The infirmary was the only place in the academy that felt like neutral ground. Even the Ministry guards stood outside the frosted glass doors, loath to breathe in the scent of sickness and caustic salves.
I sat on the edge of a cot, my hands submerged in a basin of warm, salted water. The stinging was intense, a thousand tiny needles pricking at the wire cuts, but it was a clean pain. It meant the blood was moving again.
Lyra sat opposite me, her face illuminated by a low-burning lamp. She wasn't looking at my hands. She was looking at the window, watching the snow swirl in the darkness.
"Hollow made it to the river," I said. My voice was a low rasp.
"I know," she whispered. "My runners saw him. He dropped the box into the old crane housing at the abandoned pier. No one saw him do it but the birds."
"Good."
