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“Arthur’s Artful Dodgers,” he says, as my jaw falls slack with disbelief. “And you’re Natasha.”
“But that’s impossible—” I start, before I realize it’s not. I shake my head, begin again. “How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Too long.” He sighs, reaches for my hand.
“There’s a guard out there,” I warn, but Killian shakes his head.
“I took care of him. He’s sleeping it off. Still, we need to get out of here before he wakes up.”
I start to head out, but then I remember there’s one more thing left to do.
“Natasha—whatever you’re doing, we don’t have time for this!” Killian watches anxiously as I crouch down to where the man lies slumped and bloodied on the floor.
I reach for his hand and snatch the ring right off his finger, same one he clocked me with earlier. And though he’s bound and gagged, the uninjured eye that stares back is filled with vivid dreams of revenge.
Once the ring is secured in my pocket, I look back toward the markings I left on the wall, where I publicly declared myself a member of Arthur’s Artful Dodgers.
“Should I try to scratch it out?” I ask, but Killian is quick to shake his head.
“Leave it,” he says. “You’re part of the annals of history now. Don’t deprive future historians the fun of deciphering the meaning behind AAD.”
He laughs, but I wonder if this slight change in events caused it to already appear in a history book somewhere.
If I ever make it back to the palace in real time, will I find my name etched on these walls?
Something to contemplate at another time, in another place.
I’m about to step out of the cell when Killian stops me. “Your shoe,” he says, retrieving the one I must’ve lost during the struggle and that, according to the bite marks along the heel, the rat was quick to claim as her own. “Also”—he motions toward my face—“you missed a spot. May I?”
My first reaction is to flinch, and the moment he takes note, he’s quick to hand over my weapon.
“I want you to feel safe,” he says. “But I also want to clean the blood off your face. I mean no offense, but you’re a bit of a mess, and it’s a whole other world up there. We need to at least try to blend in.”
With the blade clutched in my hand, I watch as Killian gently sweeps the handkerchief across the tip of my chin and a spot on my jaw, before slipping it back into his pocket.
“Also—” He points toward my nest of hair that’s left in a half-up, half-down tangle of frizz. Removing the rest of the pins, he hands them to me, then coaxes his hands expertly through my hair until it falls in damp waves that tumble over my shoulders.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much better.” He grins. “Though I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about your dress so, here.” He slips free of his frock coat and arranges it over my shoulders.
“Were you a stylist in your past life?” I ask, sinking into the warmth, a welcome respite from the frigid, damp cold that’s left me in a permanent state of shaking and numbness.
“I’ve been many things.” He laughs. “But now, I’m soon to be a wanted man, so—”
Without another word, he ushers me out of the cell, and after locking the man inside, Killian and I run for our lives.
