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Women still couldn’t vote, Esta realized. Perhaps suffrage would be granted soon—she didn’t know exactly when that would happen or whether something they’d done might have changed that, too—but for now the women in the hall were nothing more than decorations on the arms of their men, without power or voice. And this woman was asking them to remain that way.

“I would remind you of Mr. Harding’s words. Last night, in this very room among this very body of delegates, he accepted our party’s nomination and reminded us all of our duty. In his great words, it is an ‘inspiration to patriotic devotion—to safeguard America first… to stabilize America first… to prosper America first… to think of America first… to exalt America first… to live for and revere America first,’?” she shouted, pausing so that the crowd could cheer after each beat of the speech. “So I say to my sisters, we must put our country before our own meager desires. The attack on our convention has illustrated that now is not the time to press the question of votes for women. Now is the time to focus only on the sanctity of our greatest institutions. The safety of our children and our very lives depends upon strong men who will enact strong policies to keep our families safe from the threat of those who would try to turn our country against the ideals of its founders.”

The crowd’s cheers grew overwhelming, and as the volume rose in a fevered pitch, the woman stepped back from the podium, clearly pleased with herself. Esta felt only disgust.

“We can change this,” Harte murmured, like he’d read her thoughts. He brushed his hand against the back of hers, and Esta allowed the small intimacy of the contact. “We will change this. The world doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Doesn’t it?” Esta asked, glancing at him.

Maybe they could stop the Reticulum, maybe they could even go back to where they’d started and try to set history back on its intended course. But what would it matter? Esta remembered what Thoth had told her back in Denver: Time and magic could not coexist. If he was telling the truth, it meant that no matter what she and Harte did, no matter how much they changed, the old magic would eventually die. It was also what Seshat had feared and was the reason she’d created the Book in the first place. The only question, it seemed, was how it would happen. And when.

“No,” Harte said, his expression determined. “It doesn’t.”

Then Esta gave herself a shake. Maybe magic would die. Maybe one day it would fade away, but how the old magic met its final end mattered, she reminded herself. Maybe she couldn’t stop the march of history. Maybe she couldn’t stop the march of time, either, but she could stop this massacre. She could stop this future from unfolding. What they were doing there mattered—it had to—even with a sea of angry people around them that seemed to say otherwise.

The arena was sweltering, the temperature and mood both roiling and hot, as patriotism and excitement and anger all mixed together. The woman ended her speech with a rousing call for the nomination of Jack Grew, and a portion of the arena surged to their feet, cheering in response. But not all of the men in the crowd cheered, Esta noticed with a little relief. Large sections of the arena remained seated and unmoved, even as the announcer called for another ballot.

The time had not yet arrived, but with each new ballot, the moment when Jack would activate the tower drew closer. They needed to get the Book before that happened, but it would be far easier to take the Book when he was alone rather than in front of this crowd. To do that, they needed to find him.

“I think the speakers are coming from over there,” Harte told her, pointing toward a small gap in the crowd where a man was approaching the stage.

“It’s as good a place as any to start,” Esta said, stepping away from him, so that she could focus.

They’d barely started making their way around the edge of the arena, toward the area where the speakers seemed to be entering and exiting the stage, when a man with dusty-blond hair and wearing a crooked boater hat trimmed in red and blue stepped into their path, blocking their way. Harte moved in front of Esta, to shield her from whatever might be coming.

But as Esta pushed Harte aside and took her place next to him, where she belonged, she realized the guy wasn’t a threat—or at least not an immediate one. He was wearing a ridiculous smile and an even more ridiculous hat, which looked like the Fourth of July had thrown up on it. On his arm, he wore a black band emblazoned with the Philosopher’s Hand, and his eyes were bright as he held out a pair of small silver pins.

“A vote for Grew is a vote to grow,” he crowed.

It was a damn stupid slogan, as far as Esta was concerned. It didn’t even make sense. “No thanks,” she told the guy. “We’re here for Coolidge.”

“Mr. Grew offers these with his compliments, wherever your loyalties lie. We’re all in this fight together,” the guy said, practically glowing with righteousness and pride.

Esta was about to tell him where he could put the medallions when Harte took them instead. “Thank you,” he said, tucking the pins into his pocket.

“Mr. Grew will be speaking later tonight, and I hope you’ll give him a listen. He has a real plan for protecting our future,” the guy said, even as Harte was pulling Esta along through the crowd, away from him.

“I can’t believe you risked taking those,” she told him, making sure to keep her voice low enough so as not to be overheard.

“Not much of a risk. Not with the Quellant I took. Anyway, I figured it would be worse to raise his suspicions,” Harte said, shrugging off her worries. “Besides, if North and his kid manage to come through like they promised, Everett might want to take a look at how these work. Maybe it would help if the Antistasi knew what they’re up against.”

Esta couldn’t fault that logic, even if she didn’t like the idea of having the medallions so close.

They made their way around the arena’s perimeter and were nearly in line with the stage, when another round of balloting began. The states were called one by one, and one by one representatives came to the floor of the hall to call out their votes. She and Harte paused to watch and listen, but in the end the voting was inconclusive. Jack had a good portion of the delegates, but not enough for the majority he needed. Not yet.

Harte checked the pocket watch Everett had given him.

“Anything?” Esta asked.

He shook his head and then tucked the watch away. “No. Nothing.”

Esta could tell exactly what Harte was thinking—North and Everett were taking too long. She’d expected Everett’s watch to have given some signal by now too. “We don’t even know where Jack is,” she told Harte, trying to stay positive. “Maybe he hasn’t arrived yet. There’s still time.…” She only wished that she knew how much.

Harte’s eyes were serious as he searched the arena. Realizing the night wasn’t over, the crowd was growing more unsettled, and a disconcerted rustling sifted through the arena as tempers rose to match the temperatures. “This crowd isn’t going to hold,” he said. “Not with this heat.”

A little while later, the mood of the entire arena seemed to shift. An alertness went through the crowd like a wave crashing over the shore.

“There,” Harte murmured as Jack Grew began to climb the steps to the stage. Harte had already pulled Everett’s pocket watch out to check it again, but as he was opening it, Esta felt a cool energy course through the air.