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“Perhaps a deal can be made?” he says. “You give me this enchanting charm”—he dips his free hand toward my neck, pinching my talisman between his forefinger and thumb—“and in exchange, I grant you this pocket watch.” He dangles the piece before me.

Dangles it in the same way Jago once dangled a pocket watch he’d used to hypnotize me.

The realization comes too late, and before I can act, my head has gone woozy as my mind reels backward in time, conjuring a dizzying collection of nonsensical images that seem more like a fever dream than anything real.

Clocks melting down walls—a torch singer wearing an antler crown—and a spectacular boy with a bend in his nose and eyes like a storm-ridden sea—

And I know the boy—he told me his name, it’s—

Braxton!

I didn’t realize I voiced the name out loud, until the soft bump of my talisman falling back into place knocks me out of the vision, leaving me gaping into the face of the blue-eyed man now looming before me.

“What did you say?” He leans so close I can see the individual flecks of copper in his irises, the light smattering of freckles sprinkled across his forehead and nose.

My knees start to crumble. My body sags toward the floor, as though I’m yet another delicate female, overcome by the heat, or exhaustion, or the scandal of being alone in a room with a virile male and no chaperone to safeguard my virtue.

But the man is on to me and he watches my descent with a pitiless gaze.

It’s only after I slip a hand under my hem, only after I spring back to my feet and wield my dagger before him—only after all that is done does it even occur to him to register a look of concern.

The look deepens when I wave my blade before him and say, “Now kindly move out of my way, or I swear I will cut you.”

22

For a handful of seconds, it feels so empowering to act like that, talk like that.

But that doesn’t mean I get what I want.

Because the blue-eyed man takes one look at my dagger and another at me, then breaks into a fit of unrestrained laughter.

Seriously, he stands right there before me and laughs in my face.

So, I do the only thing I can think of—I lunge.

Here, before the rows of dour-faced nobles encased in gilt frames—before the towering bookshelves overflowing with Captain Cooks, Jane Austens, and Sir Walter Scotts—I aim the lethal tip of my dagger straight for my enemy’s heart.

Only to be confronted by the gleaming blade of his much larger sword—a broadsword, it turns out—that I’d failed to notice until now.

“Seems you’re not as well trained, nor as well prepared, as you think,” he says, voice edged with the conviction of one who has all the proof that he needs.

My arm is stretched as far as it will extend, and still, there’s a notable gap between my blade and his chest.

While his own arm is casually, comfortably bent, his hand secured in the basket hilt, as the tip of his double-edged blade comes perilously close to piercing my throat.

I’ve made a terrible mistake. All this time, I’ve been worried about Mason when it’s clearly me who needs saving.

I stand before my nameless opponent, knees shaking as I force down the scream building at the back of my throat, knowing I need to keep quiet, keep a clear head. I can’t afford to let on just how terrified I really am.

If you’re going to pull your dagger, you must be willing to use it, Braxton once said.

Well, Iwaswilling to use it. Still am, now more than ever. But seeing as how I can’t even reach my target, it’s become glaringly apparent that’s no longer an option.

So, I try another approach.

Dropping all pretense, I say, “So this is it? You slash my neck and leave me for dead in the study?”

His face breaks into a grin. But, more importantly, his blade remains pressed to my skin. “There it is,” he says. “Your true face. Tell me, Time Jumper. What year are you from?”