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‘You just wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do that. If anyone had informed on her, it would have been—’ She cut herself off as the truth finally clicked. ‘Your father,’ she said slowly. In response, Aaron made a soft sound. ‘Oh,’ Joan said as the rest of it fell into place. The last piece of the puzzle. ‘You have the true Oliver power,’ she said. ‘Your power is so strong that it was confirmed when you were just nine years old. You should have been the next head of family. But your father removed you from the line of succession.’ If I could have stripped you of your name too, I would have, Edmund had said. ‘He disinherited you because you tried to protect your mother from the Court. Because you didn’t inform on her.’

Aaron seemed about to say something, but no words came out. The mask had slipped completely. He looked raw.

Joan felt like her heart was breaking for him. ‘Why did you never tell the Nightingales? Why did you never tell them that you tried to protect her?’ But Joan knew the answer as soon as she asked. ‘Fidelis ad mortem,’ she said. That was the Oliver motto. Loyal unto death. ‘You’d never turn against an Oliver,’ she realised. ‘Not even him. Especially not him.’

Hated by the Nightingales and the Olivers, Ruth had said. People talked about him behind his back. They despised him. Joan felt her eyes well at the unfairness. ‘It’s not right,’ she said.

Aaron’s own eyes seemed to shine wetly for just a moment, and then he looked away.

‘It doesn’t have to be like this,’ Joan said. ‘Let me tell Sebastien Nightingale that—’

‘No,’ Aaron said roughly. Joan braced herself for a return to hostility, but when he met her eyes again, he’d blinked away the shine. He looked calmer. ‘Your name is Joan, right?’

Joan was still caught in the shock of realisation. ‘I …’ And then she heard what he’d said. It cut with the same knife jab as when Nick had asked for her name.

Aaron’s eyes flickered over her face; he’d caught the emotion. His voice gentled. ‘It’s Joan?’

Joan nodded.

‘Okay, Joan,’ he said.

‘Okay, what?’

‘Okay, I believe you.’

Joan’s throat felt thick with tears suddenly. She hadn’t expected him to say that. Not so quickly. If she was honest, she’d never expected him to say anything like that ever again. He’d felt as irrevocably lost to her as Nick had been. ‘You believe we knew each other?’ she said.

‘I believe everything you said.’

It felt like relief from pain. Joan felt her shoulders drop. She could hardly take it in. He’d told her last time: You can’t ever meet me. You can’t ever trust me. She’d never let herself imagine the reality of him looking at her again, clear-eyed and without hatred.

‘I—’ Joan tried to smile, but she couldn’t force one. She felt more like crying.

‘What is it?’ Aaron whispered. ‘What were you going to say?’

‘I missed you,’ Joan managed. ‘In this timeline.’ It came out with so much emotion that Aaron looked surprised. ‘Sorry,’ Joan said. ‘I know you don’t remember me. We just … We went through things together that no one else did. And I missed you. A lot.’

Aaron was silent long enough that Joan could feel herself reddening. It was too much to tell him—that she’d missed him when he’d barely met her.

‘You’re right. I don’t know you,’ he said finally. Joan tried not to feel the blunt ache of it. He didn’t remember her, and that was just the truth. ‘I do know, though,’ Aaron said, his grey eyes serious, ‘that if I gave you that brooch, I must have—’ He hesitated. ‘I must have trusted you very much.’

Joan blinked. She had the impression that he’d been about to say something else before the hesitation.

There was a well of emotion inside her that she couldn’t think about right now. It struck her anew that his own father had betrayed him. That his mother’s family had cast him aside for something he hadn’t done.

Aaron pushed a hand through his hair. ‘You really think Eleanor is working against the King?’

Joan nodded. She didn’t trust her voice.

‘We need to talk properly, then,’ Aaron said. ‘Because you’re right. I think I can help.’

thirty

Joan opened the door and found the others standing just outside. Behind them, the warehouse had brightened. The sun had risen, and daylight streamed in through the lattice windows, illuminating the mosaic artwork wrapped along the mezzanine walls.

‘You want George back?’ Tom said.

Joan shook her head. ‘I convinced Aaron myself.’ She looked over her shoulder. Aaron had ventured a few steps toward the door. After a moment of hesitation, he followed Joan out.