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Mason regards me for a long, steady beat. “The reason I stopped by,” he says, “is because I have something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a battered envelope that’s creased in the middle where it’s been folded in half. “I’ve been carrying this around in my backpack, and honestly, I don’t even know why, except maybe it felt like a connection to you. But now I think you should have it.”

He places the envelope on the table between us, and the second I catch sight of the writing, my entire body goes numb.

“What—” I start. “I mean, how—”

Mason nods. “I think you should read it. It’s a letter from your mom.”

36

I flip the letter over in my palm and trace a finger across my mom’s familiar tight scrawl.

“But—it’s addressed to you,” I say. “It’s a letter for you, not me.”

Mason shrugs. “She had no way to reach you. So, I guess she decided to reach out to me.”

I slip my finger under the flap and retrieve the note tucked inside.

Dear Mason— it begins, and already my hands are shaking. Already my mouth has gone dry. And still, I force my gaze down the page.

I know you probably miss her. I miss her, too.

I also know you’re probably confused, wondering what might’ve happened to her. My hope is this letter will help ease your mind. And perhaps mine as well…

I frown. I can’t read this. I’m not ready. With trembling fingers, I stuff the note back inside.

I mean, now that I’ve finally managed to tuck her memory away in a box, do I really want to risk unpacking all that?

Do I really want to face all those emotional triggers again?

“You don’t have to read it now,” Mason says. “I just wanted you to have it because—well, I think once you do read it, you’ll know it was written for you all along.”

I set the letter on the cushion beside me, and when I raise my gaze to meet his, I release a soft sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say. “If I’d known Arthur was going to spring it on you…” I shrug, hoping he can find a way to forgive me for that, along with everything else.

“I thought you were sent to some kind of reform school,” he says. “I had no idea you were living in luxury and traveling through time.”

I laugh awkwardly. I’ve missed our friendship so much, but I also know we’re on delicate ground, and I don’t want to do anything to mess this up.

“So, where was your first Trip?” he asks.

“Eighteenth-century Versailles,” I say. “Up until yesterday, it was the only place I’d Tripped.”

“And I’m guessing that’s where you got the diamond hair clip you sent me?”

I remember the drunken noblewoman I stole it from and nod. “Except I didn’t send it. I still don’t know who did.”

Mason stares down at his hands, and we fall into a silence that’s closer to companionable than fraught.

“So,” he says, lifting his chin. “Arthur really is grooming me to be part of his international time-traveling theft ring.”

When I nod, Mason shakes his head, a quiet whistle escaping his lips.

“We sort of liken it toOliver Twist,” I say. “Arthur is Fagin, and we’re his artful dodgers. Or rather, Arthur’s Artful Dodgers.” My fingers instinctively fidget with my gold AAD ring. “But please don’t let on that you know. You need to act surprised when you’re initiated.”

His gaze wanders my room before settling back on me. “I feel like a traitor to myself,” he says. “But I have to admit—yesterday was amazing.”

I grin. “Care to kiss and tell?”

He laughs, leans in, and spills all. And when it’s my turn, I do the same. Minus the sword fight in the library, of course. And while I don’t try to pretend that Tripping isn’t dangerous, I do gloss over some of the scarier bits.