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‘What?’ Joan straightened. ‘You got your phone working?’

‘No.’ He fished his train ticket from his pocket.

Oh. They’d had the date on them since Bedford. Joan suddenly didn’t want to know.

‘It’s been six years,’ Nick said. ‘We’ve been missing for six years.’

‘Six years,’ Joan echoed numbly. Margie had been dead for six years. Dad hadn’t seen her for six years …

‘I knew it had to be a couple of years at least,’ Nick said. ‘All those changes to the shops couldn’t have happened in a few months. But … six years … I keep thinking how my little sister Alice would be twelve years old now. Robbie would be eleven. Do they even remember me? They don’t remember my dad …’

‘Nick …’ Joan couldn’t bear the thought of that. ‘I’m so sorry.’ It sounded completely inadequate out loud. She didn’t know how to express how sorry she was. He was only here because of her. Because he’d come back to help her when he could have run.

‘If it was possible,’ Nick said slowly, ‘I know you would have said, but … I have to ask. Can’t we go back? Can’t we stop that attack from happening?’

Last time, Joan had circumvented the timeline’s restrictions. She’d undone Nick’s massacres by unmaking Nick himself—reverting him from a trained hero back to the ordinary boy he’d once been. But … when she’d used that power, she’d known instinctively that reverting Nick would bring her family back. Even if she’d still had access to her power, that same instinct was telling her that there was nothing to unmake here. Nothing that she could undo to bring Margie back. And just that thought sent a wave of grief through her.

It must have been in her expression because Nick took a sharp breath. His free hand curled into a fist. He was clearly trying to hold it together. Joan knew how that felt. ‘It’s just …’ he said. ‘My family needs me. Ever since my dad died, I … I help out a lot at home.’

She’d do anything for him, she thought. Anything she could. If there was any way to fix this, she would. ‘There’s a lot I don’t know about this world,’ she said. ‘When we find my gran, she’ll know more, but …’ She shook her head. ‘It’s really hard to change an event. There’s a … a force that pushes back against changes we make.’

She could feel the timeline even now. The other night, it had seemed like a storm, but this morning her impression was of an animal—for once, purringly content, as if it was satisfied that it had finally put Joan and Nick into extended proximity. Just stop, Joan wanted to tell it. Leave us alone. You’re trying to mend a rift that can’t be healed.

‘It’s hard to change an event,’ Nick echoed. ‘But not impossible?’

Joan hesitated. She only knew of the timeline being changed twice. Legend had it that the monster King had erased the original timeline to create a new one in his own image. And Joan herself had changed the timeline again, in a much smaller way, to unmake Nick.

‘We should talk to my gran,’ she said. They weren’t far from Queenhithe now. If anyone would know a way to bring Margie back, to get Nick home, it would be Gran.

The train rattled on the tracks. Outside, a platform slid into view: Welcome to Luton, the sign said. Commuters leaned sleepily against the station’s brown brick wall, some scrolling on their phones, some staring at nothing, earbuds in.

Nick went back to their seats, and Joan joined him, squeezing close to allow the new arrivals to walk down the narrow aisle. Joan watched each person pass. Could any of them be monsters? They didn’t seem to be, but for the first time, she wished she had the Oliver power—the ability to know for sure.

The train started. Joan began to shift away from Nick again, and she felt him take an unsteady breath. There’d been a time when she’d wanted to see him in pain. He’d taken her family from her, and she’d wanted him to suffer for it.

Since then, though, she’d seen him in enough pain for a thousand lifetimes. She’d seen recordings of him being tortured; of him having to watch his family being murdered. Over and over and over. She couldn’t bear the thought of him hurting more now. She pressed closer to him, and it seemed to help a little. His shoulders went down, and he took a deeper breath.

‘Why don’t you close your eyes for a little while,’ she suggested.

Nick shook his head. He glanced around the carriage, still checking for the attackers.

Ever since my dad died, he’d said, I help out a lot at home. Joan could imagine that he’d taken on a lot of responsibility.

‘I can keep watch,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to do it all yourself.’

To her surprise, he met her gaze and quirked his mouth up, a little self-deprecating. Butterflies fluttered in Joan’s stomach as he closed his eyes.

This had to stop, Joan told herself—these feelings she kept having. They had to stop. The boy she loved didn’t exist anymore. And this Nick would loathe her if he ever learned the truth.

The dream had been a reminder of that.

eight

By the time they got to Blackfriars, the train was packed with bright-eyed early-bird tourists and yawning people on the way to work. Nick couldn’t have slept more than half an hour, but when Joan woke him, there was some colour in his face. He surveyed the platform as he exited the train. Even tired, he was methodical about it. After he’d checked and dismissed people, he didn’t look at them again.

Joan imagined him filing away the details. When they’d volunteered at Holland House, his memory hadn’t been as perfect as a Liu’s, but it had been close. In the first week, the head curator had asked them to take all the tours. It’ll give you a feel for the place, even if you don’t remember it all, she’d said.

But Nick had remembered it all. Every fact from every tour—every name and date.