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He also said to think of Arthur as a curator of the past, picking what he wants and discarding the rest.

It’s almost like he was hinting at what I’m just now confirming as true. Combined with what he told me about time back in Versailles—that every moment has already been lived and continues to be lived—I wonder just how much Jago might know.

“Where are we going?” Braxton asks, snapping me back to the present.

“Following a hunch,” I whisper.

As we reach the front entry, I notice it’s pouring outside. Grabbing two rain slickers and an oversized umbrella from the bin beside the door, Braxton ushers me out into the biting cold.

Beneath the canopy of the umbrella, which admittedly isn’t doing much good, we turn toward the Tarot Garden. My gaze instantly findsThe Magician,The High Priestessbeneath it, andThe Wheel of Fortunewhere it all culminates.

A fleeting image of the girl in the red cape, a mirror image of myself, flashes through my mind. With my hood drawn over my head much like hers, I’m briefly overcome by the unnerving sensation that I truly have been here and done this before.

With the rain pounding overhead, I turn to Braxton and say, “Do you ever get the feeling that you’ve already lived this?”

“You mean like, déjà vu?” He wipes raindrops from his cheek.

“More like déjà vécu,” I say. “The sensation that you’ve not just seen it, but actually lived it.”

He shakes his head slowly, though his gaze sparks with curiosity.

“Ever since I met up with my dad, I’ve had this unshakable feeling that I’ve already lived this. Then today, in the middle of an Unraveling, I swear I saw myself—or at least, a girl who looked just like me—racing through the old labyrinth beneath my window.”

We walk together in a contemplative silence. After a while, Braxton asks, “Are you familiar with the Coffer Illusion?”

I glance up at him, shaking my head.

“It’s a visual phenomenon created by Anthony Norcia, a psychologist and vision scientist. The image is composed of shades of black, white, and gray, creating the illusion of a series of rectangles. At first glance, all you see are straight lines, angles, and rectangles. But, if you look closely, you’ll notice there are actually sixteen circles hidden within the pattern. Once your brain finally adapts, you can’t unsee it.”

“Meaning?”

“The illusion illustrates how we tend to perceive certain aspects of sensory data, while ignoring others, based on expectations or familiarity.”

I take a moment to absorb that.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” he continues, “is that we expect time to be linear, so we perceive it as linear. But what if it’s not?”

“So, you think it’s possible that I really have lived this before? Like Arthur might have me trapped in some sort of loop without my even realizing it?”

Braxton shrugs. “Considering everything I’ve seen here at Gray Wolf, I’d say just about anything is possible. Sometimes it feels like time doesn’t move quite the same way here.”

We continue beyond the gardens. When we reach a place where a narrow path cuts through the rock, I squint through the wind and rain at the barren expanse of nothingness.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Braxton asks.

I shake my head. “I’m not sure of anything,” I admit. “I just desperately hope that I’m right.”

Ducking our heads, we continue our battle against the onslaught of wind and rain. Just when my leggings are soaked from my ankles to my knees, just when I’m beginning to question my sanity, we turn a bend, and I let out an involuntary gasp.

How on earth could I have possibly missed this?

Then again, Gray Wolf is brimming with so many secrets and mysteries—so many spaces and rooms I’ve yet to explore.

I run a sweeping gaze over the collection of monstrous sculptures, as intrigued as I am horrified. This eerie, disturbing place was a source of inspiration for two of my favorite artists, both Salvador Dalí and Nikki de Saint Phalle.

“The real one is in Northern Italy,” I say. The story of this place rises to the surface of my consciousness, begging to be told. “It was created during the sixteenth century. Commissioned by Pier Francesco Orsini, to express his grief over the death of his wife, Giulia Farnese.” When I hear myself utter that name, I abruptly stop.

Wait—Giulia Farnese?