan said. “I know what Ingrid did to you. When you left, I confronted her.” Thea shut her eyes and hugged her concealed arm. “Can she fix it?” She already knew what the answer would be, and Nan’s heavy pause confirmed it.
