To be accurate, he only said book—singular—so I don’t technically know which one he might be talking about. But I have a feeling he’d be way more furious than he seems if he was talking about the first one.

“The book from the secret archives,” he explains, looking just as neutral as he had when he walked up to the booth. “The Art and Science of Chronoportation.”

I can’t have heard him right. He can’t know I took the book—that book—and still be asking me in such a . . . polite way.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Your parents will be arriving tomorrow afternoon for a long-overdue visit,” he says.

“I . . . they . . .” It’s a struggle to form words into sentences at this point. “You know?”

He doesn’t respond, just cocks his head slightly to the left.

He knows.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’ve known all along.”

He shrugs and brushes a piece of dust off his jacket sleeve. “Of course.”

Of course.

“Then why didn’t you stop me?” Or help me.

“Just because I am a . . .” He frowns, like he’s trying to concentrate. “How did you put it after the incident with the baby oil in the boys’ bathroom? A ‘tool of the gods’?”

I feel my cheeks burn. For the love of Zeus, this guy really does hear, see, and know everything.

“Does not mean that I blindly support their judgment,” he finishes. “I believe you deserved the chance to set things right.”

I am stunned—utterly and completely and totally shocked. Did Headmaster Petrolas—the bane of my rebellious existence at this school—really want me to travel back in time? To break one of the unbreakable rules and cheat fate?

“I am pleased that you have succeeded,” he says when I still can’t form words.

“I—you—” My mouth drops open as the pieces fall into place. “You made the book glow! You wanted me to find it. You set this whole thing up!”

His shrug is all the answer I need.

“Oh my gods, I can’t believe it.” I shake my head. “I should have known.”

His expression turns serious. “That is the other thing I wished to speak with you about,” he says. “Your new gift.”

“My new . . . oh. Yeah, that.”

“Yes, that.” His voice drops to a low whisper that only I can hear. “Knowledge of the future is a rare gift, Miss Matios. It will take time to refine the power.”

“So my mothers told me.”

“If you find yourself needing . . .” He hesitates, like he’s trying to pick out the perfect word. “Relief,” he finally says, “do not hesitate to ask.”