When fresh guards popped in to check on us, we ignored them, and after a taunt or two, they left. The clock ticked onward. Every second, it brought us closer to sunset. No other shouts rose from the corridor. No second rescue attempt. Where were they? Reid shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his face as he paced. “I don’t remember any of this.”

“But you—I’ve seen you as you’ve started to remember. I’ve seen the pain in your expression. It hurts.”

He threw his arms in the air, growing more and more frustrated. Or perhaps flustered. Perhaps both. “Those times have been few and far between, and even then, when I try to push through—to follow the memory—it’s like I’m jumping into a void. There’s nothing there. No wall to break. No door to open or lock to pick or window to smash. The memories are just gone.”

Wretched tears gathered in my eyes. “The pattern can be reversed.”

“What pattern?” His voice rose to almost a shout as he whirled to face me, jaw clenched and cheeks flushed. “The entire world seems to think I’m a witch—and I’m about to burn at the stake, so it must be true—but I can’t—I don’t—I’ve never seen a pattern, Lou. Not a single speck of gold or white or fucking indigo. It’s like this person you know—he doesn’t exist. I’m not him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be him again.”

When the tears fell freely down my cheeks, he groaned and wiped them away, moisture glistening in his own eyes. “Please, don’t cry. I can’t stand your tears. They make me—they make me want to rend the world apart to stop them, and I can’t—” He kissed me again, fierce with abandon. “Tell me again. Tell me all of it. I’ll remember this time.”

Within the hard shield of his arms, I repeated everything. I told him the story of us: the slashed arm and spattered sheet, the book called La Vie Éphémère, the trip to the theater and the market, the temple, the troupe, the shop of curiosities. I told him of Modraniht and La Mascarade des Crânes and every moment spent together in between. Every momentous shift in our relationship. The bathtub. The attic. The funeral.

I told him of magic.

He remembered nothing.

Yes, his face twisted occasionally, but upon embracing the pain, chasing the memories, he’d find only smoke and mirrors.

We gradually realized the guards rotated in two-hour shifts—Reid could remember that—checking in every half hour. When the last set appeared, I wept openly as Reid cradled me in his lap. “Not long now,” one of them had jeered. The other hadn’t wanted to linger, however, pulling his companion from the room with a discomfited expression.