“We told you it was illegal,” the young one adds.

“Impossible,” the old one corrects. “We told you it was impossible.”

“Impossible,” the young one agrees.

“It’s not!” I insist. “It can’t be.”

Why else would it be illegal? Why else would they and Chronos have given me such dire warnings about changing the past unless it was possible for me to do so? Why bother? It doesn’t make any sense.

“We did not allow it,” the middle-aged one says.

The young one shakes her head.

“Why not?” I demand, feeling tears well in my eyes. “Why would you let me come back and not change anything?”

What was the point? Everything I’ve done, every risk I’ve taken . . . and it all came down to the Fates—my mothers—saying no.

This is the gods’ surprise twist at its finest. No less unfair than the original decree that set me on this path in the first place. No less cruel.

“To allow a mortal to change the course of time,” the middle-aged one—the reasonable one—explains, “would put all of time at risk.”

“Bad things,” the young one says, nodding vigorously. “Very bad things.”

The old one mutters something about “impetuous” and “youth”—honestly, who wouldn’t be young compared to her?

All of the time and energy and emotion I’ve put into the quest over the last few days just drains out of me, washing away like chalk art in a rainstorm. My entire body sags and I feel . . . defeated. This really is the end.

For ten years, I’ve been consumed by guilt. I’ve lived with it every minute of every day, dreamed of it every night. I thought that finally, after all this time, it would be over. I thought I would finally be absolved.

“Please,” I whisper, sinking to my knees on the floor. I look up at the three women, who are watching me, unseeing, with varying degrees of pity and confusion in their expressions. “If you care for me at all—if you feel bad about anything that’s happened—then please . . . make this right.”

The old one snorts.

The young one scowls and tilts her head.

The middle-aged one is still. Unblinking as she holds up the eye to study me. I focus on her. I stare right back, trying to convey every last ounce of my anguish through whatever means possible.

When I see a glint of moisture beneath her empty eye sockets, I feel the first spark of hope rekindle.

I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t anything as she turns to the old one and says something in an ancient Greek dialect I can’t understand.

Their conversation is hushed and vehement. From the body language, I can tell the middle-aged one has made a suggestion, the old one disagrees, and the young one . . . well, I’m not sure she understands what’s going on any more than I do.