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Unease hit Joan then. She took a step back. The air seemed warmer than it had been a few minutes ago. Much warmer.

She turned.

When she’d arrived at work today, the big tree out front had just been grey branches with tattered-rag leaves. Now it was heavy with white blossoms. Their faint sweet scent drifted over on a breeze.

Joan had a vivid flash of struggling with Corvin as he’d tried to drag her through time. Joan had thought she’d stopped him, but what if she’d only disrupted his landing? What if he had taken her somewhere?

Somewhen.

Another vivid flash—this time of Nick trying to break Corvin’s grip on her. He’d grasped Joan’s arm, right where that gold cuff was. Joan pictured Corvin dragging her through time, with Nick pulled in their wake. ‘Nick …’ she said.

Nick didn’t reply. He’d moved to the next window, as if changing the angle might change what was inside. His face had a greyish cast.

There was a small brass plaque bolted under the window. Margaret Marie Channing. Nicholas Arthur Ward. Missing and deeply missed.

Nick backed up from it fast, stumbling, uncharacteristically off-balance.

‘Nick.’ Joan didn’t know what to say. Missing and deeply missed. The names looked permanent there. Not even a missing poster but a plaque, as if Margie’s body had never been found; as if Nick had been gone long enough to warrant remembrance rather than a phone number to report sightings.

How big had that jump been? How long had they been gone? Months? A year? And where was Joan’s name? Why wasn’t she on the plaque?

Joan fumbled for her phone, suddenly desperate to talk to Dad. Did he think she was missing too?

There was no sound from the phone. Joan blinked at the screen. The carrier icon was missing, and she wasn’t connected to the internet—not even the bakery’s wi-fi. Had her phone plan been cancelled? Had the bakery’s password changed?

Joan’s vision was turning hazy. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t panic. There were notifications on the screen: the voice mail from Gran. She pressed play.

‘Joan, my love,’ Gran said. Her usual no-nonsense voice was rushed. Joan’s heart thumped. ‘You must listen to me. You are no longer safe in Milton Keynes. You must leave immediately without your father. Convince him to stay home tonight. You have to keep him safe.’

There was a strange note in Gran’s voice. It took Joan a moment to register it as fear. She’d never heard Gran afraid before—not even when she’d been dying.

‘I know you have questions,’ Gran said. ‘I’ll explain when I see you. For now, just get to Euston Station. I’ll wait for you all night if needed.’ A click. The message ended.

Joan kept the phone against her ear, as if Gran might start talking again. But there was nothing more.

Nick’s eyes hadn’t left the plaque. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why would someone put that there? Is this some kind of messed-up prank?’ He shook his head, though, as if he didn’t really believe it was a prank.

Joan dragged her thoughts back to the present moment. Only one thing mattered right now. She had to get Nick out of here before Corvin Argent woke up. Because as soon as he did, he’d be able to control him again. ‘We need to leave!’ But where could they go?

‘This is wrong,’ Nick said. ‘This is all wrong. The shops …’

Gran. Joan had to get to Gran. But how? There was no way to know where the Hunts were now; they moved constantly. Get to Euston Station, Gran had said. I’ll wait for you all night. But Joan had jumped into the future. That night was long gone.

‘The florist next door,’ Nick said, frowning. ‘It’s different.’

‘Different?’ Joan said. The sign above the door said Fresh Blooms. This morning, it had been Laurie’s Wildflowers. ‘What?’ Joan mumbled. Laurie had owned that shop for years—longer than Joan had been alive.

‘And this bakery …’ Nick said. ‘The colour is wrong. It was a different green a few minutes ago.’ He touched the door. ‘Paint’s dry,’ he murmured, as if to himself. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Dirt on top of dry paint.’ He touched the plaque. ‘Dust on this too …’

It was a subtle colour difference, but he was right—about the paint and the name of the florist. And now Joan could see other changes. The café opposite had become a bookshop. The pizza shop was a salad place.

How long would it have taken for all these changes to happen? Joan tried to quiet the babble of panic starting in her. How far had they jumped? Could it have been more than a year? How long had they been gone?

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Nick murmured. ‘This can’t be real.’ His eyes shifted back and forth as he reread the memorial plaque. ‘Because if it’s real …’ He took another step back.

‘Nick,’ Joan said.

Nick didn’t seem to hear her. He backed up more.