Mac Murphy separated himself from the crowd, the woman in black drifting, silently, behind him. Dorothy felt her eyes drawn to her, curiosity piqued. This was the closest she’d been to the stranger since first seeing her on the docks. Her fingers twitched, wanting to grab her and throw her hood back so that she might catch a glimpse of her face.

The woman in black was small and slight, with a slim mask covering her face, a hood pulled over her hair, and black gloves to her elbows. The only bit of visible skin that Dorothy could see was the white of her neck. Everything else was hidden.

Dorothy felt a shiver of familiarity, studying her. Impossible though it might be, she had the strange, tilting feeling that she was looking at herself.

Was that impossible? She knew that she’d gone back in time. Perhaps she’d stayed, found a way to infiltrate the Cirkus and regain her spot as its leader.

But why? Dorothy frowned as she turned this question over in her head. She didn’t actually want to lead the gang again, and she certainly didn’t want to work alongside Mac Murphy. So why go through all this trouble, the time travel, the disguise, the lies?

Dorothy turned back around, watching a few more Freaks try and fail to get the Black Crow airborne. She gritted her teeth, nerves climbing her neck. The novelty of watching them was beginning to wear thin. They showed no intention of leaving the time machine behind, and Dorothy’s entire plan revolved around stealing the canister of EM inside of the main cabin. How was she supposed to do that if the Black Crow was surrounded?

She chewed her bottom lip, frustrated.

And then she realized . . .

Quinn Fox, assassin, cannibal, leader of the Black Cirkus, might not have a way to get to the EM—but Dorothy, con artist and thief, certainly did.

She lifted a hand to her head and slid a hairpin out of her curls. It was a pin from her original time period, made of solid silver and—so far—strong enough to work any lock without bending or breaking. Dorothy had been careful to keep it with her over the years. It had served her well many, many times in the past.

While the crowd was distracted, she drifted around to the back of the time machine, fingers traveling over the cool metal until she found the crack of a door.

The cargo hold.

She grinned. She was quite familiar with it.

Glancing around to make sure that everyone’s eyes were still on Bennett—the latest poor fool to attempt to fly the Black Crow—Dorothy pressed her back against the cargo hold door and slid her hairpin into the lock. She gritted her teeth, and turned left, and then right.

It took a moment for the lock to catch—