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After leaving the note, the pocket watch, and the sketch in Braxton’s kitchen, I slip quietly into his closet, where I hide the Moon in the toe of those old vomit- and blood-stained boots. Then I quietly let myself out and make my way to Elodie’s door.

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Elodie leans against the doorframe, scrubbing a hand over her face.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” I say. Then, remembering she’s not exactly single these days, I add, “Is Jago—?” I nod toward the general direction of the bed, but Elodie’s quick to shake her head.

“Please.” She rolls her eyes and ushers me inside. “As much as I enjoy having him visit my sheets, when it comes to sleeping, I prefer to go it alone.”

I follow her into the room, watching as she drops onto the blue velvet settee as I sink onto the purple chair across from her.

“Should I call down for some coffee or tea, or maybe even a couple mimosas?” She starts to reach for her tablet, but it’s not that kind of visit and I quickly wave it away. “So, what’s this about?” She squints at the Renaissance-style clothes I’m still wearing.

“It’s about this.” I reach into one of the many hidden pockets, retrieve the small leather-bound book, and place it on the table between us.

Elodie glances from it to me and back again but makes no move to claim it.

“What about it?” she asks, which surprises me. I would’ve assumed her first question would be to inquire how I got my hands on it.

“Well,” I say. “I was hoping you can tell me how it works.”

Elodie tucks her legs underneath her and says, “Why me? Why not ask one of the Gray Wolf witches like Freya or Maisie or, hell, even Finn?”

“So, Finn really is a witch?” I say, remembering how I caught the scent of the Niki de Saint Phalle perfume on him.

“Hardly.” Elodie laughs. “He and Oliver started to dabble, probably egged on by Song. But it didn’t take long for Oliver to back off, and Finn quickly followed. Song, unfortunately, kept going. Magick can be addictive, and Song didn’t know when to stop.”

“So…you’re confirming that Song left by choice?”

“Confirming?” She shakes her head. “No. Since I wasn’t there, I can’t say for sure. Though the evidence does seem to stack up.” She shrugs, deciding to leave it at that. “Look,” she says, “I know you think no one gives a shit that she’s gone, but really, it’s more like there’s nothing anyone can do. Song and Anjou made their choices, and it’s not my place to interfere.”

“So why didn’t anyone just tell me all this?”

Elodie crosses her legs and sinks deeper into her seat. “Well, I would’ve told you a lot earlier if you hadn’t been so convinced that I’m solely to blame for every bad thing that ever happened to you.” Her gaze narrows on mine; her mouth flattens into a thin, grim line. “Did it ever occur to you that your perception—or at least your perception of me—is totally warped?”

Her words stop me cold, reminding me of that day in art class when our teacher taught us about the vanishing point. The place where two parallel lines appear to converge, even when they don’t. A phenomenon that occurs based on the perspective of the viewer.

I look at Elodie. I mean, really look at her. Maybe she’s right. Maybe my perspective, at least where she’s concerned, has been skewed all this time.

Either way, we’ve clearly reached a crossroads. Considering how many lies, or at least perceived lies, we hold between us, it’s time to get to the bottom of them if we have any hope of moving forward as friends—or at least as close to friends as Elodie and I can become.

“So you’re telling me you didn’t try to purposely strand me in Versailles?” I say. “That you didn’t mess with my mask so that I’d cross my own timeline and never find my way back?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” she says. “Question is whether or not you’ll choose to believe me.”

“But if it wasn’t you, then who?”

“How the hell should I know?” She throws up her hands. “Glitches happen, Nat. Technology fails. Tripping is risky. You know all that, and yet you still prefer to blame me for every unlucky random event.”

“And Mason?” I say, figuring now that we’re here, I may as well work my way through the list. “Did you set him up?”

“Why the hell would I want Mason here?” she asks. “He hated me at school, and he barely tolerates me at Gray Wolf.”

I lift my gaze to the chandelier that hangs over our heads, taking a few beats to process everything she just said. Considering how I still need something from her, I decide to put it all behind me, and say, “Fine. I believe you.”

“No,” she says, eyeing me warily. “You most certainly don’t. But you’re closer than you were before, so I guess it’s a start.” She holds my gaze for a long, steady beat. Then, retrieving the book from the table, she says, “So, tell me, Nat:whenexactly is it you’re so determined to visit?”

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