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111
No, no, no, no, no! It can’t be. It’s just a glitch—it’s just—
On the verge of a full-blown meltdown, I press the side of my mask again and again. But the result is always the same.
A frantic calculation whirls through my brain as I struggle to subtract the time I’ve already burned through, from the two hours I arrived with, but whatever I come up with is merely a guess. The only thing I know for certain is that this is no longer pretend.
No longer some existential brainteaser as I try to determine just exactly how my annihilation will happen.
Will I poof out of existence in the blink of an eye?
Or will it be a more gradual demise? Losing pieces of myself bit by bit. Limb by limb, until there’s nothing remaining except the memory held by those who once knew me.
And even then, how long before they move on and forget all about me?
Defeat threatens to swallow me whole, causing my knees to fold, my arms to turn useless, as the groundskeeper continues to lob me along like a rag doll.
As we approach the wide marble steps that lead to the palace, the lilting harmony of orchestral strains grows increasingly louder, providing a festive soundtrack to this nightmare that strikes me as ironically funny. I toss a glance over my shoulder, eager for one last look of Versailles in all its splendor, when I spot him—a tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired boy, with a flute of champagne in one hand and a pretty girl with hair the color of flames on his arm.
But it’s just a delusion.
A mirage.
All the proof I need to know that I’ve finally succumbed to the cold. Having progressed well beyond the shivering stage of hypothermia, I’m now well into the far more alarming state of exhaustion and confusion, soon to be followed by a swift decline in consciousness, where I will flounder until my time is up and I fade into nothing.
Still, I blink just to make sure.
And when I blink a second time, I’m amazed to find the golden-haired boy is still there.
“Killian!” I cry. My voice trilling raspy and desperate into the night, I squirm my fingers into the hidden pocket where the bodice of my gown meets the skirt, fumbling for the handkerchief the boy gave me the last time we met, as the groundskeeper continues hauling me toward whatever godforsaken destination awaits. “Killian de Luce!” I call, even louder this time, my tone ringing frantic and high.
I watch as the boy whips around and peers in my direction. Though it’s not lost on me that he remains stubbornly, resolutely in place.
Recognizing this may be my last chance, a shot I can’t afford to miss, I desperately fumble for the handkerchief, only to find it’s not there.
But that’s impossible!I specifically remembered shoving it into that pocket just after Roxanne gave it to me. I search again, but the result is the same, and suddenly, the horrible truth descends in a rush.
The handkerchief is no longer there, because much like with the groundskeeper, I’ve arrived too soon—well before Killian found me on the terrace outside the Hall of Mirrors.
Which means, he doesn’t know me.
Has never kissed me.
Never given me his handkerchief with a vow to not forget me.
And, most importantly, because none of that has yet to occur, he has no good reason to step in and save me.
The groundskeeper continues to drag me, and though I struggle with whatever heat and strength I can muster, my small frame is no match for this angry man’s bulk.
With each step forward, my chance of enticing Killian to act on my behalf shrinks smaller and smaller. Soon he’ll be lost to me forever. But I can’t go down without a fight. I have to at least try.
“Killian,” I cry. “Killian de Luce!” Stubbornly, I dig my heels into the earth, tears streaming down my cheeks as the groundskeeper’s leathery mitt of a hand clenches so hard, it sends a spasm of pain shooting all the way to my wrist. Still, in one last desperate plea, I look over my shoulder and say, “My name is Natasha! And you know me, you—” The groundskeeper slaps a hand over my mouth and hauls me deeper into the night.
As the image of Killian fades from view, it’s quickly replaced by the frigid fingers of fear closing in on my throat, and the haunting face of a boy I don’t know.
The one I saw in the vision.
The one with the blazing blue eyes that bore an undeniable resemblance to Braxton.
