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“If he recorded his innocence in his will, where’s your proof he gave up?” The words are barely out of my mouth before I realize the answer and whisper, “The soulfall.” Vicars wouldn’t be there if he kept faith his innocence would be believed.
Sion grimaces.
“Did you try giving his soul the artifact?”
“Of course.”
I want to scream. Why in the name of reason does he think the literal key is going to work this time if it didn’t before? My brain wearies from sorting out his messes.
Sion’s gaze wanders. “It’s got to be my timing that’s off. We’ll pinch the spare key ourselves before anyone else does. The jewels won’t be stolen and Vicars not accused. The man will die without a stain on his name.”
He darts forward, backtracking when he realizes I’m not by his side. My mind pings with warning. “You’re changing history.”
His face clenches.
“Are you allowed to alter the truth of what happened in the past to restore a virtue?”
Irritation blooms in his eyes. We’ve barely spoken since we hopscotched our way through the Veil to get here.
He lifts his arms to the smoke gray clouds overhead. “History is the villain here.”
I rub my nose against scratchy wool. His plan is impulsive, without substance, a kiss to heal a broken arm. I trail behind as he heads for Arthur Vicars’s house.
The sense of wrongness hits us at the same time, and we both stop. Ahead, lights blaze from a single house on the row.
Sion motions for me to tuck against the nearest wall. He slinks ahead to a pool of darkness straight across the road from the house where the spill of light doesn’t touch him, a fox on the job—a spy.
I pull the shawl I grabbed from the wardrobe bag tight around my shoulders and follow him.
Through the open door, we watch a crowd, including Dublin police, swarm the front room of Vicars’s house. Off to the side, a woman sits in a chair, head in hands, weeping.
I tug on Sion’s sleeve. “Do you see Arthur Vicars?”
He shakes his head, strides across the street to the open front door, and raps on it. An annoyed looking policeman greets him. “What’s the noise?” says Sion. “I’m from across the way.”
In a voice too low for me to hear, the man grumbles a string of words at Sion and shuts the door in his face. Wisps of dread swirl around me like static air before a storm.
Sion stands frozen for a few moments and then limps along the street in a zig-zag path as if he’s dead drunk.
I hurry to where he collapses against a lamppost. “What’s happened?”
“Arthur Vicars is dead.”
“Dead?” I twist my apron into a knot. “We jumped to the wrong year. You said that nasty shadow might throw the Veil clock off.” The thought of risking any more time in that mystical passageway to hit our mark isn’t a happy one. I press the heel of my hand against my heart. With all the hopping around we’ve done tonight, we can’t have an abundance of heartbeats left.
Sion’s voice is strained. “We’ve come to the right time. I heard talk in the house. The jewels were taken tonight. Arthur Vicars was shot by soldiers even as he denied the deed.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, thinking. “He’s not supposed to die tonight.”
He fixes boiling green glass eyes on me. “Someone beat us here and made a mess of the past. Changed time.”
I bite my tongue to keep from reminding him that’s exactly what he intended to do.
His hands ball into fists. “Vicars wasn’t shot for the theft on this night. He lived on for years swearing his innocence until his diligence finally turned to dust.”
My hands shake. “Are you saying the shadow creep came for Vicars? Why?”
Sion’s features harden. “To ensure my failure.”
