Page 26 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)
Impossible.
This cannot be happening.
And yet, as I watch this red-cloaked girl—the mirror image of me—now racing toward a destination I can no longer see, I’m overcome by the chilling realization that I might’ve just witnessed some sort of inexplicable manifestation of myself, perhaps from a past life or a long-forgotten dream.
Time is a flat circle.
The phrase spins through my head, reminding me of the conversation I had with my dad.
The illusion shatters when my slab emits a loud, piercing ping. Just like that, reality snaps back into place—the voice in my head falls silent, the room reassembles, and the labyrinth returns to the comforting familiarity of the tarot garden.
My heartbeat slows to a more regular rhythm as I go in search of the purse from last night. Finding it, I retrieve my slab and squint at the screen to find Arthur’s inspirational quote of the day:
The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust! –Friedrich Nietzsche
It’s a deeply unsettling choice, especially considering the bizarre Unraveling I just witnessed. It leaves me to wonder if Arthur might be monitoring us more closely than I initially thought.
A knock sounds at the door, and I race toward it, thinking it could be Braxton and eager to tell him everything I just saw. My shoulders sink with disappointment upon finding Freya standing in the hall.
At first, I assume she’s here to clean my room, and I’m about to ask for a few more minutes before I go. But then it strikes me—she’s not wearing her usual uniform, and there’s no sign of her cleaning cart.
“Can I help you?” I ask, taking in her wild mane of bright coppery curls now freed from their usual bun, remembering the story Killian told me—how he went back in time and rescued her from a witch trial by water, a test from which virtually no one survived.
“Natasha,” she says, her green eyes flashing on mine. “I have come for the book. I assume you still have it?”
“Oh, of course,” I say, slightly taken aback.
Waving her into my room, I search for the backpack I brought to New York. Inside, I find a small square of paper and wonder if my dad might’ve put it there. Running a finger along the crease, I’m eager to read it. But knowing it’ll have to wait, I set it aside and return to Freya, who waits by the hearth, and hand her the book.
“Thank you,” I say. “You know, for lending it to me.” I watch as she tucks it into the cloth tote bag that hangs from her shoulder, feeling torn between whether I should find a way to subtly approach her, or just let the whole matter rest until Braxton and I have had a chance to further discuss it and actually come up with a viable plan.
I mean, yes, she has access to the book, which lets her travel at will. But how does she actually feel about Arthur? Does his allowing her to live here and escape certain death make her loyal to him?
“You have something else you need to say?” Freya asks, responding to the uncertain look on my face, the way I rock back on my heels, shifting my weight between my feet.
Deciding against it, I shake my head and watch her go. Then, just as she reaches the door, I find myself saying, “Freya—”
She turns to face me.
“You do know that Elodie is behind all that.” I gesture toward the bag where the book now resides.
Freya shoots me a quizzical look as though she doesn’t quite follow what I’m trying to say.
“Elodie started The Way of the Rose,” I tell her, hoping I don’t live to regret this. But I need to start somewhere, and this seems like a good way to determine her loyalties. “She’s the mastermind behind all of it.”
“Is this what she told you?” Freya asks, carefully masking her feelings, giving me no hint as to what she might really be thinking.
I nod, but the way Freya regards me, her gaze vaguely hinting at a multitude of stories, leaves me unsure.
Has Elodie played me for a fool? Again?
Freya falls silent for a long, uncomfortable beat as though there’s some internal choice she’s struggling to make. Seeming to come to a decision, she says, “Natasha, while it is true that Elodie is the person behind the perfume, the note, and her silly secret society riddles, she is not behind the book. Or rather, she is not the book’s author.”
I stand before her, weighing how to respond. Though I already know Elodie didn’t write it, I still ask, “Then who did create it—you?” Figuring that if she really is a witch, she probably knows her way around a grimoire or spell book.
Freya laughs, displaying the slight gap between her front teeth. There’s something so enchanting about that simple imperfection, something delightfully human amid this perfectly curated, finely honed world Arthur’s created. I find myself warming to it, and to her, much like my fondness for the slight bend in Braxton’s nose.
But clearly, with Freya, that was a mistake. A moment later, her gaze darkens, her grin quickly fades, and for a fleeting moment, she appears hollow-eyed and bone white, reminding me of Van Gogh’s skull from last night.
Then just as quickly, she’s back to her copper-haired, green-eyed, lightly freckled self.
“I am not the creator,” she says, her voice slightly defensive. “But if you have curiosity regarding the book’s author, then you should look no further than Arthur.”
I shake my head, sure that I somehow misheard. But Freya remains standing before me, not a trace of mirth on her face.
“But why would Arthur—” My voice fades, as a startling truth barrels right into me. “Because Arthur is not of this time,” I say, breathless as I search Freya’s face for confirmation or denial but finding none. “And yet,” I continue, fitting the pieces together out loud, “somehow, maybe by using the book, he found his way here, to the future, and…” My throat goes dry, as I try to reconcile everything I once thought I knew with this new revelation storming my mind. “And he saw what was possible—what technology could one day do—which eventually allowed him to make enough money to…” Oh my God, can it possibly be true? I focus back on Freya, and say, “Make enough money to finance all this.”
Freya regards me with a sobering look. “So,” she says, “now that you know, what will you do?”
I want to tell her that I have no idea what I’ll do, but that I have to do something. It’s like my dad said, my only job is to stop Arthur. It’s the single most important thing I can do.
To Freya, I say, “Did—did you know him before? I mean, back in…whatever time you originally came from?”
Freya shakes her head, refusing to share any details. “Natasha,” she says. “I very much need to go soon. So, I give you one more question.” Her eyes lock on mine. “Make it a good one, because after this, I am gone.”
Something about the way she just said gone gives me pause. “You mean like, gone for good?” I ask.
Freya tilts her head to the side, sending a cascade of coppery curls spilling over her shoulder. “Is this really the question you want to ask?”
I shake my head, worried I might’ve blown it. I steal a moment to decide on the one thing that matters the most as Freya stands impatiently before me.
Finally deciding, I say, “What is Arthur’s weakness? What’s his Achilles’s heel, so to speak? What’s the one thing that’s driving him to create all this, do all this? Because I know it’s not just an extreme love of beauty and art. It’s something else, something deeper that I can’t quite grasp.” Finally, I breathe, worried that I’ve rambled too much.
Freya fixes me with an unbending stare. Lifting her shoulders, she says, “What is it that drives anyone?” A brief silence settles between us. “Love, power, and money.” She nods, and I watch her curls bounce. “And, since Arthur has more power and money than he knows what to do with, what does that leave?”
“Love?” I hear myself say. “But love of what? Art? No, he already has all the art in the world. Love of a person?” I look at her, truly perplexed. In all the time I’ve been here, every article and interview I’ve read, I’ve never once seen Arthur refer to a significant partner in his life. Because of this, I always assumed he was beyond all of that, that he saw that sort of primal, human, biological drive as somehow beneath him.
When I glance at Freya again, I see she’s already halfway out the door.
“Who is it?” I ask, voice straining in the most pathetic way, hoping that even if she doesn’t want to give me the name, she can at least provide some kind of hint. “Who does Arthur Blackstone pine for? Who is this one person he can’t claim or control or—”
Freya steps into the hall. Turning to face me, she says, “You ask too many questions. But you are a smart and clever girl, Natasha. In time, I am sure you will figure it out.”