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‘Hey,’ Aaron said, perhaps hearing her. His footsteps stopped ahead of her.

Joan found herself doubled over slightly, breathing too hard, trying to control the pain. ‘Nervous,’ she managed. It wasn’t even a lie. She forced herself to straighten and was startled to see Nick standing just behind Aaron, staring at her. He’d been up front with Tom a second earlier. How had he gotten back here so fast?

Nick had guessed what she’d done. He took another step, putting him in front of her, and another, so that he was almost in her personal space. His hand twitched as if wanted to touch her, but he aborted the impulse. He stared down at her, eyes nearly black. His jaw was so tight, she thought his teeth might crack.

Joan found her voice. ‘We should catch up to the others,’ she said.

After a long, long moment, Nick nodded.

Aaron was clearly puzzled about their silent exchange. He knew something had just happened, but not what. ‘I’m nervous too,’ he offered, and Joan tried to smile at him.

They walked up the rest of the way together, Nick at Joan’s back. She could feel his eyes on her until they reached the departure spot.

It wasn’t an alley exactly—just a large space between warehouses. The ground was unpaved dirt.

They stripped off their overcoats and nineteenth-century hats, discarding them on the ground. Tom put Frankie into his knapsack. And then they were ready. Next stop: 1923.

Aaron took Joan’s hand, his clasp weirdly reassuring. Joan didn’t have enough experience to jump accurately without help, so Aaron was going to navigate for them both. He reached for Nick too, wrapping his hand around Nick’s tattooed wrist, activating the cuff.

Joan gave 1891 a last look. It was nearly midnight, but on the river, people were rowing barges, scrubbing decks. And on the opposite bank, dock workers at London Bridge Wharf unloaded crates from a schooner. London never slept. St Magnus was a tower behind the wharf. In Joan’s time, it would be overshadowed by new construction, but in this time, it soared above its neighbours. She pictured it as an oasis in the middle of London. Later in the day, people might sit in its courtyard in peaceful silence; maybe they’d have lunch there; maybe they’d read a book. She couldn’t imagine anything happening on the church grounds at all. What was Eleanor going to do there to change the timeline?

Joan looked over at the others. Jamie seemed nervous; Nick, determined. ‘Ready?’ she said.

‘Ready,’ Ruth confirmed, and Tom and Aaron nodded too. Owen shrugged.

Tom and Jamie took a step, and then vanished. A few seconds later, Owen was gone, and then Ruth. Strange to think that, if everything went well, they’d all arrive at approximately the same moment.

‘Remember, you need to jump when I jump,’ Aaron said to Joan. To Nick, he said, ‘The timeline protects us when we travel—we won’t land in a brick wall or submerged in the ground. But be ready to duck down and hide. There might be people around.’ He squeezed Joan’s hand. ‘On my mark.’

Joan closed her eyes. To time travel—to jump, as Aaron had called it—monsters had to evoke in themselves a feeling of focused yearning for another time. Joan had been suppressing that feeling so fiercely lately that the prospect of giving in to it felt terrifying and thrilling at the same time. And she was aware, too, that she was about to expend thirty-two years of her life.

‘Now,’ Aaron said.

Joan opened her eyes and let herself feel it.

The world jolted.

And they arrived into chaos.

thirty-six

Someone grabbed Joan, tearing her from Aaron’s grip. She kicked out, and pain burst through her foot as she struck someone’s shin. But she’d hurt them too. They grunted, and their fingers slipped from her arm as they stumbled back.

Joan tried to make sense of the blurred bodies and shouts, the blunt thump of fists against flesh. She knocked away a grasping hand, and nearby Nick made a satisfied sound as a body thudded heavily to the ground.

What was going on? Who was attacking them? There were too many bodies pressed close, and in the near-dawn gloom, Joan couldn’t see much of the attackers—they were just arms and chests and legs. Underfoot, the ground had more traction than a minute ago: it seemed to be brick rather than slippery mud. And Joan had the sense that the surroundings were more open; the warehouse on the right had lost a level, and there was more sky.

‘That’s enough!’ someone called out.

Strangely, everyone reacted as if they’d heard a bell in a boxing match. The sounds of the scuffle instantly ceased. Tom swore under his breath. Joan looked up and saw why they’d all stilled; why Tom had sworn.

Their attackers had surrounded the top of the path—at least ten of them—and they were pointing guns. Joan’s heart pattered. What was going on? Her eyes were starting to adjust now. The attackers were in 1920s clothes—a mix of suits and dresses, billowing in the breeze coming off the Thames. The guns weren’t from the 1920s, though. They looked like the blunt black weapons of the future—the ones Joan had seen at the Roman Road Market.

On the other side of the river, the wharf had been cleaned up and modernised, rotting wood replaced with fresh. St Magnus was still visible, although surrounded now by cranes.

Joan risked a look over her shoulder. In 1891, there’d been a route out. Now, her heart sank. A brick wall had appeared, turning the path into an alley with a dead end.

‘Steady,’ Tom said with tamped frustration.