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He followed his father through the arched doorway and was instantly surrounded by the opulence of the bank’s lobby. The walls were polished wood that gleamed in the dim light, and the floors were inlaid with marble. A high counter ran along the back side of the room, where three men dressed in crisp dark suits sat behind brass bars, working steadily.

One of the men glanced up as Harte’s father approached. The two spoke in low whispers, and Harte had to stop himself from gripping the boy’s shoulders too tightly. He tried to steady himself, preparing for the betrayal that was likely to come as he waited in the stuffy quiet. It felt like being inside a tomb.

The clerk kept tossing glances in Harte’s direction. When the clerk’s brows drew together, Harte had the sinking feeling that he’d let himself walk into a trap, but after a moment the two seemed to have come to some understanding. The clerk gave a small nod finally, and his father directed Harte to a door just left of the counter. Still unsure, Harte followed, gently tugging the boy along with him for protection.

On the other side of the doorway, a steep staircase led upward. With his leg throbbing and his entire body aching, the climb felt impossible, but Harte did what he could to keep pace. He didn’t want his father to know how winded he was or how dizzy he felt when he looked up the seemingly endless stretch of steps. Esta will be waiting, he reminded himself as he lifted his foot to the next step.

When they reached the third floor, they came to a heavy brass door inscribed with an unusual design. The etchings in the metal reminded him of some of the alchemical symbols he’d learned in the preparation of his stage act, but he didn’t recognize any specifically. His father withdrew a brass key from his vest pocket and used it to unlock the door.

Beyond the door, a darkened antechamber led into a larger space. It looked like some kind of temple.

If Harte had thought that the lobby was beautiful, this room made it seem downright plain. The chamber was a large, octagonal space capped with a high, peaked ceiling. Beneath the ceiling, a line of transom windows let in daylight, and the floor was wood, patterned in the shape of the same opened eye that Harte had seen on the ring Samuel Lowe wore. The center of the eye was inlaid with precious stones, bright blue lapis lazuli and onyx. Gilded columns surrounded the room, and they were carved into human shapes, like sentinels. Harte thought he recognized the image of Washington in one, possibly Jefferson in another, but the rest were unfamiliar to him. The chamber was like stepping into another world, and in the center of that world, atop a carved altar of granite and gold, was the Dragon’s Eye.

Harte moved toward the altar, pulling the boy along with him, but his father stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the crown. “You gave me your word.”

The absurdity of this statement snapped the temper Harte had been holding back. “You don’t deserve my word,” he said, glaring at his father. “You stole everything from my mother. You don’t deserve to keep this life. You don’t deserve your reputation—or your son.”

The boy whimpered, clearly misunderstanding Harte’s meaning, but Harte ignored him.

“You understand nothing.” His father shook his head, disgust clear in his eyes. “You cannot take this piece. It would ruin me. It would destroy all I’ve built here—and anyone who depends upon me.”

“I don’t particularly care,” Harte told him, but his conscience had already been tugging at him, and his father’s words only served to make it worse.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to get a real start in this town? New money isn’t taken seriously. Even though I gave Cooke everything by selling this crown to him, I’m still pushed aside and kept from my true potential,” his father told him.

“You think you’re the only one who has had to build a life from nothing?” Harte asked, incredulous. “You’re not the only one who has people depending on him.”

“It’s not the same thing,” his father sneered. “You’re unnatural. An abomination, and anyone who depends on you is a fool who deserves what he gets.”

That was probably true enough… but it wouldn’t keep Harte from his objective.

Harte leaned down, eye level now with Sammie. “I think it’s time for our magic trick,” he told the child. “Are you ready?”

“Ben—” his father warned.

“That isn’t my name,” Harte said, never looking up at his father. His eyes were on the boy. “Do you know that magic tricks have certain requirements?”

The boy shook his head.

“I’ll tell you the one thing that no trick can work without.” Harte paused for a second, because everything depended on what would happen next—and also because he’d always liked a bit of drama. He lowered his voice. “The most important part of any magic trick is the misdirection. Do you know what that is?”

“Don’t listen to him, son,” Samuel Lowe commanded.

But the boy—his brother—was already drawn in, entranced. His eyes had grown wide with wonder, and again Harte felt the shame of what he was about to do—but he could not turn back now. He would not allow himself to soften.

“Would you like me to show you?” Harte asked, and when the boy nodded, he began to count. “One… two…”

On the count of “three,” he released the boy, giving him a gentle push straight toward his father. It worked exactly as he’d planned. As Samuel Lowe caught the child, Harte gathered all of his remaining strength and sprinted for the crown.

It was in his hands in an instant, and because he could—because Sammie was still watching with bright, inquisitive eyes—Harte made the Dragon’s Eye disappear with a flourish, tucking it securely into his jacket. He barely had time to see the smile light Sammie’s serious little expression before he ran for the door, but it took every last bit of his strength to keep upright as he tried not to tumble down the steps to the floors below.

A PROMISE KEPT

1904—Denver

Jericho Northwood knew that playing with time came with consequences. He’d seen that for himself. Sometimes the consequences weren’t all that noticeable, but other times they were—like when he saved a man’s life in Oklahoma only to have that same man try to kill him a year later. Jot Gunter should be dead, but because North had been naive enough to save him, the rancher had lived to become an enemy.

What Esta was talking about doing, though, was a lot more than the handful of hours North’s watch could give him. If she was truly able to go back years, she could change a whole lot of things. The effects of her meddling could ripple out in ways none of them could predict. North might have liked to think of his concerns as noble, but in truth, there were parts of his life that Jericho Northwood didn’t want changed.