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82
After a glass or two of champagne and a few twirls around the dance floor, the two of us retreat to our own darkened corner.
Aside from the fact that his breath is a thousand times better than just about everyone here, and that he’s wisely chosen to forego the usual powdered wig in favor of tying his long golden curls with a strip of black silk, there’s something really intriguing about this boy that ventures far beyond my curiosity about how he might’ve earned those medals he wears.
So, when I find my back against a wall as this masked stranger presses his lips to the spot just under my ear, whispering how he’s never seen teeth so white, or smelled any woman so fresh, I can’t think of a single reason to resist his advances.
I tip onto my toes, allowing his lips to find mine, as I lean deeper into the shelter of his arms, the warmth of his kiss. And though it’s a perfectly nice kiss—I’d even go so far as to say it’s a highly skilled kiss—somehow, it feels like the wrong kiss. Like, somewhere out there is another boy I should be kissing instead.
I push a hand against the front of his jacket, my fingers curling around the collection of honors displayed across his chest.Should I pluck one free and fold it into my palm?
The thought comes with a jolt.Why would I even consider such a thing? I mean, wouldn’t that be wrong?
“You captivate me.” His lips retreat as he leans his forehead to mine, mask to mask, and traces a finger along the ribbon secured at my neck. “And this, what does it mean—is astronomy one of your interests? Is that why I found you moon gazing outside?”
I look down to see a tiny golden cage pinched between his fingers, and in one horrible tsunami of a wave, the memory of who I am and what I’m doing comes rushing back to me.
This is not my home.
This is not my century.
I’m merely a tourist from another time and place.
Is this what Jago meant when he warned me about losing track of my identity?
Trying to contain my horror at finding myself in this dark corner with a boy I don’t even know, I grasp his fingers in mine and return them to his side. “I must go,” I tell him. Slipping free of his embrace, I hurry back toward the way I came.
In my chest, my heart thunders. In my head, a hail of thoughts rage through my brain, beginning with my guilt over Braxton, even though it was only one harmless kiss. And besides, is it really my fault if my memory failed?
Only then do I realize, I haven’t just lost track of myself, but also oftime.
Everything you need to know, it’s in the mask, Keane said.
I should’ve been checking. And now, because I got distracted, it’s entirely possible I missed my chance to return.
Frantically, I press my finger to the side of my mask. In an instant, a green arrow appears, directing me back to the portal.
The digital clock flashing above tells me I have less than ten minutes until launch. And that’s when I realize I failed to secure the Get Arthur tasked me with.
I push through the crowd of drunken nobles, about to break into a run, when the masked boy grabs hold of my arm and pulls me back to him. “When can I see you again?” He is breathless, eager, but no more so than I am.
Every freaking day if you don’t let go of me!
To him, I just shake my head and break free.
Nine minutes and twelve seconds.
“Your name!” he calls. “At least—tell me your name!”
I’m running at a full sprint, but the boy is strong, swift, and has no problem keeping up. And for one fleeting moment, I realize I’m caught in the middle of my own messed-upPretty WomanmeetsCinderellastory. While my coach won’t turn into a pumpkin, or even a limo, there’s a good chance my portal will vanish without me.
And yet, I know better than to let Prince Charming witness my otherworldly departure. Which means, I need to find a way to discourage him from continuing any further.
With only minutes to spare, and a huge task to complete still ahead, I stop, press a hand to his chest and, remembering what Jago said about rarely visiting the same party twice, I say, “Natasha. My name is Natasha.”
The boy lifts my hand to his lips. “I am Killian de Luce, and I shall not forget you.”
He leans in for a final embrace, and I return it long enough to lift one of those medals from his jacket, only to decide I can’t go through with it. He earned them through feats of bravery; they aren’t mine to take.
When I pull away, he presents me with a crisp white kerchief with some sort of royal blue monogram stitched across the front.
I shove the handkerchief into one of my pockets and say, “Ihaveto go, and you cannot follow me.” My tone is stern, and I hope he’s smart enough to listen.
“I hope you shall not forget me,” he calls, as I press away from the palace and race into the night.
