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96
“According to Roxane, Anjou asked to go home.” Song’s gaze lights on mine. Her lip is a snarl, but there are tears clouding her eyes. “Home.” She shakes her head. “Am I seriously expected to believe that?”
“So…it’s not at all possible that it might be true?”
Song closes her eyes, lets a few silent beats pass, before she says, “Does that sound even remotely possible to you? Do you actually believe Arthur would willingly let any of us leave?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, didn’t Roxane go away for film school?”
“Is that what she told you?” Song rolls her eyes. “Look, there’s a reason this place is so off the grid. It’s because Arthur can’t afford for anyone outside of Gray Wolf to know what really goes on here. Can you imagine if the outside world learned that time travel is real? It would upset the balance of everything. The result would be chaos. Not to mention all those who’d try to abuse it.”
I heave a deep sigh. It’s something I’ve tried not to think about—the huge glaring secret Arthur has tasked us with keeping. To Song, I say, “And how can we be sureArthur’snot trying to abuse it?”
Song looks at me in alarm, as though I’ve just put a voice to something that’s strictly forbidden.
“I mean, there’s got to be more to all this than just stealing jewelry and art—”
Song cuts me off before I can finish. “If there is, I’ve yet to see it. Arthur is guilty of being a hoarder of history, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe he’s out to change the course of it.” She waves a hand in dismissal. And even though I don’t fully buy it, I know better than to push it. “Anyway,” she says. “When it comes to being at Gray Wolf, no one goes home. We’re all lifers. Well, at least the lucky ones are. The ones who don’t disappear.”
“Disappear?” The word leaps from my tongue, and I’m glad I’m already sitting because my legs have gone so shaky, I doubt they’d be able to hold me.
It reminds me of what Elodie said:With any luck, you’re going to be here with us for a very long time.
At the time, I had no idea what she meant. I’m pretty sure I still don’t.
Before me, Song just shrugs. And while she doesn’t strike me as being particularly open to questions, in a tentative voice I ask one anyway. “But exactlyhowdid Anjou disappear? Because from what I can tell, there’s no viable way off this rock. Or at least not without Arthur’s consent.”
Song shrugs. “She disappeared the same way most of them do—” Her brown eyes fix on mine in a way that causes my belly to churn. “She went on a Trip and never returned.”
A sudden chill spreads through my body, as I imagine Anjou stuck somewhere in a time in which she doesn’t belong. Then I remember how close I came to getting stuck in 1745 Versailles, and my spine turns to ice.
It can happen so easily. Too easily.
“Still, there must be something we can do—” I start, my voice fading when I realize that no one is going to do anything except look the other way. Just like when Elodie’s Tripping partner failed to return, and now Anjou, and who knows how many others.
“I don’t even know where they sent her. Nobody does except the people working the control room, and believe me, I’ve tried to find out and they’re not talking.”
There’s a hollowed-out pit forming deep in my gut. I haven’t felt this hopeless, or this scared, since the first night I arrived.
“I’m sorry,” I say, cringing at how inadequate it sounds, but not knowing what else I can possibly offer. My hands twist together as my gaze nervously flounders about the room before coming to rest on the leather-bound book. “Can—can I take a look at that?” I ask, motioning toward it.
Song tilts her head to the side, her gaze roaming the length of me, as though trying to determine whether or not she can trust me. “Some other time,” she says. Then, from out of nowhere she adds, “Just so you know, magick has always been the currency of the oppressed.” With a solemn smile, she stands, signaling the end of our conversation. “I’m serious about that promise,” she says, as I rise to my feet, hoping my shaky legs will carry me as far as the door. “You can’t tell anyone about what you found, or anything else I just told you.”
“You have my word,” I say, noting the way her hand hovers over the keypad as though she’s not quite ready to let me go.
I try to sneak a glance past her shoulder, hoping to get another look at the book. But the way Song shifts makes me wonder if she’s purposely trying to block it from view.
“And that includes Braxton,” she says, her dark eyes blazing on mine.
I squint at Song, unsure what she’s getting at.
“I don’t want you mentioning any of this to him.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “I mean, I’m not sure why he’d care, but—”
“But you don’t really know Braxton, do you?” There’s a quiver in her jaw that stands in stark contrast to the stubborn tilt of her chin, and the sight of it only fuels my unease.
I glance between the door and her. I’m really starting to regret having come here.
