So maybe that was why she’d looked, to prove to herself that she’d changed. She’d heard the soft rustle of fabric behind her and she’d turned on instinct, inadvertently catching a glimpse of her own face.

It had been her old face, unravaged by a fall from a time machine, or a year spent with a vicious gang. Her skin had been clear, her hair dark and chestnut brown. The first thought Dorothy had, seeing her past self, was no wonder she’d kept getting taken: she’d looked more like a doll than like a person, and she’d been so much younger than Dorothy could ever remember being. And innocent.

As soon as she thought it, the word got stuck in her head, like a bit of a song lyric that she couldn’t stop singing. Innocent, innocent . . . Had she ever been innocent? She’d been a thief and a con artist before she’d become Quinn Fox. She’d stolen money and hearts; she’d tricked men into believing she wanted them and then disappeared to leave them to tend to their wounds alone. Innocent was never a word she’d have used to describe herself, and she wouldn’t have believed it if the proof hadn’t been right there.

She’d felt a jolt then, as she realized that—innocent or not—the girl she’d once been was gone. Quinn Fox had killed her.

Now Dorothy tugged her hair loose, letting her white curls fall over her shoulders. She shrugged out of her stolen police uniform, exchanging it for her familiar dark cloak. She pulled the hood over her head so that it mostly hid her face, and tugged the sleeves down low over the harnesses that held her daggers.

Lips were next. She found a small pot in her cloak pocket and unscrewed the lid, revealing a deep bloodred mixture. She dotted it on her lips without bothering to consult a mirror. It was better if it was messy.

It wasn’t real blood—it was carmine mixed with oil, like prostitutes in her time used to wear—but it looked like blood, which was the entire point.

Roman squinted at her, watching the transformation as he piloted the Black Crow over the choppy waters. They’d stopped outside the anil so they could switch places, him piloting the Black Crow while she changed in the passenger seat. He looked like he was holding something back.

“What is it?” she asked, pressing her lips together to make the red bleed onto her skin. She could see from her reflection in the window that she looked pale, almost dead. “Don’t I look okay?”

“You look great,” Roman said, and then paused, as though contemplating that. “No, I’m sorry, I meant that you look terrifying. I occasionally get those two mixed up.”

Dorothy smiled. Terrifying. He meant it as a compliment. The two of them had worked hard to make her terrifying. Dorothy had seen a year into the future, but she’d never glimpsed Quinn Fox’s face, and so she and Roman had spent weeks coming up with her disguise before deciding on her whitened skin and dark cloak and red lips. It had been the first part of their plan to take over the Black Cirkus. It was like a riddle. How do you frighten frightening people?