Page 166 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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Arthur grins in a way that’s as close to a hug as I suspect we’ll ever come. And then I remember I haven’t yet surrendered the rest of my Gets.

From one of my hidden pockets, I retrieve the gleaming gold ball.

“The sun!” Arthur’s gaze brims with wonder as he cradles the shiny sphere reverently in his palm. Turning to me, he says, “I knew I was right about you.”

I remember the fleeting thought I had moments before I claimed it—how the Sun card, the Wheel of Fortune card, and the Magician are all connected. And while I’m still not sure what it means, I know it’s more than a coincidence.

I tell Arthur where I found it, about some of the struggle I went through to bring it back to Gray Wolf. Though of course I leave out the part where my own dagger was turned against me, figuring he’d want to hear about that about as much as I want to relive it.

Elodie had referred to that man as a groundskeeper. But Killian spoke with a decided measure of authority when he referred to him as a Timekeeper. Before I can ask what that means, Arthur motions toward the ring I pinched from the duke.

“And that?” he says.

“It belonged to a duke.” I’m quick to hand it over, more than happy to rid myself of the reminder of what that man put me through.

And what I nearly did to him in return.

“Is there a story here?” Arthur angles the ring toward the light, as though searching for some mark of significance on an ordinary gold band.

I pull in a sharp breath, not sure I’m ready to share. But when Arthur nods, encouraging me to go on, I realize there are two truths to this story, so I tell him the storybook version I prefer to remember.

“It’s a story about a girl who found herself steeped in darkness, sure she was destined to die, only to reach deep into her soul and discover that all the cleverness, courage, and strength she needed to survive already existed inside.”

“And the duke?” Arthur asks.

I start to frown, but then remembering the beaten, bloodied, half-blinded state I left him in, I say, “The duke lives on to write his own story. Though I’m sure he’ll never forget the day he met me.”

Arthur surprises me by reaching for my hand and depositing the ring onto my palm.

“I know there’s another side to that tale,” he says. “One that’s far more painful than the version you told, and for that I am sorry. But I want you to know that your decision to elevate that telling was far wiser than you may realize. Whether it was driven by an attempt to impress me or to make yourself feel better doesn’t matter. Because in the end, this ring represents the sort of choice we’re all called to make as we narrate our lives through the stories we share with others, but more importantly, the stories we tell ourselves.”

He pauses, and I nod for him to continue. There’s something about the intensity of his gaze, the seriousness of his demeanor, that leaves me hanging on every word.

“You’re the one who decides whether you’ll view this ring as a symbol of all the suffering you experienced, the various ways in which you were victimized—or as the shining beacon of strength you discovered within that ultimately led you to triumph.”

A slow smile creeps onto my face. “As the victor, I get to write my ownherstory?”

Arthur’s gaze squares on mine. “We are always writing our own stories—all day, every day. It’s the ones you choose to play on repeat that determine your destiny. You alone are the alchemist of the reality you create.”

“Amor Fati,”I whisper, recalling the phrase often used by my dad. It’s about learning to love your fate and making the most out of whatever happens by transforming the undesirable experiences into something meaningful, something better. Though he always said it with a palpable sadness.

I study the shiny golden circle, then fold my fingers around it.

“And Natasha,” Arthur says, pulling me away from the memory of my dad. “I’m fully aware of the danger you all face when you Trip. It’s why I keep a counselor on staff to help you work through any residual trauma. I’ll set up your first appointment for tomorrow. After that, please feel free to go as often as necessary. There’s no stigma here. Everyone needs a little help now and then.”

I nod, swallow past the lump in my throat, and make my way toward Wardrobe so I can get rid of this dress once and for all when Arthur calls after me.

“Oh, and thanks for bringing Killian back,” he says.

I know it’s a test.

That if I’m really committed to the ruse, I’ll say,Back? Whatever do you mean—bring him back? Is that to say he was once here?And a bunch of other nonsense like that.

But I’m too tired for that game. And besides, what would be the point? We both know that I know. It’s foolish to ever try to pull one over on Arthur. So I say nothing.

“I’m thinking this requires another trip to the Vault.”

I turn, watching the glee with which he dangles his golden carrot from a very short stick.

“I’m pretty sure Boticelli’sPrimaverais still available.”

I take a moment to consider—the painting is so beautiful, so vibrant, and joyful. Then I surprise us both with my response.

“No,” I tell him. “That one’s no longer for me. What I’d really love is that painting hanging near the front hall. The woman standing in the graveyard, holding the hourglass.Vanitas, I think it’s called.”

Arthur studies me for so long, I start to worry I’ve tested the boundary of the invisible fence that surrounds him.

“I’ll see that it’s arranged,” he finally says, then turning on his heel, he sets off to debrief Killian as I head for Wardrobe to peel off this costume and apologize to Charlotte for the damaged gown, the rat-chewed shoes, and the three missing pieces of steel.