Page 116 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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I find my way to the nearest garden—one of the many palace gardens that meander for miles. But once I’m there, I have no idea what to do or where to go next.

The time on my mask tells me there’s only five minutes and thirty-three seconds until launch. And in a moment of despair, I wonder which is worse—getting stuck at Versailles in the year 1745 or returning to Gray Wolf empty-handed.

Except I’m not entirely empty-handed. I still have the trinkets I lifted from the drunk woman. And though I try to convince myself it’s better than nothing, the odds of Arthur seeing it that way are slim to none.

In a last-ditch effort, I pull the tarot cards from my pocket and give them a quick study.

I’ve got the elements: the Hermit is tied to Earth and the Death card to Water.

I’ve done the numerology that links the Death card to the Emperor.

What I’ve forgotten is the astrological connections.

With only four minutes and nine seconds left on the clock, my mind races to assemble the fragments from my dad’s long ago tarot lesson. A thread of memory begins to weave a tale in my head, something about how the Hermit was linked to the Roman god Saturn, who was linked to the Titan god Chronos—the god of Time who ate his own children to keep them from usurping his power—just like the painting,Saturn Devouring His Son, in the Venetian construct…

And the Death card—the card everyone fears, that’s not what it appears, since endings always lead to new beginnings, and…

I turn a quick circle, taking in the resplendent palace grounds that were once a humble hunting lodge. It’s the epitome of new beginnings—a dream brought to life by Louis XIV, also known as the—

“Ou allez-vous?” An angry voice shouts from somewhere behind me.

My stomach twists. I freeze long enough to make the translation, then turn to find a man striding toward me.

What he lacks in height, he makes up for in bulk. His worn muslin shirt and frayed breeches strain against his stout barrel of a chest, the visible pop and bulge of his biceps. An unruly mop of black hair obscures a heavy, unshaven face, leaving me with the impression of a jaw softened by jowls, a mean strip of mouth, a generous serving of nose, and a set of heavy-lidded dark eyes that glint with the sort of undeniable authority of someone who knows their way around this labyrinth of gardens and is none too pleased to find me loitering within.

The man continues his approach, his legs slightly bowed, his gait steady. “Where are you going?” he demands in rapid-fire French. Only this time, he speaks even louder.

Nervously, I lick my lips, try to force a reply. But my tongue has turned useless, sitting dead behind a pair of locked jaws and chattering teeth, as every bit of French I ever knew bleeds right out of me.

“I’m—uh…I mean,je suis…” I push a smile onto my face, hoping it might serve to disarm him long enough for me to make a quick getaway. But according to the deep furrow of his brow and the searing blister of his gaze, my attempt to charm is a failure.

Next thing I know, he’s standing right before me, snatching the tarot cards right out of my hand.