He sat up straighter. “Zor—”

Willis cut him off. “And I’ll just, what, sit at home darning my socks while the rest of you attend the party of the year?” Willis sniffed. “Why, yes, that sounds like my idea of the perfect evening.”

Chandra said, “Darning your socks?”

“It used to be a thing,” muttered Willis unhappily, sipping his tea.

Zora leveled a heavy gaze at Ash, and he could see the two sides of her brain going to war. She didn’t want him to go anywhere near Quinn. But Chandra had made a convincing argument.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ash rushed to say. And then, turning to Willis and Chandra, he added, “None of you do.”

“If you’re going, we’re going,” Chandra said simply, and Willis nodded.

Zora remained quiet, chewing on her lower lip. After a moment, she said, “If I do this, if I help you meet her, will you at least try to change things?”

Ash swallowed. He’d gotten so tired of waiting. There were only seven days left. Seven days to fall in love with the enemy, seven days for her to betray him. It didn’t seem like enough time.

A small part of him still hoped for a miracle. The curiosity was stronger, but it didn’t mean the hope wasn’t there, too.

But if there was nothing he could do to change the future, at least he could meet it face-to-face.

He took a deep breath.

“Of course,” he said.

Zora stared at him for a beat longer. “Then, I guess it’s settled,” she said.

9

Dorothy

“I wish you’d take that stupid thing off,” Roman said, as they climbed the stairs to the Fairmont’s main floor. “You look like the Angel of Death.”

Dorothy didn’t have to push her hood back to know that Roman was scowling at it. She lifted a hand without meaning to, fingers brushing gnarled skin. The wound was a year old, but the memory of the pain was still fresh. She dreamed about it most nights. She’d often wake with her heart racing, certain that her fingers were still coated with blood, her face still split open.

She adjusted the hood so that it covered more of her face. “Can you imagine the stories people would tell?” she said. “The cannibal of New Seattle is missing half her face. The rumors about me are bad enough already.”

“I’m serious. Tomorrow night we’re planning to convince the people of this city that we’re their saviors. We can’t do that if they think you’re a monster.”

There was a pause. Dorothy could feel Roman’s eyes on her, and she knew he was debating whether to apologize for calling her a monster, or push her harder.

This was the paradox at the heart of her new identity: she had to be utterly terrible if she was going to keep the Black Cirkus in line. But the rumors about her made the rest of the city wary of trusting her.