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“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to contain my alarm.

“Today’s February sixth, 1497,” he says.

Killian briefly shuts his eyes and lets out a low whistle as Cosimo glances between us.

I guess I’ve been so focused on finding the Moon, it takes a moment to process the news. “So…we’re in the fifteenth century, not the sixteenth,” I say, cringing when they both look at me like I’ve just stated something glaringly obvious, which, I realize, I have. And yet all this time I was sure we’d be traveling to the early fifteen-hundreds. Mainly because I’m using theSalvator Mundias a clue, and it’s reputed to have been completed around 1510. But clearly, I should’ve known better than to ever assume anything to do with Arthur, or Gray Wolf, or Tripping, or—

“I nearly gave up on you,” Cosimo says. “I’ve sent a carriage every day for weeks now.”

Killian shrugs. “You know Arthur,” he says, and Cosimo nods, but I’m not sure I get it.

“Can you unpack that for me?” I look between them, but it’s Cosimo who speaks.

“Arthur likes to keep us on our toes—it prevents us from getting too comfortable. Anyway, if you’re looking for art, you’ll need to move fast.”

“Because it’s the Bonfire of the Vanities.” I look between them, noting how Cosimo shoots me a withering look while Killian wearily shakes his head.

“We are one day out from that sad bit of history.” Cosimo’s tone is irritated and sharp. “Most of my staff have already fled. The ones who haven’t left to follow that fanatical preacher, that is.” He openly grimaces. “But the rest have set off for Venice, where I’m planning to go until the trouble dies down.”

“So,” I say, my belly clenching at the full implication of that. “We’re to stay on without you. Just—” I jab a thumb toward Killian. “Just the two of us—all alone—in this giant palazzo?”

Cosimo regards me with a look of such open scorn it makes the withering gaze from before seem almost fond. “You’re new, I take it,” he says.

I give a nervous laugh. “What gave it away?”

“Your obvious lack of training.” His scathing gaze runs the length of me.

“She was fast-tracked,” Killian jumps in. “But not to worry—she’s trained well enough.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Cosimo says. “Because her Italian is shit.”

“Hi. Hello. Ciao.” I wave a hand in his face. “I’m right here.”

“I can see that.” Cosimo frowns. “And you’d do well to rememberwhenyou are and tone down your…” He tilts his head as though searching for just the right word. “Yourconfidence.” He speaks as though it left a bad taste on his tongue. “This is not the time to exert your new-millennium fourth-wave feminism.”

“My apologies,” I say, my voice edged with anger. “I thought it was safe to be my authentic self in front of a fellow AADwhen there’s no one else around.”

Cosimo is starting to respond when Killian places a hand on his shoulder. “Brother,” he says. “I’m beginning to think you’ve been immersed in your timeline too long. And believe me, I can relate, having been stuck the last four years in eighteenth-century France. But not only did Natasha rescue me, she also coached me on how to conduct myself in the modern-day world.”

Cosimo gives me a considering look. Like now that I’ve met with Killian’s approval, he’s willing to view me from a fresher perspective. “Perhaps you’re right,” he finally says. “And perhaps I’ve grown paranoid. But this is not the Florence it once was. The city is shaken, ruled by the hand of fear. There’s a war on art, beauty, luxury—all things that once drew me here. And though I knew this day would come, watching it unfold has been distressing in a way I can’t quite explain. These are serious times, with serious consequences for those who dare step out of line. Good people are being accused, punished, and put to gruesome, violent ends for all manner of made-up atrocities. So please, be on guard, keep your head down, and never forget that as a female in this timeline, you have no inherent rights.”

A sudden chill courses through me, but I refuse to let on just how much those words have gotten to me.

“If you’re smart,” Cosimo continues, “you’ll switch out your fancy dress for something more subdued.”

I glance down at my gown, wondering why on earth Charlotte—no, make that Arthur, since, as he said himself, he’s the first, last, and only word when it comes to Tripping—why Arthur would send us here, dressed in such finery, during a time when so many are following a fanatical preacher who speaks against the very things Arthur cherishes.

“They’re raiding homes,” Cosimo says. “Of course, I’ve made plenty of fakes and willingly handed them over. Being the philistines they are, they can’t tell the difference.”

“Wait—” I say. “You painted the fakes?”

Cosimo nods.

“So, you’re not a Blue.”

He tosses his head back and laughs, and the sight is so unexpected, I’m taken aback. “I was a Blue before I became a Red. Do you know what that is?”

Killian looks at me, apparently as interested in hearing the answer as Cosimo.