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He huffed a dry laugh. “It is not Minerva that will not let you leave.”
I stopped on the opposite side of the counter and peered into his eyes. “You know what’s happening to me, don’t you? You know everything?” Would he finally answer truthfully?
He blinked away, toward the wall of ticking clocks and swinging pendulums. “There are forces at work I cannot stop. I cannot tell you more. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous for whom? You do not need to protect me.”
“The minds of men do not do well with impossible things.”
“Everything I told you last night, it happened, didn’t it?”
“I believe you, yes, although I don’t recall it.”
“Why is that? Why do I remember, but you do not?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Minerva is a town of almost a thousand people. Out of all those people, only you remember this store burned to ash.”
“Yet here it stands. How is that possible, Devere?”
He looked toward his wall of clocks, then back at my face. At me. “A clockface never changes, but each second of reality is different to the last. No minute, no hour, no day is the same. But the clock always is.”
“I don’t understand. Just tell me—”
“If I tell you, then this moment may never happen. I do not want to forget this, or you, Valentine. I vowed to never see you again. Yet here you are, different but the same, and I… If I say too much, he’ll take you away, or take me. If you cannot leave, the only course of action is to play the game and let him win.”
Hush appeared on the counter. She must have been with Devere. She scurried between our hands, wings buzzing, then bumped my finger and climbed on.
I lifted her up. “Who, Devere? Who is doing this?”
He swallowed and looked away. “He killed Jacapo. He brought you back. He can make your nightmares a reality if he wishes it. Don’t tempt him, don’t seek him out, don’t irritate him, don’t intrigue him, and do not challenge him. You cannot win his game.”
He spoke as though this man were a mythical being. Whoever had killed Jacapo, whoever held sway over Devere, was just a man like any other. And he needed to be held accountable for his crimes.
Devere lifted soft eyes, and while he didn’t beg with his words, his eyes did it for him. I’d seen that look in his eyes before, behind the bike shed when the older boys had beaten him. Real fear, the kind we had no control over.
“Do not stray from his path or he’ll put you on another of his making. You’ll forget, and so will I. We may have forgotten so much already. Please, Valentine, do not ask again.”
“All right,” I reassured him, if only to alleviate some of his fear. “Then… what am I to do?”
“Investigate Jacapo’s murder and find me guilty, no? Finish the game and perhaps you’ll win.”
“I can’t do that.” I almost laughed. This conversation was familiar. It seemed Devere was destined to push me away. “I won’t do that. I’m not condemning you when you just told me you didn’t do it, and you know who did.”
He waved my words away. “What does it matter?”
“The truth always matters.”
“The truth?” He laughed, as though I were the one being ludicrous. “There is no truth, Valentine, only that of his making.”
“Devere, look at me.”
He did, and as our gazes met, his laughter died.
“Are you trapped here? Does he have a hold over you, this figure you fear?”
He shook his head and smiled again, but it was the smile of sorrow or loss. The smile of knowing you’d been beaten. “It is more than you can imagine. Hemademe.”
ChapterTwenty-Three
