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Bestowing me with this sigil, Eleanor had said, and Joan understood then Eleanor’s strained tone. The King had given her a new sigil: a thorned rose stem without the flower. A reminder, always, of what she’d lost. Of what had been done to the Graves.

Beside Aaron, Nick shifted, and Joan realised that while she’d been staring, Nick had been subtly struggling with the King’s bonds, trying to free himself.

But just as she observed that, Nick froze. His face was blank, but his eyes were suddenly alight, like he was trying to keep a handle on some strong emotion.

Trepidation curled inside Joan. She followed his gaze to the walkway. To the lost people from the true timeline.

She gasped.

It was Nick. The original Nick. Through the window that the King had made, he was strolling casually up the walkway, his pace and posture relaxed.

Joan was hit with a feeling of bone-deep recognition. His dark hair was long enough to make soft curls. Joan had never seen it that length, but she somehow knew what it felt like to push her hands into the thick silk of it; what it felt like to have his hands cup her waist at the same time.

He was holding hands now with someone who seemed familiar, and it took Joan a weirdly long moment to recognise herself. The original Joan.

They both looked so different. Joan’s hair was shorter than she’d ever cut it, floating just above her shoulders. But it was more than that. Their other selves seemed easier somehow. Comfortable within themselves. Unconflicted.

The original Joan said something to Nick that made him laugh. He leaned down to kiss her, soft and intimate. When he pulled back, he and Joan smiled at each other, open and trusting, and so in love that Joan’s chest hurt with yearning. They were looking at each other as if nothing could ever go wrong. As if no one could ever hurt them.

As Joan watched, their heads turned away from the bridge. Someone had called to them, she guessed. And from the way they lit up, from their open postures, it was someone they’d been waiting for, someone they were eager to be with. Joan glanced back over her shoulder to see who it was, but the window into the true timeline wasn’t visible behind her. The only person in her line of sight was Aaron, in his 1920s suit, pristine and perfect, as always, amid all this chaos.

The King snapped his fingers then. Joan turned back fast, but he’d already closed the window. She heard herself make a shaken sound.

It was all gone. The Graves. Old London Bridge. The original Joan and Nick. All that remained was 1923, with its boats and cranes.

Joan could still see the other Joan and Nick in her mind’s eye, though. How happy they’d been …

She turned instinctively now to this Nick. His eyes were still on the walkway too. And … Joan’s breath caught. He looked cracked open and raw. It lasted for just a moment. By the time he turned to meet her eyes, his expression was closed again.

His name started in her mouth, but the King spoke over her.

‘A last gift for you,’ the King said to Eleanor. ‘And now, come here.’ He beckoned her over.

Eleanor had been looking on the span of the water where the old bridge had stood. Now she was forced to turn away from it; to shuffle to the King. He stopped her, with a raised hand, a few paces from him.

Joan’s heart stuttered. Eleanor and the King had ended up in the centre of a loose circle of Joan’s allies and Eleanor’s. What was about to happen?

Joan had come here to stop Eleanor—even if that had meant killing her. But … having seen that lost family, the thought of watching Eleanor die right here, right now, seemed too much.

Eleanor had been cruel and vengeful. She’d done things that Joan would never forgive. But at the same time, Joan knew what it felt like to lose your family, to want them back so badly that you lost yourself.

Joan had lost herself last time. She’d been thinking of Eleanor as alien, someone whose actions and cruelty had been incomprehensible. But was she so different from Joan, really? Eleanor had gone to extremes to bring her family back, but so had Joan. Joan had stolen decades of human life. She’d dragged Ruth and Aaron from danger to danger—into the Monster Court itself—in the hope of bringing her family back. And at the end … she hadn’t thought about it consciously, but some part of her must have known that bringing monsters back—her family back—would cost human lives.

And maybe that was the real proof that Joan and Eleanor were sisters. Maybe it ran in the family.

‘I was never loyal to you,’ Eleanor told the King, her voice tight. ‘I’ve been working against you since the moment I woke up in this sick timeline.’

The King emanated paternal indulgence. ‘You never had a chance against me. You must have known that. You should have tried to forget them.’

‘I guess it’s not in my nature to let things go.’

Something in her tone made Joan pause. Eleanor was on the cusp of death, and yet … she was unafraid. Her chin was up; her expression was calm. She had the air of someone at the end of a long journey.

Eleanor seemed to feel Joan’s gaze. She looked over at her and smiled. There was a shine of triumph in her blue eyes, and Joan thought suddenly about how Eleanor had ambushed her. How meticulous she’d been in crafting Nick into a slayer.

‘You’re so predictable, Joan,’ Eleanor said softly.

What? Joan felt a curl of unease.