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“You can’t ask this of me,” Viola told him, studying the flowing script of her own name once more, because she could not quite manage to meet his eyes.

“It is rather selfish of me, isn’t it? Especially after you went and saved my life not once but twice.” Without even looking, Viola could hear the smile in his voice. “But sometimes I find myself an exceedingly selfish and completely preposterous creature.”

It was a lie. Of all the many qualities that Theo Barclay possessed, not one of them was selfishness. There was a reason Ruby had chosen him, a reason Ruby loved him. It was the reason that he—and maybe only he—was deserving of her.

But Viola’s traitorous heart wanted to deserve Ruby too.

Theo turned to go then, but he hadn’t quite made it ten paces when he turned back. “I’ve been Ruby’s friend since we were still in the cradle. She’s often difficult, you know. When she sets her mind to something, it’s nearly impossible to sway her—even if a better option is standing right in front of her. Still, I want you to know that I’ll do anything necessary to keep her safe and make her happy.”

Viola pressed her lips together, swallowing the emotion that had caught in her throat before she spoke. “Why do you tell me this?”

“Because I think you feel the same,” he said gently. “Because you’re maybe the only other person I’d trust her to—her safety and her happiness together.” He tipped his finger to the brim of his hat and then stepped into the shadows.

Viola realized her hands were trembling as they held the invitation. She’d never seen or felt paper half so fine. Theo’s words swirled through her mind with memories of the girl she should not want. Ruby Reynolds was a frivolous piece of fluff with her pink cheeks and silken dresses.

Except that she isn’t. Beneath the silk and lace, Ruby had a spine of steel and courage like a lion. She was rich and protected and disgustingly perfect. Viola hated her and wanted her just the same, and Viola didn’t need to open the envelope to know that she had no place in Ruby Reynolds’ life. Or at her wedding.

OTHER PASTS, OTHER FUTURES

1983—Grand Central Terminal

Esta allowed Harte to lead her into the waiting subway car just before the doors slid shut, but her arm was still buzzing with warmth from the old lady’s magic. From between the various graffiti tags that covered the windows, she watched the woman droop to the floor while the people on the station tried to hold on to their hats or held their hands up to ward off the swirling wind.

There was still magic in the city, maybe even more than when she had grown up. There were still Mageus there, too, despite Thoth and the Order and everything Esta herself had done to the course of history. Maybe the Brink was still standing, and maybe the Order had more of a presence, but she remembered the old lady’s words and wondered if what she’d done in Chicago had helped others like her. Maybe instead of forgetting, instead of simply allowing magic to die, more had decided to fight.

“What was she doing to you?” Harte asked as they found two empty seats. His voice was barely audible over the clacking of the car.

Esta rotated her arm and tested her injured side. “I think she was healing me?”

He frowned, as though he didn’t quite believe anything could be that simple. She wasn’t sure that she believed it either, but her side no longer ached. The wounds on her arm no longer felt tight and sore.

“But what was all that about being marked?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she told him. “I’ve never heard of any kind of trace or mark before—not in any time. But who knows what Thoth has been capable of since I freed him.”

“You tried to stop him,” Harte reminded her.

“It doesn’t matter what I tried to do,” she argued. “Not when the results hurt people.”

“I know,” he told her, and there was a pang of regret in his words. She didn’t have to ask to know he was thinking about Sammy.

She leaned into Harte, resting her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her, nestling her into his embrace. They didn’t need to say anything else, not when they both understood each other so perfectly. She wished she could let herself imagine that they were any young couple on their way uptown together. Safe. Content. Normal.

But Esta had never been normal, whatever that meant, and there wasn’t time for playing pretend. She had no idea what the trace was that the old woman said they’d been marked with, but she suspected that it was the reason the Guard had found them at the Algonquin. She’d used her affinity to get them the clothes and likely had set off some sort of magical alarm. It meant they couldn’t use their affinities or any magic without summoning the Order. It meant they likely wouldn’t be safe as long as they were in that time, in that version of the city.

“We have to go back, Harte. And we have to go soon.”

Harte let out a tired-sounding sigh. “I know.” Those two words carried every ounce of the fear and regret that she felt herself. “So what’s the plan? Where are we going right now?”

“North,” she told him. “We need a safe place to secure the artifacts in the Book, and I know a place in Central Park that should work.”

The twenty-minute trip felt like it took ages. It was a miracle that they didn’t run into any other problems, but every time the car’s doors closed without an attack, Esta didn’t relax. They weren’t truly out of danger. If what the old woman said about them being marked was true, the second they started the ritual to keep the stones safe, the Guard would likely know.

They disembarked at the 110th Street Station. Luck was on their side, and the small, dark platform was mostly empty. When they reached the street above, they walked for a few blocks until they came to the northern edge of Central Park.

As they approached the entrance to the park, Esta noticed the changes. The bricks lining the sidewalk were buckled, and half of them were missing. Trash lined the low stone wall that circled the park, and the path leading into it was cracked and uneven. Someone covered with a heap of filthy blankets was lying on one of the benches flanking the entrance. Beneath the sleeping figure, a paper-wrapped bottle had fallen over, spilling its contents onto the slush-covered walk.

Inside, Esta didn’t find the park she’d grown up exploring. The grassy areas were riddled with sparse bare spots beneath the melting snow, and the pathways looked like they hadn’t been repaved in years. She pulled Harte to the side before he could step on a bent syringe, but there was no avoiding the trash littering the area.