A symbol that embodies so many designs that it’s said to contain the secrets of the universe—the workings of time and space—a record of all living things.

  I remember gazing at it and how, depending on the way I centered my focus, I’d see a field of flowers, a six-pointed star, the tree of life, and more.

  But now I know what it really is—the Flower of Life is the mark of a Timekeeper.

  The Flower of Life

  “There was a man,” I say. “When I was in Regency England. I’m pretty sure he was a Timekeeper, but it was obvious he didn’t know I was one, too.”

  Braxton inhales a quick breath and waits for me to continue.

  “He had a pocket watch,” I say. “A—”

  Before I can finish, Braxton closes his eyes and, in a quiet voice, says, “A golden pocket watch with the Flower of Life engraved on its back.”

  When he opens his eyes and his gaze catches on mine, it all clicks into place. The boy I saw in the vision when I held that timepiece—the happy, laughing young boy with flashing blue eyes—it was Braxton.

  A much younger version of Braxton, but Braxton all the same.

  And that’s when I remember the man’s surprise when I said Braxton’s name. The look of shock on his face—the unmistakable shake in his voice when he asked: What did you say?

  “So you met my father.” Braxton’s voice is hoarse, the words so choked he needs a moment to compose himself. “I used to play with that watch when I was a kid,” he says, his thoughts, like his gaze, traveling back to a time long before this. “He promised one day it would be mine. But that day never came.”

  There’s a tightening in my chest, a searing pain at the back of my throat, as my mind whirls with the unbelievable, regrettable truth.

  I met Braxton’s dad, and—

  And I left him injured, sliced his wrist, shoved a blade deep into his knee, then stole the watch and left him to bleed.

  “You’re—you’re not from this timeline,” I gasp. Considering all the things I could’ve said—should’ve said—it strikes me as odd that I’d lead with this. But I guess it feels safer to put the focus on him until I can find a way to voice the apology I desperately owe him.

  “No.” Braxton shakes his head. “I’m not. Now you know.”

  Then, remembering something Killian said, I ask, “Is Braxton your real name?”

  He smiles softly, which is something I didn’t expect. And I’m glad to know he’s still capable of that.

  “It is now,” he says. “Though I started as James. Braxton was my surname, and Huntley was my mother’s maiden name. Choosing to go by those two surnames is my way of honoring my parents and ensuring I never forget where, when, and whom I came from.”

  It makes sense. But then I remember the vision I saw in Versailles—the boy who looked a lot like Braxton—and yet, the timing just doesn’t add up, and I tell him as much.

  “Must’ve been a distant relation,” he says. “I come from a long line of Timekeepers, and blue eyes and a thick mane of brown hair are family trademarks.”

  I exhale a ragged breath, feeling terrible for all the times I doubted him—for all the lies we told each other, when all along, we’re the same. Two Timekeepers living at Gray Wolf, tasked with doing a job that goes against everything our ancestors stood for.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come clean,” he says. “I guess I needed to be sure it was safe—needed to determine just how loyal you were to Arthur.”

  “Apparently not as loyal as I thought.” I fix my gaze on Braxton’s and add, “I brought back the pocket watch, and I didn’t turn it in.”

  “You still have it?” Braxton’s eyes widen with the faintest glimmer of hope.

  I nod. “But Braxton, I…” I close my eyes, blow out a breath, then force myself to start again. “I’m afraid I…”

  The words are all lined up, and though my mouth falls open, nothing comes out.

  How can I possibly tell him what I did—the bloody, injured state I left his father in?

  And yet, I know there’s no choice. It’s our lies that got us both here, and the fresh start I’ve longed for starts now, with me. So, I swallow hard and try again.

  “But in order to get it,” I say, dreading the words still to come but continuing anyway. “I hurt him. I used the skills you taught me, along with a few I made up on the fly. But I didn’t know he was your dad. I didn’t even know I was a Timekeeper. So, I—” The words are coming too fast, but before I can finish, Braxton holds up a hand.

  “But you left him alive?” There’s a fresh trail of blood sliding along the curve of his neck, and when I start to press the washcloth to it, Braxton guides my hand back to my side.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “His injuries weren’t fatal, but still…” I sigh, haunted by the memory of his dad staggering backward, faltering to the ground.

  “But you didn’t kill him.” He grinds out the words. “Wish I could say the same about your dad.”

  I reach for his arm, my fingers pressing against the thin muslin of his shirt, insisting he look at me or, failing that, at least agree to hear me. “You have to stop,” I say, hoping he’ll grasp the urgency in my words. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. I saw the whole thing. I know it was Killian who plunged that blade into my dad’s heart.”

  Of course, the moment I say it, my mind fills with that horrible vision, so I turn my focus to the washcloth, when Braxton’s surprisingly cold fingers lock on my wrist.

  “Tasha,” he says, his voice gone as weak as his grip. “As much as I dread telling you this, it is my fault. I was in that necropolis. And I did nothing to stop it. Didn’t even step in to help.”

  I remember the mumbled words from his nightmares: I didn’t… I should’ve… Merde… and I know all this time he’s been dreaming of my dad and the guilt he carries for the part that he played.

  “But you did try to help,” I remind him. “I saw that, too. Only, by the time you reached him, it was too late.”

  Braxton lets go of my hand, rejecting my assurances as though he’s undeserving of such kindness. “Killing him was never the plan,” he says. “We were supposed to keep him alive so he could bring back the Sun. After that, I have no idea what Arthur had planned, but he wasn’t supposed to die. And though I’m certain Killian had no idea I was a Timekeeper, Arthur must’ve known all along, or at least he suspected as much.”

  “But Arthur needs us,” I say. “Which means we’re both safe so long as we remain useful to him.”

  “And then what?” Braxton asks, a fresh trail of blood dripping from his neck and splashing onto his shirt. “What happens once the Antikythera is finally restored?”

  “It’s not going to be restored,” I say.

  “But what about the Moon? You brought it back, didn’t you?”

  I nod. “And I have every intention of giving it to him.”

  Braxton watches me with a troubled gaze, and I’m not sure if it’s a reaction to what I just said, or if it’s the result of his trying to suppress the pain he must be in.

  “Why do I feel like you’re planning something?” he says.

  “Because I am. And while I haven’t yet worked out the details, the good news is Arthur still has a way to go before he’s anywhere close to fulfilling his dream. And that alone will buy us some time to stay under the radar until we figure it out.”

  “And Killian?” Braxton studies me. “He’ll return as soon as the next portal appears.”

  “But I have the clicker.” I hold up my hand, showing him the silver ring that Killian insisted on giving to me.

  “And without the clicker, when the time on the portal runs out, so does the energy that created the passage.” Braxton looks from the ring to me. “How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t.” I shrug. “But I figured there had to be some kind of catch. Otherwise, anyone could wander into it and be flung forward in time. And though I do feel awful about leaving someone stranded in another century, when I think of what Killian did to my dad…” I shake my head, preferring not to dwell in that space. “Anyway, Killian’s resourceful. Eventually, he’ll find his way back. And yet, when he does, I don’t think he’ll pose a problem.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Braxton asks.

  “Because he’s loyal to Arthur,” I say. “He’s determined to help him restore the Antikythera. But he can’t do it without us. Which is why I don’t think he’ll admit to what happened in Florence. It’ll make him look bad, and he’s smart enough not to risk that.”

  “But you know you can’t trust him, right?” Braxton says.

  “He killed my dad.” I frown. “What more proof could I possibly need?”

  “Tasha—” Braxton’s expression is grim, his voice gone suddenly tight. “I hate asking you this, but since we’re being honest, I need to know. Did something happen between you and Killian? I know you thought of him as a friend. I know you guys even hung out now and then.”

  I bite down on my lip, but Braxton just shrugs.

  “And fine, I get it. You wanted to make up your own mind. But… What I need to know is, just how far did it go?”

  76

  Braxton sits before me, wounded, bleeding, and it’s all because of me.

  Because he risked his life—his very existence—to try to save me from an enemy I mistook for a friend.

  The least I can do is tell him the truth.

  I inhale an uneasy breath, remembering when Braxton learned I’d kissed Killian when I was caught in a Fade. How he assured me it was nothing to worry about. That as long as I return safely to Gray Wolf, to him, that’s all that really matters. In the grand scheme of things, what happens in a Fade is a blip of no consequence.

  But this time, when I made the choice to kiss Killian, my head was clear. I acted of my own free will—pursuing something that, at the time, I convinced myself I wanted to do.

  And though I know it’s the last thing Braxton wants to hear, if I’m serious about unraveling the web of lies we’ve both spun, then I need to resolve this one, too. After all, I owe him that much.

  “Braxton, I—” I pause, already regretting the hurt I’m about to deliver. “Yes.” I sigh. “Killian and I…we kissed. We…kinda made out. But only because my heart was broken. I thought you’d betrayed me, and I think I was just looking for comfort, or to reclaim some part of myself, or replace you with someone else, or… Honestly, I don’t even know what got into me. But yeah, I’m not gonna lie. And though I almost let it go too far, in the end, it never amounted to anything more than the two of us kissing.”

  Braxton inhales a sharp breath. There’s a flash of pain in his eyes that has nothing to do with his injuries. And the sight of it breaks me to pieces.

  “But from the very start,” I say, hoping he’ll hear me, desperately needing him to believe me, “it was clear that Killian isn’t you. He doesn’t even come close.” I pause, swallow past the sob in my throat. “And, well, what I need you to know is that despite how angry I felt, there was no denying that it wasn’t Killian’s kiss that I wanted.”

  Braxton drags in a breath, his gaze never once leaving mine.

  “It was your kiss that I longed for.” My throat squeezes tight, but I force the words past. “Even in my darkest moment, when I was sure you’d shattered my heart, there was still only you.”

  After a few silent beats, Braxton says, “Thank you for your honesty.”

  “Always,” I tell him. “From here on out, I give you my promise if you’ll do the same.”

  “You have my word.” He nods. Then the two of us come together, sealing our vow with a kiss.

  When I draw away, I say, “Do you ever wonder if Arthur is…I don’t know, maybe somehow manipulating us, or…” My voice fades, unsure exactly where I’m going with this.

  “You mean by sending Killian in my place when he promised it to me?” Braxton says, putting words to my unformed thoughts.

  I shrug. “For starters, yeah.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.” He frowns. “I’m not sure it’s in his best interest to have two Timekeepers working together. If you think about it, the whole culture at Gray Wolf is one of distrust and paranoia, which keeps us from—”

  “Being honest, open, and truthful with one another.” I shake my head sadly.

  “At least we’re past that,” he says, planting a kiss on my forehead.

  And I’m just about to return the kiss when I notice he’s already soaked through the bandage I secured at his head. “You need to go to Medical,” I say. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “On one condition.” He pulls me back to him.

  I press closer, gazing into his impossibly beautiful face.

  “Whatever you’re cooking up in your head, you won’t act on it until I’m well enough to help you.”

  “What makes you think I’m cooking up anything?” I ask.

  Braxton looks at me. “Because you have the world’s worst poker face. So do you promise?”

  I remember what Mason said about the Salvator Mundi, how those crossed fingers could be interpreted in multiple ways.

  But when I cross mine, it only means one thing: I’m about to tell Braxton yet another lie. Only this time, I sincerely hope it’s my last.

  I nod, grin, then tip onto my toes and find his lips once again.

  His kiss is sweet and warm, and I linger there much longer than I should, determined to memorize the feel of him, the taste of him, in hopes I can carry it with me where I plan to go next.

  77

  While Braxton is in Medical, I retrieve a few things from my room. By the time I return to get him, he has a handful of stitches at the back of his head, a fresh bandage on his neck, and, having been cleared of any risk of concussion, he’s under strict orders to rest.

  “Are you coming inside?” he asks, pressing his thumb to the keypad.

  I shoot him a playful glance. “Pretty sure that’s not what the doctor meant when she ordered you to bed.”

  He reaches for my hand, entwining his fingers with mine. “I’ll rest a lot easier knowing you’re by my side.”

  We head into his bedroom, where he strips down to a T-shirt and boxers. Then we crawl under the covers, and with my body curled around his, Braxton falls asleep within seconds.

  Still, I wait a bit longer just to make sure, then I slip out of bed, go in search of some paper and a pen, then drop onto his soft leather couch and write him a note revealing the truth I’ve held back until now.

  Because while I promised Braxton I’d wait until he was better to act on my plan, that was never my intention. And at the very least, he deserves an explanation.

  Dear Braxton, I start.

  I pause, tapping the pen against my chin as I try to think of the best way to explain why I need to make this next Trip on my own, and why I chose not to tell him even when he sensed something was up.

  When you wake up and discover I’m gone, please don’t worry about me.

  And please try not to be mad. Or at least not for long.

  I know I’m breaking my own promise, and believe me, I feel terrible about it. The only reason I didn’t tell you before is because I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it—or worse, try to stop me. Not that either of those things would’ve worked. Because the truth is, this is something I need to do on my own.

  Also, here’s a few things I’ve been wanting to say and desperately need you to know:

  I’m grateful for you.

  I’m glad I met you at Arcana and that you brought me to Gray Wolf.

  I like the person it’s allowed me to become. And chances are, I never would’ve met that girl, if it wasn’t for you.

  What happened to my dad wasn’t your fault, and I think it’s time for us both to end our personal nightmares.

  And, if we really are destined like you once said, then I guess we’ll have to place our trust in the same moon and stars we once kissed under that everything will work out for the best—that no matter what divides us—oceans, continents, or even time itself—we will always find our way back to each other.

  Speaking of the Moon—I’ve hidden it somewhere for you to find. I’m sure if you read this note carefully, you’ll figure it out. And when you do find it, please make sure to give it to Arthur. It’s all he really cares about, and as long as he has it, I’m sure he’ll be willing to overlook any other transgressions he might become aware of. With me gone, he’ll need you more than ever. Certainly, more than he needs Killian.

  For now, I leave you with this:

  I love you, Braxton.

  There. I said it first. Who would’ve thought? 

  And next time we’re together, I’m going to say it to your face, so get ready.

  In the meantime, please take care of yourself.

  xoxo

  Tasha

  After signing my name, I’m about to slide the note under the golden pocket watch and leave it next to his coffeemaker so he’ll see it when he wakes, but then I remember Leonardo’s sketch, and I decide to leave that as well.

  It’s funny looking at it now that I’m back at Gray Wolf, just a handful of hours and five centuries from when the portrait was drawn. After everything that’s happened and all that I’ve learned, it’s like the lens has shifted into focus, and I can finally see why Leonardo wanted to sketch me.

  It’s all right there—everything he was perceptive enough to capture on this ancient scrap of parchment, well before I was even aware of my feelings.

  In the drawing, my hair falls in long waves that spill past my shoulders, my brow is smooth, my chin held at an angle as my fingers reach for my talisman, but it’s my gaze that I keep coming back to.