They keep appearing. On the next street corner; above an archway that spans the alley, leaning over her as she walks beneath. Mural after mural in Santi’s unmistakable style. The old town turning inside out, the clock tower drilling into the sky. A fox and a wolf, hunting together under the stars. Passing each one, Thora tallies in her head the weeks it must have taken, subtracting precious hours from what’s left of their lives. By the time she comes out into the shadow of the tower, her unease is crystallizing into despair.

Santi is waiting for her outside Der Zentaur, drawing in his memory book. Thora stops, taken aback by the intensity of her reaction. For the first time since she remembered him, she wasn’t sure if she would ever see him again.

He looks up. When he sees her, his face crumples in what looks like sorrow before it turns to heartfelt delight. He stumbles to his feet as she runs toward him. “I never stopped hoping,” he mutters as he catches her in his arms.

His voice is thick. Thora realizes he’s crying. She pulls back from him. “How long have you been here?”

He closes his eyes. “Seven years.”

“Fuck.” She drops into a seat on the other side of the table, feeling savagely vindicated. Of course they’re almost out of time before they even start. “One year left to find a way out.”

Santi doesn’t look worried. Through his tears, he’s grinning like God just handed him the keys to heaven. “How are you feeling?”

With effort, Thora looks past her memories and sees him as he is: short-haired, clean-shaven, as if he’s trying to look as little like his real self as possible. She notes in passing that this version of her doesn’t find him attractive at all. “So hungry I can barely function,” she says. “You?”

He grimaces. “Light-headed. Slow. Like I’m thinking through a fog.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Not ideal for trying to win a riddle contest with a mad god.”

“You mean Peregrine?” He nods. Thora leans back with a smirk. “Of course you would actually put your insane plan into action.”

Santi sighs. “I’ve tried everything. Showing him the clock. Showing him the stars. Telling him in a hundred different ways that we’re here. But none of it works.”

“He already knows we’re here,” Thora points out.

“But he can’t connect that knowledge to the part of him that’s convinced we’re still in transit phase.” Santi shrugs. “He just—believes. It’s hard to argue with that.”

“Tell me about it,” says Thora dryly. Her hands itch. She wants to smoke, but she resolved last time to quit forever. She hates the idea of spiraling down into the worst version of herself. “Have you got anything useful out of him?”