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‘Put her in there.’ The guard nodded at the smoking room at the end of the entrance hall.

Joan walked in and only realised that Aaron and the guard weren’t following when the door closed behind her.

A rustle of silk made her turn.

She froze.

Joan had only ever seen the woman once—in a recording of Nick’s first kill: a cold beauty with golden hair. She sat now at the smoking desk of Holland House, as if at a throne, her hair cascading down her shoulders. In the recording, she’d had a regal authority. In person, that quality was far stronger, reminiscent of a force of nature; of a ruler unafraid to shed her subjects’ blood in war.

‘Hello, Joan,’ the woman said.

twenty-four

She was a fairytale princess come to life—around twenty-one years old, Joan guessed. Her blue dress was medieval—long-sleeved silk, with a straight cut. Her eyes were blue too, like an afternoon sky.

For a long moment, Joan couldn’t believe her own eyes. She couldn’t believe the woman was here. And then the moment passed, and her heart was drumming painfully in her chest.

This woman had ruined Joan’s life; had forged Nick from an ordinary boy into the slayer who’d killed Joan’s family. She’d been behind the deaths of all their families. All of them. Joan’s, Aaron’s, and Nick’s. She’d taken Jamie captive and put him in a cold, dark cell. She’d torn Joan and Nick apart, turning them from soul mates into enemies.

Again, she’d said in the recordings. Again. She’d tortured Nick and murdered his family, rewinding time to do it over and over. The timeline shouldn’t have allowed it, but it had bent to the woman’s will.

Nick had resisted his new destiny at first. He hadn’t wanted to be a killer.

With respect, must we use this boy? the woman’s assistant had said. How many times have we killed his parents? He’s always so virtuous afterward.

This is the boy, the woman had replied. Not in spite of his virtuousness, but because of it. When we break him, that quality will turn into righteous fury.

It had taken two thousand iterations before Nick had killed a monster without remorse. And at the end of it, the woman had given Nick a cold, approving smile. You’re perfect, she’d said.

‘Why?’ Joan said now. She wanted answers to so many questions, but that was the one that came out of her mouth first. Why had the woman forged Nick into the hero? Why had she wanted all those people dead? Why had she torn Joan and Nick apart? ‘Who are you?’ Joan said.

Something complicated passed over the woman’s face—pain and anger and sadness combined—before her expression smoothed. ‘The amnesia of new timelines is quite a thing, isn’t it,’ she said. Her voice was as Joan had remembered from the recordings too: measured and deep. ‘Honestly, I’m a little disappointed, Joan. I didn’t expect you to arrive in a cuff. Maybe you’re losing your touch.’

Joan stared at her. The woman’s tone had been intimate—although mockingly so. The amnesia of new timelines. Did she know Joan somehow?

Something else from her wording had snagged too, but Joan had another flash of those recordings: of Nick’s face when he’d found his family dead on the kitchen floor.

And suddenly, Joan just didn’t care that this woman knew her name. She didn’t care how this woman knew her. ‘Where’s Nick?’ she said. The woman had him, and nothing else mattered. ‘Is he here? What have you done to him?’

‘Nick,’ the woman repeated softly. Her tone was mocking again, but Joan had the impression of something complicated and seething underneath it. ‘It’s always about Nick with you, isn’t it? And that blond boy.’

‘What?’ Was she talking about Aaron?

‘God, you really don’t remember, do you?’ the woman said. ‘You don’t remember me.’

What was Joan supposed to say to that? She didn’t remember. It was disconcerting that the woman seemed to know her. Joan was more used to being on the other side of the memory divide. ‘Well, tell me, then,’ she gritted out. ‘Who are you? Why did you want all those people dead? My family dead?’

For a second, Joan thought she saw a spark of cold rage in the woman’s blue eyes. But then the woman’s mouth curved up. ‘Honestly? Him killing your family was just a bonus.’

Joan felt something snap inside her. She started furiously toward the woman, and the woman raised a hand almost lazily. Joan’s body stopped, manipulated again by that stupid cuff.

‘Oh, I like that cuff,’ the woman said. ‘I like seeing you cowed.’

Joan clenched her fists. She wasn’t cowed. The woman’s smirk deepened as if she’d heard the thought.

‘Did it mess you up?’ the woman said. ‘When I turned that virtuous boy into a killer?’ She drawled the word virtuous, as if Nick’s decency was something to be mocked. ‘Did you hate him for killing your family? I bet you hate him still—a little bit. Even now that you’ve made him weak and innocent again.’

Joan wished she could get close enough to throw a punch. She hated the way the woman was talking to her—like there was something personal between them. Joan searched her face, trying to trigger any kind of memory in herself. Nothing came—not a feeling, not a sense of déjà vu. ‘Why did you make him into a killer?’ Joan demanded.