Forty-five minutes left until they were to meet. Dorothy flew the Black Crow out to a desolate part of the city and did her best to hide it in the trees, even using some spare brush and branches to camouflage it further. She couldn’t fly it to her meeting with Ash. With the Cirkus out in full force, she was sure to be spotted. She would have to come back for it later, after . . . after it was all done. Once she was satisfied that no one would stumble onto the time machine by accident, she began the long trek back to the Fairmont.

The hotel was dark when she reached it, Mac and the rest of the Black Cirkus already out looking for their traitor. Her past self, she knew, would be on the fifth floor, in Roman’s hotel room, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. There was little risk of anyone seeing her. Still, she pulled her hood over her face, and made her way to the parking garage quickly. There, she found a boat that she doubted anyone would notice missing and climbed inside.

She used the paddle until she’d left the Fairmont behind her, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention with the sound of a motor. When she was far enough out, she turned on the motor, taking some comfort in the sound of the gears chewing through the air. The sound made it all that more difficult to focus on her own thoughts, which was fine with her. Her thoughts weren’t entirely pleasant just now.

White trees flew past her, reminding her of fireflies in the dark. She paid them little attention. In her head, she was counting down to midnight, trying to figure out just how much time she had left before she had to do this terrible thing.

Was it fifteen minutes? Ten?

Her breathing grew shallower.

Roman’s dagger hung heavily in the pocket of her cloak, weighted down with the expectations of what she was supposed to do with it. She pushed her hand into the fabric and gripped it, her palms quickly growing sweaty around the cool metal handle. She found herself wondering, idly, what kind of dagger had a handle made out of metal instead of bone or wood. Had Roman found this thing in the past? She had no memory of him ever stealing a dagger from the past during one of their journeys through time, but she supposed that didn’t mean much. Roman had always been secretive.

She pulled the dagger out and studied it in the dim glow of the boat’s headlight.

It looked expensive, she saw, but not old. It was heavy and plain, the blade nearly as thick around as her wrist. And, yes, it’s handle was indeed fashioned out of some sort of metal. In the dull light the metal looked brownish, like brass or—