Dorothy felt a flicker of something deep in her chest. Wait a minute . . . she hadn’t been to Fort Hunter—not as Quinn Fox, anyway. Roman had gone back in time to complete that mission on his own.

“But you didn’t see my face,” she murmured, thinking.

Ash cocked his head. “What?”

“You said that you saw Quinn Fox at Fort Hunter. But did you actually see my face? Or just the white hair?”

“Dorothy, I might not have seen your face, but I saw your scar, your cloak. It was you.”

Dorothy pressed her lips together, considering this. Each new piece of this puzzle seemed to point to yet another place in history that she’d traveled back in time to visit. So far, she’d taken it for granted that it was always her. But, now, she wondered.

Could someone else have gone back instead?

Someone pretending to be her?

For some reason, she thought of the woman in black, Regan Rose.

“Hair can be dyed,” she said, more to herself than to Ash. She took a measured breath and added, “What about in this prememory? Did you see my face, then?”

Ash let her hair unravel from his finger. “I didn’t want to believe it, either,” he murmured, tucking it back behind her ear. “But I’m trying to make my peace with it. Prememories are memories, there’s no way to stop them—”

“Just tell me,” Dorothy interrupted him. “Did you see my face?”

“Why this sudden interest in my death?” Ash frowned, studying her. “Unless . . .”

Zora’s voice suddenly reached out of the darkness. “Asher!”

Dorothy turned, squinting. She could make out the shape of someone standing on a dock in the distance, the long, thin silhouette that was, unmistakably, Zora.

“I have to go,” Ash said. He, too, was looking at Zora, and his shoulders had gone rigid. “Will I see you again?”

There were two more secret meetings that Dorothy knew about, the next occurring the very next night.

“You will,” she said. “Soon.”

He touched her cheek, briefly. “Take care of yourself.”

And before she could ask him anything else, he was off, diving into the black water, swimming toward Zora.

Dorothy remained long enough to make sure he made it safely onto the dock. And then, numb, she made her way back to the Black Crow.

14

It started to rain as Dorothy flew the Black Crow back to the anil, heavy splatters of water smacking against her windshield, making it impossible to see anything in the inky darkness. Wind howled and battered into the sides of the ship, sending her sliding back and forth on the pilot’s seat.

She gritted her teeth. Roman could’ve thought to include windshield wipers in his design. Or, at the very least, a seat belt.

A moment later, the thought turned bitter because Roman wasn’t here to tease about it.