Quinn Fox. Ash stared, uneasy. If Quinn was here that meant they’d really done it. The Black Cirkus had found a way to travel through time without exotic matter.

Quinn lifted her hands, pushing away the hood covering her face.

She was turned away from the camera and, at first, all he saw was her scar. It carved up half her face, a misshapen, gnarled thing that made it difficult to focus on the rest of her. Ash cringed at the sight of it. It wasn’t unusual to see bad scars and deformities in New Seattle—medical care wasn’t what it used to be. But now Ash understood why Quinn hid her face. Her hair came out of the hood next, tumbling around her shoulders in a tangled mess of curls.

Ash’s heart stopped beating. Somewhere deep inside his body, his veins were leaking acid.

He’d never seen Quinn’s hair before. It had always been hidden under her hood, and now he felt stupid for not putting two and two together.

White. Quinn Fox’s hair was white.

On the screen, a black-and-white Quinn Fox tugged long fingers through her hair, pulling the last few strands loose of her coat. She wasn’t looking at the camera anymore, so Ash stared at her hand, studying every detail he could make out on the grainy screen. Her short fingernails. The creases of her knuckles. A small black smudge that looked like a tattoo.

He raised a hand to his cheek, premembering the brush of her fingers on his skin, seconds before she slid a blade between his ribs.

“Quinn,” he muttered in his sleep.

25

Dorothy

Dorothy sat up a little straighter, ears pricked. Ash had spoken. He’d said her name—or, well, he’d said her other name. He’d said Quinn.

She frowned as she leaned over his sleeping body, brushing a strand of sweaty, blond hair away from his brow. He didn’t seem to be getting any better, as far as she could tell. He’d hardly moved, and his breathing seemed just as shallow and labored as it had been when they’d first brought him here. There was still that horrible green cast to his skin that made her think of an outbreak of yellow fever she’d seen in New Orleans ages ago, when she and her mother were passing through the city.

“Shh . . . ,” she murmured, pressing the palm of her hand to his forehead. Despite the sweat, he was cool to the touch, alarmingly so. “You need to sleep, Ash. You need your strength.”

Ash twitched, shaking her hand away. “Where’d you go, Quinn?” he murmured.

Dorothy frowned. She felt like she was overhearing bits and pieces of a much longer conversation. It was frustrating, like starting a story halfway through. But she and Ash had never had this conversation. So, what was going on? Was it a dream? A fantasy?