“You are gravely mistaken,” I say. “And now I must insist you step out of my way.” I square my shoulders and lift my chin, hoping to come off as indignant, deeply offended, but the man remains firmly in place, completely unmoved by my display.

  “Look—” He directs my gaze to the pocket watch he’s balanced on the center of his palm, bidding me to watch as he spins it in a way that never once falters.

  On one side is a clock face.

  On the other, an engraving of a familiar circular design.

  And before I can stop it, I’m mesmerized, locked into place. Watching as those circles appear, then disappear, only to reappear once more. Only vaguely aware of the man before me, regarding me with a look of bemusement as he waits for me to wear myself out and finally come to terms with my fate.

  Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long.

  21

  I’m not sure how long it takes for me to snap out of it, but once I do, I glare at the man before me and say, “Are you going to let me go? Or shall I scream for help?”

  His lips curve slightly upward as he folds the pocket watch into his fist. “Though it’s likely the orchestra will prevent anyone from hearing your cries, please, do not hold back on my account.”

  Not only is he not wrong, but he also knows I’ve issued a challenge I’m unwilling to meet. Mainly because I can’t afford to draw that sort of attention to myself.

  “Then perhaps you could let me go and spare us both the trouble,” I suggest, only to watch as he takes another step toward me, standing so close now that if I wanted, I could reach out and snatch that golden pocket watch right out of his hand. Then take it back to Gray Wolf and turn it over to Arthur as one of my Gets.

  If only this man wasn’t nearly twice my height and double my weight, I’d do exactly that.

  Though surely, it’s safer to try to talk my way out of this mess. Or at least that’s what I think until I blink three times and see the clock is quickly running down.

  Only thirty-one minutes left.

  “Perhaps a deal can be made?” he says. “You give me this enchanting charm”—he dips his free hand toward my neck, pinching my talisman between his forefinger and thumb—“and in exchange, I grant you this pocket watch.” He dangles the piece before me.

  Dangles it in the same way Jago once dangled a pocket watch he’d used to hypnotize me.

  The realization comes too late, and before I can act, my head has gone woozy as my mind reels backward in time, conjuring a dizzying collection of nonsensical images that seem more like a fever dream than anything real.

  Clocks melting down walls—a torch singer wearing an antler crown—and a spectacular boy with a bend in his nose and eyes like a storm-ridden sea—

  And I know the boy—he told me his name, it’s—

  Braxton!

  I didn’t realize I voiced the name out loud, until the soft bump of my talisman falling back into place knocks me out of the vision, leaving me gaping into the face of the blue-eyed man now looming before me.

  “What did you say?” He leans so close I can see the individual flecks of copper in his irises, the light smattering of freckles sprinkled across his forehead and nose.

  My knees start to crumble. My body sags toward the floor, as though I’m yet another delicate female, overcome by the heat, or exhaustion, or the scandal of being alone in a room with a virile male and no chaperone to safeguard my virtue.

  But the man is on to me and he watches my descent with a pitiless gaze.

  It’s only after I slip a hand under my hem, only after I spring back to my feet and wield my dagger before him—only after all that is done does it even occur to him to register a look of concern.

  The look deepens when I wave my blade before him and say, “Now kindly move out of my way, or I swear I will cut you.”

  22

  For a handful of seconds, it feels so empowering to act like that, talk like that.

  But that doesn’t mean I get what I want.

  Because the blue-eyed man takes one look at my dagger and another at me, then breaks into a fit of unrestrained laughter.

  Seriously, he stands right there before me and laughs in my face.

  So, I do the only thing I can think of—I lunge.

  Here, before the rows of dour-faced nobles encased in gilt frames—before the towering bookshelves overflowing with Captain Cooks, Jane Austens, and Sir Walter Scotts—I aim the lethal tip of my dagger straight for my enemy’s heart.

  Only to be confronted by the gleaming blade of his much larger sword—a broadsword, it turns out—that I’d failed to notice until now.

  “Seems you’re not as well trained, nor as well prepared, as you think,” he says, voice edged with the conviction of one who has all the proof that he needs.

  My arm is stretched as far as it will extend, and still, there’s a notable gap between my blade and his chest.

  While his own arm is casually, comfortably bent, his hand secured in the basket hilt, as the tip of his double-edged blade comes perilously close to piercing my throat.

  I’ve made a terrible mistake. All this time, I’ve been worried about Mason when it’s clearly me who needs saving.

  I stand before my nameless opponent, knees shaking as I force down the scream building at the back of my throat, knowing I need to keep quiet, keep a clear head. I can’t afford to let on just how terrified I really am.

  If you’re going to pull your dagger, you must be willing to use it, Braxton once said.

  Well, I was willing to use it. Still am, now more than ever. But seeing as how I can’t even reach my target, it’s become glaringly apparent that’s no longer an option.

  So, I try another approach.

  Dropping all pretense, I say, “So this is it? You slash my neck and leave me for dead in the study?”

  His face breaks into a grin. But, more importantly, his blade remains pressed to my skin. “There it is,” he says. “Your true face. Tell me, Time Jumper. What year are you from?”

  “I’m from 1813,” I say. “Just like you.”

  “Lies,” he growls, prodding his blade deeper, poking a small hole in my flesh.

  “What makes you say that?” I choke out the words, knowing I’m taking a risk by calling his bluff, but the more I can convince him to talk, the more time I’ll have to plan my next move.

  “You don’t fit, you don’t blend, and you clearly don’t belong in this century,” he says.

  Before I have a chance to respond, his eyes spark on mine as the tip of his blade slides clean across my throat.

  23

  In an instant, my flesh turns to fire.

  And it’s only when I watch his fingers close around my talisman that I realize not only has he cut me, but he’s managed to separate me from my one and only connection to Braxton, to Gray Wolf, to my memories of my proper place and time.

  No.

  No!

  Without even thinking, I attack.

  Swinging my blade for real, for keeps, without any care to the spilling of blood soon to come.

  I attack in spite of Killian’s warning that once I kill, I can never go back to who I once was.

  And though my blade is too small to cross the distance between my hand and his chest, I aim for a target I can reach and slice straight into his wrist.

  The man staggers backward, those blue eyes filled with shock and—and something else. Something so dark and menacing it leaves me wishing I’d never set foot in this study.

  I track the spill of blood, but the wound is superficial at best and does nothing to weaken his grip.

  Cursing under his breath, he regains his footing and sets my talisman and the pocket watch on a table beside him. “You are a brazen one,” he says, eyes locked on mine as he brandishes his blade. “But you’re in over your head. So, why not spare yourself, little Time Jumper, and be on your way.”

  He tips his head toward the door—a door I’d do anything to make my way through. But not without my talisman—the one thing that connects me to everything that matters in my world.

  A shot of dread courses through me as I cut a nervous glance between his blade and mine.

  How am I supposed to compete when I’ve clearly brought a box cutter to a sword fight?

  My mind reels back to my first lesson in swordcraft. Braxton had a sword, I had a dagger, and it ended with me pinned against the wall, begging for mercy.

  Focus, Braxton had coached. Stay in the moment, quiet your mind, and use your intuition to anticipate your opponent’s next move.

  My mind wandered that night, but tonight I’m sharp, laser-focused, and the stakes have never been higher.

  “Give me my charm,” I say, my voice hoarse but sure. “And I’ll gladly be on my way.”

  The man regards me from under his brow. “It’s yours for the taking,” he says. “If you can get past me, that is.”

  I’m out-armed—out of my league—but Braxton trained me for moments like this. It’s why he always fought with a sword, and I with a dagger. Never wanting me to forget that, as a woman traveling through the past, the odds would rarely be in my favor.

  I stand before my opponent, expertly tossing my dagger from hand to hand and twirling it around my thumb in the way I was taught, but it only succeeds in making him laugh.

  “Nice of you to demonstrate the limits of your skill,” he says. “But do not make the mistake of thinking I’ll go easy on you. The best way to learn—”

  “Is by facing an opponent who’s better than you,” I finish the thought for him, quoting the very thing Braxton once said to me.

  “Though your theory is solid,” the man says, “your form leaves much to be desired. Allow me to show you how it’s done.”

  Next thing I know, he sets his blade swinging as his feet slide along the carpeted floor, moving with such speed and grace it’s all I can do to keep up without growing dizzy.

  I know this game. He’s trying to distract me—make me spend all my energy on keeping track of his placement.

  Luckily, I’ve been trained in this, too. So when he arcs his sword toward me, I’m quick to angle my dagger so it stops him on the downward slope of his swing. Filling the space with the screech of metal meeting metal, I force my blade against the tip of his and successfully push him away.

  “Impressive,” he grunts. “For a novice, that is.”

  I blink three times, wanting to check in on the clock, only to watch in horror as he rebounds quicker than I foresaw.

  With his blade arced high above his head, he swings it down so quickly I have no chance of meeting it—no chance of stopping it—without running the risk of being split right in half.

  So I do the only thing I can: I duck out from under it, watching wide-eyed as that sharp, double-edged broadsword misses my head by less than an inch.

  I won’t win this.

  Can’t win this.

  I’m totally and completely outmatched.

  All I can do now is play a game of perpetual defense until the time on the portal runs out or he slices me to ribbons—whichever comes first.

  There’s got to be a better way—there’s got to be—

  “You can always surrender,” he says, coming at me again. Forcing me to leap, spin, swerve out of his reach, as his blade continues to carve up the air.

  I duck around tables, crash into chairs, send a priceless vase smashing to shards, as I run for my life.

  Still, I run with purpose. And when I find myself back beside the table where he left my talisman along with that gold pocket watch, I make a grab for them both. Only to nearly lose my arm when he clears the table with a hard swing of his blade.

  As the talisman and pocket watch soar toward the ground, I instinctively follow. Diving to the floor, I crash hard on my belly, scramble to my knees, and just when the prize is well within reach, the man tips his broadsword toward my face and says, “Pick one, Time Jumper. And only one.”

  I run a wary glance up the length of him, and the way his gaze darkens on mine, it’s clear he’s fully committed to ridding me of an eye.

  “Your time is running out.” He angles his blade precariously close to my face. “So, pick one and be on your way.”

  The pocket watch glimmers before me, and as I grip the rounded edge, my fingers grazing over that intricate circular design, the golden case warms as a vision streaks across the screen in my head.

  It’s a boy.

  A young, happy boy, and he’s laughing so hard his eyes are squinched closed. But when he opens them, when he lowers his chin and stares directly before him, a sudden coldness seizes my core, leaving my skin tingling, my heart racing.

  “Choose, Time Jumper!” The man’s voice snaps me out of the vision and back to the present, where his blade veers dangerously close to my eye. “Choose!” he repeats.

  But I won’t choose. Can’t choose. I need that watch as much as I need my talisman.

  And that’s when I see a way out.

  That’s when I duck my head, and with his blade hovering above me, I reach for my talisman with one hand as the other plunges my dagger straight into the tender spot where his knee meets his boot.

  Slicing through fabric, flesh, ligament, it’s only when I reach bone—only when the man cries out in shock, staggers backward, and falters to the ground—that I scoop both the pocket watch and my talisman into my hand and race for the door.

  The last thing I see when I glance over my shoulder is the unspoken threat in his glinting blue eyes as he watches me go.

  24

  It’s only once I’ve managed to escape with my talisman and pocket watch secured, my dagger returned to its sheath, that I can finally process the hell I just went through.

  Who was that man? And how did he know that I’m a…Time Jumper, as he called me?

  I shake my head, ridding myself of the thoughts, then blink three times only to find there are less than fifteen minutes left on the clock.

  I race for the end of the hall, nearly reaching the ballroom when Elodie appears from the other side of a door, her cheeks flushed, hair mussed, with a ridiculously handsome boy trailing behind her.

  “Natasha!” she calls. “How wonderful to see you. You must meet my friend, Nash.”

  Like any well-bred gentleman of his time, Nash steps forward and bows. While I, like any awkward Gen Z forced into a social ritual she’s not at all used to, dip into a nervous curtsy.

  “Elodie speaks very highly of you,” he says, and when he grins, it’s clear why she’s so taken with him.

  With his thick, dark curls, piercing green eyes, and blunt, masculine features, Nash emits the sort of natural magnetism that’s hard to resist. But, when he smiles, he lights up the sky as bright as Christmas Day and Fourth of July combined.

  “Oh, dear.” Elodie frowns and gestures toward my neck. “It appears you’ve been scratched.” And though her tone effectively hides her alarm, the look she shoots me is brimming with dread.

  I run an idle finger along the scrape left by that angry man’s sword. Was he a Timekeeper? Is that how he recognized me as a girl out of time?

  “Oh, I’d almost forgotten.” I laugh, as though it’s all just an amusing bit of whimsy. “I came across a cat, and you know me—I couldn’t resist. Though the cat had other ideas.”

  I laugh again, and it’s not long before Elodie joins in. And though her own laughter rings false to my ears, Nash remains unaware.

  “Dearest Nash,” she says, placing a hand on his shoulder. She blinks three times and shoots me a look of alarm. “Would you mind terribly if I help Natasha attend to her—” She gestures to her own neck to indicate my neck, and the way Nash regards her, he’s clearly besotted with her. And despite what Elodie claims about her heart having wings—fluttering freely to whomever it fancies—it’s obvious she feels the same.

  “You will save the last dance for me?” he asks.

  “Always.” She grins, her gaze glittering on his. Then she tips onto her toes and right there, in front of me and well within view of the crowded ballroom, Elodie kisses Nash full on the lips, without a care in the world. Just like a girl from the twenty-first century would.

  Then, grasping hold of my hand, the two of us break into an all-out run.

  “Fuck,” Elodie whispers as we move through the crowd, scanning for Mason. “I mean, what the absolute fuck?” she repeats, her gaze turned to me as I search the dancers, the wallflowers, and coming up empty. “Seriously, Nat—what the fuck happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” I say, trying to keep my expression pleasant as I pull her along. “All I care about now is finding Mason.”

  “Screw Mason,” she says. “Forget that ungrateful little shit. It’s you I’m worried about. I mean, where is your talisman? Do you even know who you are?”

  “It’s in my pocket,” I tell her. “The clasp broke, and—”

  “Oh, so your clasp broke.” She shakes her head. “Just how stupid do you think I am?”

  I release a lungful of air I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Honestly?” I say. “You’re one of the least stupid people I know.”

  She gives a satisfied nod, then narrows her gaze. “Then why are you lying to me?”

  I take a moment to decide on an answer. “Because I can’t risk sharing the truth.”

  Elodie considers me for an agonizing beat. “So,” she finally says. “What do you think of Nash?”

  Classic Elodie. We have less than twelve minutes left on the clock, no sign of Mason, and Elodie wants to discuss her Regency crush. If the situation wasn’t so dire, it would strike me as hilarious. But who am I kidding—it still does.