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What else had Corvin said? I think the rumours of unusual fluctuations are true.
Joan closed her eyes. She was too tired to make sense of this. She didn’t know enough to make sense of it. She needed Gran for that.
The bathroom door opened, and Nick stepped out in a puff of steam, hair damp and curling. He’d found dark grey trousers and a white shirt. Over it, he tugged on the black jacket Joan had given him. He came to join her. ‘Is this okay?’ he said. He tugged at the shirt self-consciously. ‘Feels tight.’
It was paint-tight. Joan could see every muscle. She forced her gaze up, feeling her cheeks heating as if she’d accidentally said it aloud. ‘Looks good,’ she managed. He looked really good. With his hair falling slightly over his forehead, he seemed more like a movie star than ever.
‘Trying to figure it all out?’ Nick said. Joan blinked at him, and he nodded at the pile of cash and the chop. He reached over to examine the monster banknotes. They were clear plastic with golden images: a winged lion, a crown, a striking serpent. With a thoughtful tilt of his head, he stacked them one by one until the overlaid parts of the notes formed a coat of arms: the serpent at the left, lion at the right, and the crown between them.
‘There’s royalty in this world?’ Nick asked.
‘There’s a king.’ Joan had never seen this much of the coat of arms; she’d never had enough monster money. ‘People talk about him like he’s all-powerful.’ She didn’t know much more; didn’t even know what he ruled over. Our borders don’t match what you’d think of as countries, Aaron had once said. They were drawn in a different time.
‘Like an ancient god-king …’ Nick said musingly.
It had only been Aaron, really, who’d talked about him that way. But then, the Hunts weren’t the pious type; Joan couldn’t imagine Gran revering anything. ‘They say he’s never seen. I’m not even sure he’s real.’
She thought back, though, to the immense display of power at Whitehall. The palace had been wrenched from its time; a Palaeolithic moat had protected the Royal Archive. I always heard that the King had power, Ruth had said, but seeing it …
A chill crawled down Joan’s back. Someone had created those marvels. Someone had that power.
Nick touched the winged lion on the crest, and then his gaze went to Joan’s sleeved arm.
Joan didn’t really want to look at the thing again, but she rolled up her shirtsleeve. Nick’s eyes blazed with interest as the winged lion was revealed. It was more vibrant than a tattoo—pure gold with crisp edges. Joan ran a finger over it. It felt like her normal skin—as if it had always been part of her. The thought filled her with revulsion. It wasn’t part of her. It had been put on her.
‘It’s a symbol of authority?’ Nick said slowly. ‘Corvin called it a cuff. Like a handcuff? Were they trying to arrest you?’ His forehead creased. ‘Because it seemed more like they were trying to kidnap you.’
‘I …’ Joan frowned at that herself. ‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t know what they’d wanted. She’d assumed they’d have taken her to Aaron for identification and then executed her.
She registered curiosity mixed with something more dangerous in Nick’s expression. Protectiveness. Concern. It hit her that her tongue had been getting far too loose. She’d been trying to keep information restricted to things he’d already figured out; things that would keep him alive. Kings and authority systems didn’t count. She stood quickly. ‘I should wash up.’
If anything, the curiosity and concern in Nick’s expression intensified. But he just said, ‘There are fresh towels and clothes in the bedroom cupboards.’
Joan swore at herself as she stripped off her clothes. She kept telling him things she shouldn’t. It wasn’t just tiredness. Some bone-deep part of her felt she could trust him. And the more exhausted and raw she was, the more she felt it.
Joan pressed her forehead against the cold glass. She knew the reason. These were remnants of what the original Joan had felt for the original Nick in the zhenshí de lìshi: the true timeline. That Joan had loved and trusted her Nick completely. So much that wisps of her feelings still remained. And some part of Joan was stupidly jealous of her—that long-lost Joan. What would it have been like to have such uncomplicated feelings for Nick? She wished—
She pushed away the thought and took a deep breath. She had to finish washing up.
Out of the shower, she couldn’t find a hair dryer. She tied her wet hair into a ponytail and put on the clothes she’d found in the wardrobe: a long-sleeved black T-shirt, a green plaid dress, and a pair of black ankle boots. She had to tug the dress down, inch by inch. Nick was right. The cuts in this time were tight. When it was finally on, though, the dress was surprisingly comfortable.
Nick’s eyes widened when she returned to the living room. ‘I know,’ Joan said. The carpet was really thick. ‘I didn’t even hear my own footsteps. Almost scared myself.’
‘No, that’s not—’ Nick seemed flustered for a moment. ‘Uh …’ He stood up and gestured at the door. ‘Should we get some food?’
ten
As they climbed the stairs, vendors’ calls merged in rhythmic song: ‘Strawberries! Wild wood strawberries!’ ‘Sweet cakes for your sweet!’
Joan’s breath caught when they reached the top. The Wyvern Inn market was nothing like the rough-and-ready market at the Serpentine Inn. It was themed like a night garden. Murals of dark forests decorated the walls, and real flowering plants and artificial trees made warmly lit paths. The faint scent of jasmine wafted through the room. With the Portelli windows, this room could always be night.
The river-facing wall showed an ancient Thames at dusk. Joan could just make out the enormous width of it under the darkening sky. Without the lights of modern London, the south bank was barely visible.
Nick’s eyes lifted to the ceiling, wide with wonder. Portelli glass showed a black night with bright, bright stars—thousands and thousands of glinting diamonds, and the hazy rift of the Milky Way. ‘Can that really be a London sky?’ he murmured.
They walked, looking for food, and found a stall selling cork-stopped cordials, the samples smelling of medicinal herbs. Then a cart with tiny iced cakes and wrapped sweets. Each cart and stall was half-hidden in the garden, so that coming upon them felt like a discovery.
Nick bought a curry with sweet potato and aubergine and bright red chilies, and Joan bought a baked potato. The vendor ladled what looked like a thick dal over the top and gave it to her in a cardboard box with a strange lightweight fork—it wasn’t plastic, but it didn’t feel like wood either. The dal was barely spiced, but it was piping hot and very filling, and Joan felt better from the first bite; she hadn’t realised how hungry she’d been.
