“No,” Father cut me off. “Not worth the risk, darling. You’ll remember when you’re ready to remember. Until then…” he stepped back, and he was no longer smiling, at least. Now he just looked terrified as he walked backward to the door.
Backward.
What a strange word. What other strange words accompanied it in my mind as well—and they popped in my head without warning like I’d heard them before in that very order:you’re walking backward very well, I must say…
What a silly, silly thought. Who would even say something like that to me?
Must have been a dream I didn’t remember.
“Sure, Father. Sure,” I forced myself to say because it wasn’t worth it. I’d been home a full month now, and I’d tried every single approach there was. I’d tried begging, crying,getting angry, slamming doors and refusing to eat—I’d tried, but neither would budge.
Not my parents, not my cousins whom I’d grown up with, not my friends. They all refused to say a single word to me about the Turning Trials, either the forward or the backward ones.
Because of the time-damned royal decree—everyone’sshieldagainst my questions. As soon as I mentioned anything, even if I saidI wonder,they were all quick to remind me that the queens had issued a royal decree, as if I didn’t know all about it. As if I hadn’t read it so many times, I knew it by heart.
During the completion of the 31st Turning Trials of the Clockrealm, an unprecedented magical event required that time be reversed for a period of fourteen days. We the people were subjected to extreme temporal displacement, our minds forced to move against the natural flow of time for two full weeks.
However, for the Hands, this reversal was combined with exposure to unstable and highly volatile magic during the final trial, as well as amplified consequences by the Labyrinth itself, and this has placed severe strain on the cognitive and emotional faculties of all survivors.
Their memories of the trials have been temporarily compromised. The Crown’s physicians have determined that any attempt to restore these memories prematurely—whether through conversation, imagery, written accounts, or magical intervention—carries a significant risk of irreversible psychological fracture. The mind must be allowed to heal at its own pace, in its own direction.
For the safety and full recovery of the Hands, the Crown hereby orders the following: no person—family, friend, citizen, or official—shall attempt to remind, inform, question, or otherwise prompt a Hand regarding the events of the 31st Turning Trials. Norecordings, projections, or written materials pertaining to the trials shall be shared with or made accessible to any Hand. No interviews, public appearances, or formal inquiries shall be conducted until the Crown has certified each Hand’s full recovery.
The Crown will oversee this recovery personally and will provide updates to the families of the Hands as appropriate.
Any violation of this decree will be treated as endangerment of a Hand of the Turning Trials—a crime punishable under the full extent of the Crown’s authority.
By our hands and by our time, this decree is absolute.
Yes,the royal decree that was printed and mounted onto every wall, every building, every fence gate through the court, was perfectly clear—except for one thing: the Crowndid notforesee any recovery personally or otherwise. I hadn’t seen or spoken to any official or anyone at all about the trials since I woke up.
I had nothing.
Not a single thing from four whole weeks—spent forward and backward in time—and no matter how many times I raged or cried or shut down, that didn’t change.
I wondered about the other Hands.
I wondered if any of them had remembered.
I wondered if I went down to put in a request with The Ledger—the highest council of the Court of Spades—they’d turn me away again or even accept my letter and pretend to take my request into account.
Which was to reach out to the queens, to the other Hands, tosomeonewho could talk to me about all those memories I’d lost. All that time.
Someone who could tell me why my mind was so full of thoughts and words andimagesthat I’d never seen before.Why it felt like I wasn’t me, like I was less than half of who I had been the last time I was home.
My eyes closed, the tears prickling the back of them furious, but I refused to cry.
Instead, as I forced food into my mouth, I thought about what I did remember—which wasthem.The other Hands standing around me in a circle.Eight,not eleven, as they should have been. Only eight other Hands, as confused as I was while the crowd cheered and an annoyingly loud voice announced for the whole world thatthe trials were unwon.
I thought about the girl—Mimi—with big green eyes, and the boy with the silver streak of hair on his head and the girl with the short blonde hair, andthe boy.
The Heart boy with the wild curls and reddish eyes that occupied a part of my mind every second I was awake. A face that all my sketchbooks had met and learned in detail.
Details Ishouldn’thave known, as I only saw him from a few feet away, and for possibly less than five minutes before we were taken away by the soldiers and the Timekeeper woman.
She said her name was Elida Hock, and that she was our warden, and that we had to do exactly as she said. We did, and so we ended up inside this wide, five-story building, each in separate rooms and halls and hallways, just waiting. Trying to figure out what had happened. Waiting for someone to come tell uswhywe were there.
Instead, that same Timekeeper woman had come back a few minutes later to escort me to a carriage, and then I was brought back home with a copy of the royal decree in my hands, a chronobank with sixty minutes’ worth of Sparetime, and a brand-new bank account full of money.
