Dorothy was quiet, listening. She’d heard about the pop-up shelters that people had once called Tent City. It was in those shelters that the Black Cirkus had started.

“But we were lied to,” Roman continued. “People died waiting for much-needed medication, and food, and electricity that was never restored. As of tonight, there are new people in power. And we’re here to tell you that it’s time to rebuild our city.”

The crowd reached a fever pitch, their roar thunderous. Roman had to raise his voice to be heard over the cheers. “Tomorrow morning, the Black Cirkus will go back in time, to the year 2073, to the days just before the earthquake took out the solar grids in the University District. We’re going to take those grids back and bring them here, now. After five years of darkness, we’re going to restore electricity to New Seattle!”

Dorothy felt a grin split her face as she looked out over the ecstatic crowd. They were cheering for them.

For her.

She turned to smile at Roman, but his eyes had landed on something at the far end of the room, and his grin had gone stiff.

Dorothy followed his gaze to a boy with dusty-blond hair. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and black tie, but she could easily imagine him in a leather jacket and white T-shirt, skin slightly reddened from the sun.

She felt everything inside of her go still as the boy lifted a hand to remove the black mask covering his face—

And then it was Ash staring back at her, his expression stormy. His eyebrows were low on his forehead, his gold eyes blazing. The muscles in his jaw stood out in sharp focus.

Dorothy swallowed. She knew what he saw when he looked at her: Quinn Fox, the monster, the villain.

But she saw the boy hunched over the airplane in the clearing behind a church. She saw the boy who’d kissed her in a time machine.

Her lips burned where they’d long ago brushed against his, and her palms felt suddenly clammy. What was she doing? Why was she standing here? Why hadn’t she gone to him?

She was staring. She knew she should stop, but she couldn’t turn her head. It was like fighting gravity.

She heard herself mutter, “Excuse me.”

And then she was walking off the stage, calmly, like this had been planned, her head held high. There was a door just behind the platform. She pushed through it and, immediately, the noise of the crowd dimmed, muffled by wood and walls.

She could’ve stopped there; she could’ve leaned her head against the door and breathed, but her skin still buzzed with nerves so, instead, she made her way down the long, twisting hallway as quickly as her skirt-bound legs would carry her. The hallway ended in a door, which turned out to be a bathroom.

Thank God.

Her heeled boots echoed off damp tile. There were no lights, but candles flickered at the walls, their flames reflected in the windows and mirrors.