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I grab the hem of my shirt, tear off a strip of fabric, and prop it under his head. Then I tear off another piece and go about wrapping his wound. All the while torn between what my mind knows and the stockpile of antiquated feelings my heart stubbornly clings to.

Vaguely aware of Killian grumbling,Are ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Shiv? Let the bastard bleed, already! He lied to you. He doesn’t deserve you. He—

“Does Arthur know?” I cut into Killian’s tirade as I watch over my former boyfriend, wondering who he really is, this boy I’d given my heart to. “About Braxton,” I clarify. “Does Arthur know who—or rather,what—he is?”

“Pretty sure Arthur knows everything,” Killian says. “You know the old saying, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ But right now, it’s you I’m worried about. You okay?”

I gaze up at him, my vision as bleary as the thoughts that swirl through my head. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “Why’d you keep it all to yourself?”

“Figured it was better you learn the truth on your own, without me leading you to it.” He rubs at his chin. “It was selfish. I know. But I didn’t want you to resent the messenger. I was afraid you might think—” He stops, presses his lips tightly together as though holding back whatever was about to come next. “Look, none of that matters now. All I care about is—”

Just then, a sharp cry rings out in the square.

Killian looks at me. “You still have the Moon?”

I nod.

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

Killian reaches for my hand, but I can’t leave Braxton like this. He may be the enemy, a Timekeeper, but it turns out Killian was right—unless it’s self-defense, I just don’t have it in me to leave someone for dead.

Braxton lies sprawled on the floor, still out cold, with a growing pool of blood seeping from his wound.

“We can’t,” I say. “It’s not right. Arthur trained us better than that.” But a quick glance at Killian makes it clear he’s not buying it.

“He’s a fuckin’ Timekeeper, Shiv.” He shoots a dismissive look Braxton’s way. “I shoulda killed him. And yet, leaving him behind seems like its own poetic justice, no?”

I’m about to reply when the door to the baptistery bangs open, a gang of Savonarola’s crazed followers rush in, and they immediately spot Braxton out cold on the ground and me kneeling beside him.

“Fuck this,” Killian mutters under his breath. “We need to get out of here—now!”

Before I can stop him, Killian hauls me up by the arm and tosses me over his shoulder.

I pound my fists into his back, kick my legs against his hips, and call him every curse word I can think of in both Italian and English. But Killian is determined, and he races out the side door and onto the street.

Refusing to stop, refusing to let me go no matter how much I fight, no matter how much I protest, until we’ve made it all the way back to the palazzo.

64

My ex-boyfriend is a Timekeeper.

With every pound of Killian’s boots, the words replay in my head. All along I suspected Braxton was lying, but this—this is far more horrible than I ever imagined.

How could I have been so wrong?

And yet, how can I still be worrying about him, hoping someone will take pity and help him?

Even after all that he’s done, I still find it hard to switch off my heart.

At the very least, I don’t want him to die.

When we reach the palazzo, Killian rushes inside, settles me onto a chair, and thrusts a mug of water into my hands. “Drink up,” he says.

Though the water provides some relief, it’s a pleasure I barely recognize. My mind is caught in the past, gathering and assembling clues, which only makes me feel worse. Because the truth is, it was right there all along. If I’d only been willing to look.

And what about the brown-haired boy I saw in that vision back in Versailles, just after claiming the Sun—the one who looked like a younger version of Braxton?

Is it possible the boy really was him?