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In Braxton’s version, it never actually happened.

And while it feels like a terrible betrayal of the boy I thought I’d given my heart to, something about Killian’s story bears the ring of truth.

I don’t know how I know, but I do. I can see it worn plain on his face. I can feel it deep in my bones. And now, all I can think is:How could I have been so wrong?

How could I have fallen for all the lies Braxton told me?

“Not a miracle,” I repeat, my voice robotic, monotonous, stating a fact with zero emotion attached. “Arthur specifically sent me to find you. You were just another Get.”

“I’m talking about the first time,” Killian says. “Think about it, Shiv. Your very first Trip, and you run into me? What are the chances of that?”

It wasn’t long ago when Braxton said the same thing. Both of our fathers taught us the meaning of “amor fati,” and we took that to mean we were some sort of miracle, destined to find each other.

But now I know that was just magical thinking. Because the truth is, Braxton was in pursuit of me. He was sent by Arthur.

Not so different from Killian approaching me at the Yew Ball, having recognized me as a girl out of time.

I take a steadying breath, lift my gaze to meet his, and remind him of that truth.

“Doesn’t make it any less of a miracle,” he says. “And I’m sorry to say it, Shiv, but I can’t help but wonder what might’ve happened had you met me first and not Braxton.”

I study his face. His gaze is even. His lips slightly parted.

But all I can think is:if Killian’s telling the truth—then that also means Braxton’s been feeding me lies.

I look at Killian, my stomach roiling in protest, as a voice in my head insists there is safety in keeping this next part to myself, protecting my heart from the sort of things that might prove too hurtful to know. But I ignore that voice and press on.

“Braxton keeps a pair of old boots,” I say. “They’re covered in—”

“Blood and vomit.” Killian nods.

With those three little words, he’s knocked the breath right out of me.

It’s proof. Absolute, irrefutable proof.

I mean, how could he possibly know about that unless he was there?

“He was wearing them on that Trip. Breaking in a new pair, when—”

I hold up my hand to ward off the words. I’ve heard more than enough. I can’t take any more.

“I’m sorry,” Killian says, his voice dripping with sincerity, but I’m not sure I believe him.

My eyes meet his. “You say that, but I’m not convinced that you are.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He rubs a hand along his jaw. “Maybe it’s more accurate to say that while I’m not sorry you know the truth, I also feel badly about the way it’s made you feel. I can only imagine what a betrayal this must be. To know that the boy you trusted, the one you’ve grown close to, has been lying to you.”

The last thing I want is Killian’s sympathy. And I certainly don’t want to discuss the burning sting of Braxton’s betrayal. But there is something more I need to know, and Killian is clearly the only one who’s willing to tell.

“Who was the man?” I ask. “The one who didn’t make it back. Was it a fellow Blue—a Tripper?”

“Neither a Blue nor a Tripper,” Killian says.

“And this person—this man—you’re sayingBraxtonleft him for dead?”

A shadow of memory darkens Killian’s gaze. “The man took a blade to the back, and then another to the heart,” he says. “I’m afraid there was no hope after that.”

“Was he—” The words stall on my tongue, forcing me to clear my throat and begin again. “That man—was he a…a Timekeeper?”