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The racks seemed to be more or less in chronological order. Farther in, Joan found a plain black dress in some kind of crinkly fabric, labelled 1919. It wasn’t 1923, but it was close enough. What else did she need? A hat? Gloves? Stockings?

‘Joan.’ Tom appeared from the next aisle. He called Aaron over too.

Aaron had been efficient. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes since they’d spread out, but he appeared with brown and grey tweed draped over his arm. There was a grey hat on top of it all.

Tom dug in his pocket and produced a gold object. He tossed it to Joan. Startled, she almost fumbled it.

‘What is this?’ she said. It looked like a closed pocket watch with a hinged side. She turned it over and found a winged lion etched into the metal.

Aaron leaned to look at it. ‘That’s a controller for Court cuffs.’ His mouth dropped open. ‘That’s my controller!’ he said to Tom. ‘That’s the one you took from me!’

‘You said you smashed it,’ Joan said to Tom, surprised.

Oh, come on, Tom’s expression said. As if I’d do that. ‘Let’s get that thing off you,’ he said to Joan.

As much as Joan hated the cuff, the prospect of removing it made her nervous suddenly. She’d been mired for days, and she hadn’t realised until this moment how relieved she’d been that she couldn’t travel.

She felt around the edge of the device and found a button that unlocked the clasp. She flicked the lid open with her thumb. It could still have passed for a pocket watch—or maybe a compass. Around the edge, nine black symbols stood at regular intervals. They looked like stylised letters from a non-Roman alphabet. In the middle, there were three gold clock hands of different lengths. None of them were moving.

Joan tugged up the billowing sleeve of her Victorian blouse to reveal the mark on her right wrist. The winged lion shone, bright and vivid in the Portelli sunlight. Now that Joan knew there was human life in the mark, she could hardly bear to look at it. She blocked her view with the controller, and as she did, the largest clock hand spun like a compass needle, shifting back and forth until it landed on one of the stylised letters—the one at the twelve o’clock mark.

Aaron peered down at it. ‘Almost empty,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to buy a travel token to get to the twenties.’

Joan didn’t look at the back wall with its thousands and thousands of pieces of jewellery—all imbued with human life—but it seemed to loom behind them.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ Tom said. He called Frankie to follow him and ambled away.

The room was so big—and so packed with merchandise—that as soon as Tom was out of sight, Joan felt like she and Aaron were in a bubble of their own. The clothes racks on either side could have been solid walls.

Joan touched the tattoo. It still felt like her own skin. Like there was nothing there on her arm. ‘How do I take this thing off?’ she asked Aaron.

‘Just hold the device over the mark. There’s a mental component. It should respond to your thoughts.’

‘A mental component?’ That sounded like magic.

‘It’s a blend of future technology and Court powers,’ Aaron explained.

‘Huh.’ Joan hovered the device over the tattoo. Nothing seemed to happen. The clock hands didn’t even spin. She pictured the tattoo melting away. But the visualisation didn’t work either.

Aaron put his bundle of clothes down onto a small table between the racks. ‘It might be easier if I do it.’

Joan hesitated. Tom would have told her to hold on tight to that device. Aaron had been able to control her body with this thing, as well as drag her through time.

Aaron winced slightly. ‘Or you could try—’ he started, but Joan made up her mind at the same time. She handed him the controller. He blinked down at it, and then up at her, as if he hadn’t expected her to just give it to him.

You need to be wary of them both, Tom had said. Joan swallowed. She’d betrayed Nick; it would serve her right if Aaron betrayed her now. Maybe deep down she’d given this to Aaron because she knew she’d deserve the betrayal.

But Aaron only stepped closer. ‘May I?’ He mimed cradling the underside of Joan’s bare forearm.

Joan nodded, and Aaron cupped her arm with a steady grip. It occurred to Joan that she hadn’t often seen him touching people. When he’d taken off her glove at the masquerade, he’d had a guard hold her arm, and he’d only touched the fabric. As she thought that, though, she had a vivid flash of him fastening a pearl necklace on her. Of him brushing her cheek with his hand.

Aaron lifted his grey eyes to hers. ‘This might hurt,’ he said softly.

Even with the warning, Joan was shocked by the scalding pain—like the tattoo had turned to molten metal. She gasped. Aaron’s hand tightened, steadying her as her arm spasmed. And then she was gasping again, in relief, as the pain faded.

‘All done,’ Aaron said, and Joan stared at her wrist. Her arm was bare for the first time in days. And Aaron had a cylinder of lacework between his thumb and forefinger. He placed it into a slot in the controller and handed it to her.

‘Thanks.’ Joan shoved it into her pocket. She hadn’t thought there’d be any immediate difference without the cuff, but her sense of the timeline already seemed stronger: a steady breeze against her skin rather than a breath. She felt raw and a little jangly, like she’d just had three cups of coffee in a row.