And then the crowd began to thin. Ash could make out the shapes of strange objects over the tops of people’s heads. The golden corner of a gilded frame. A propeller. A gleaming, black statue.

Something cold hit the back of his throat. He stopped walking.

It was as though time had folded over itself so that objects from all different periods, things that never should have been in the same room together, suddenly . . . were.

There was a row of pinball machines set up against the far wall, lights flashing. Between them stood black onyx statuettes of Egyptian gods. A massive, white tusk hung from the ceiling.

Mammoth? Ash thought, frowning. It looked too large to belong to an elephant. He glanced down and saw a man hunched over what looked like a small, leather box a few feet away, squinting. It appeared to be some sort of camera.

Another silver tray drifted past them. This one was covered in snack cakes—Twinkies, Ho Hos . . . Little Debbie fudge brownies covered in nuts.

“Those brownies,” Zora muttered, turning to follow the silver tray with her eyes.

Ash swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly tight. The Professor used to love them, but they’d stopped making them after the flood.

A bell clanged, quieting the crowd. Ash inched toward a gap in the people. Through it, he could see that the brass band had stopped playing. Someone else stood in front of the microphone. Ash felt a strange, cold anger move inside him.

Roman wore a tuxedo. His dark hair was slicked back from his face, and he had a white mask perched over one eye and cheek.

Ash’s hands curled into fists. Before he’d joined the Black Cirkus, Roman had been the Professor’s assistant and one of Ash’s best friends. And then he’d betrayed them all by stealing the Professor’s research and joining the Black Cirkus.

“What’s happening?” Chandra murmured, pushing up beside Ash. “I can’t see anything.”

“Quiet,” muttered Zora. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

Roman raised both hands. He grinned, but his eyes stayed cool. “Good evening,” he said.

Ash’s eyes passed over him and landed, instead, on the figure standing beside him on the stage. Quinn Fox.

For the first time that Ash could remember, she wasn’t hidden beneath her dark cloak or mask. Instead, she wore a floaty blue gown with loose skirts. She had her head tilted toward the back of the room, tangled white hair cascading over her bare face.

Look at me, Ash thought.

“. . . want to thank you for coming,” Roman was saying. “I hope you’re enjoying the refreshments. We spent hours this morning going back in time to bring back all that fruit.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, like he’d told a joke. Ash shouldered through the people just ahead of him. Someone said something, but the voice barely registered. This moment didn’t feel real.

Turn, damn you.

Quinn tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Now, Ash could see the corner of her scar. The line of it cut through her eyebrow and twisted over her eye before curling into the skin at the top of her lip.