Santi shudders. Thora knows a moment of terror mixed with relief: he is going to refuse, spare her and doom them both.

“Yes,” he says, and it’s over, the choice is made.

Thora convulses with her first real jolt of fear. She holds on to the edge of the tower until it passes. “Peregrine,” she says. “I was wondering if you could do something for me.”

“Yes?”

“I want there to be a copy of me in the city. Built of everything I was in here. Sitting outside Der Zentaur, swearing at the new recruits, drinking Brigitta out of red wine.” She makes the mistake of meeting Santi’s eyes. She swallows. “Can—can you do that?”

Peregrine nods.

Thora turns to Santi, takes his hands. Her heart is an exploding star, and she wants this to be over, and she never wants it to end. “Remember me,” she says. With a choked laugh, she adds, “All of me.”

Santi shakes his head. “All of you wouldn’t fit in my mind, or in any simulation. Only the universe can hold you.”

“I’ve been lucky, really. Most people only get one life. I’ve had more than I can count.” She squeezes his hands. “They tricked us, by the way. Do you see how they did it?”

“No,” he says, heartbroken. “Tell me.”

She rests her head against his, looking out over the river. “I used to be so obsessed with making the right choice. Then, after I found out what was happening to us, I thought it proved that none of our choices in here meant anything. But I was wrong. Every single choice we made told us something about ourselves, about each other.” She turns back to him, moves his hands in emphasis with her words. “Peregrine tried to tell us, but I didn’t understand. I do now. That was the point. For me to know every you. And for you to know every me. Because there’s only the two of us here, we needed to be everything to each other. And no one can be that. Not in just one life.” Her voice shakes. “But we’ve lived so many, and I know you, as well as I know myself. And I know that every single version of us would choose the journey. Whatever it costs.”

He gazes at her, the tears streaming freely down his face. “Look,” she says, mock-frustrated. “I’m giving you this one. Why are you crying?”

A laugh mixes with his sobs. Thora kisses his forehead as a shadow falls across her. Peregrine, standing between her and the stars. “Ready?” he asks.