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The only foreseeable outcome is the ultimate fade-out.
I rub my hands briskly over my arms to ward off a shiver and reach for the golden charm at my neck, desperate for some small glimmer of hope—a reminder that somewhere outside these walls, the moon hangs high, stars glitter like diamonds, and a beautiful boy awaits my return…
But my talisman is missing.
No.
No!
In an instant, I’m back on my feet. My heart bangs wildly against the walls of my chest as I frantically claw at my skirts, scour my hands down the front of my bodice and under each breast.
I search every inch of the floor of this cell, kicking at urine-soaked clumps of straw, and hissing at the rat, watching as she edges into the corner, dragging her meal along with her, only to confirm the charm truly is gone.
I must’ve lost it in the fountain, during my struggle with the groundskeeper, or when I ran into the guard.
And now, without the talisman to serve as a reminder, my memory will soon vanish as well.
I rush to the door, wrap my fingers around the bars, and throw my weight against them, shaking with every ounce of my strength. But they’re solid, locked from the outside, and offer no hope for escape.
My eyes flood with tears, causing my vision to blur and my body to sag hopelessly against the filthy, cold iron.
I remember what Braxton said about no one ever being sent home for failing. But now I know that’s only because when they do, they end up lost in time, all concept of their home and identity forgotten.
This is what happened to Anjou, and probably Elodie’s first Tripping partner.
Who knows how many other Blues have failed to make the return trip to Gray Wolf?
And once I manage to cross my own timeline, what then?
Will I vanish in this world, the modern world, or maybe even both?
And what’s more—does it even matter?
In the end, mine will be just another name to add to that long list of failures.
I squeeze my eyes shut and fight back the scream that threatens to burst right out of my chest. I can’t afford to forget, and I refuse to let Elodie succeed in her attempt to erase me.
I push away from the bars and begin pacing my cell. With my hands clutching at my skirts, I trudge across bloodstained stones, as I whisper to myself:
My name is Natasha Antoinette Clarke. I am from California. I was born in the new millennium. My last address was Gray Wolf Academy. I have a mom, a best friend named Mason, and a boyfriend named Braxton, and I am one of Arthur Blackstone’s Artful Dodgers…
I continue to repeat the most relevant bits of my biography, hoping that by continuing to recite the facts as I know them, I can somehow imprint the story of me onto my brain.
This is not my dress.
These are not my shoes.
And this certainly is not my pannier.
I grasp the metal cage by the side, tempted to rip the annoying thing right off once and for all, when I remember the strange expression Charlotte wore as she ran a hand down the right side and assured me that sometimes they really do come in handy.
With my breath billowing before me in tiny crystallized puffs, I reach a hand under my skirts and locate three loose bits of steel that are thicker, stronger, and not nearly as secure as the others.
After wrenching them free, I rush toward the wall, where I carve my full name into the stone. Hoping that by seeing it there, it’ll help me remember who I am, when I am, and where I truly belong.
And failing that, at least I won’t vanish without anyone knowing I was once here.
Do not swear by the moon,
for she changes constantly.
—William Shakespeare
