Page 34 of Ruling Destiny

So I use the moment to go in search of a quiet, secluded space so I can check my pocket and see what Roxanne might’ve put there.

I edge my way through the room, hoping to avoid getting caught up in the crowd, or worse, pulled onto the dance floor. Then, spotting an opening that leads to a long hall with a partially open door, I hurry toward it, duck inside, and shut the door behind me.

At first glance, it seems I’ve found my way into a library. Or at least what passed for a library in Regency times. The space is large, with high vaulted ceilings and dark emerald walls studded with portraits of finely dressed, sober-faced people, staring out from fancy gold frames. And of course, there’s an impressive bookcase overflowing with leather-bound editions.

As I make for the window that looks out at the gardens below, I realize how quickly I’ve grown used to opulent spaces like this. How my time spent at Gray Wolf has nearly erased the memory of what it was like to live in a house where half the electrical outlets didn’t work and it took an entire bucket of water to get one of the toilets to flush. And yet, if I have any hope of getting back to Gray Wolf, I need to stop wasting time and get to the task set before me.

I slip a hand into my pocket, surprised to find that, unlike last time, it’s not a copy of Christopher Columbus’s map. Nor is it a tarot card. It’s a small square note with a tiny golden star sketched at the center.

That’s it. A single gold star, and absolutely no clue as to where I might find it.

Though I think it’s safe to assume it has to do with the Antikythera Mechanism, since the star on this paper is depicted with eight rays. And, from what I recall, the Star card in both the modern and ancient tarot decks Arthur uses is portrayed the same way.

Also, the Star is yet another missing piece Arthur needs me to find so that he can restore his ancient relic and remake the world as he claims.

Problem is, I’ve been so busy prepping for Renaissance Italy, I know virtually nothing about this Regency timeline.

I blink three times, curious to know how many minutes are left on the clock, only to see the number forty-six projected before me. Then I shoot a frantic look all around, wondering what the hell Arthur expects me to do. There’s no way I can solve this thing—no way I can even hope to return with the Star.

Is he setting me up to fail? Because the task is impossible.

And yet, I can’t keep thinking like that. So, I close my eyes and recenter my focus.

Okay, let’s see… What else do I know about the Star? In the Visconti-Sforza deck…

I struggle to summon an image from the cobweb-filled attic otherwise known as my brain, trying to locate a clip from that long-ago time when my dad taught me all about the twenty-two cards that comprise the Major Arcana.

In my mind’s eye, I flip through the deck until…

That’s it. The Star is number seventeen on the journey. Which means it shares a numerological link to the eighth card, which is Strength, since one plus seven equals eight. And in numerology, you always reduce a double digit down to a single digit.

Okay, good. I’m finally onto something.All that’s left now is to remember some of the other details. In particular, what exactly do the cards look like, and…

In the ancient deck, there’s a woman holding the star. A woman who… A woman with blond hair, wearing a blue dress, and…

And a red cape! Just like the person I watched disappear, then reappear, in the labyrinth that once existed below my window at Gray Wolf.

But it can’t be, can it? I mean, is there really a connection between the card and the strange vision I saw?

And, if so, is Arthur really sending me to look for the Star?

Or maybe this has nothing to do with Arthur. Maybe it’s about something else…something to do with magick, the strange leather-bound book, and…

I’m so lost in thought, I fail to notice the sound of the door opening and closing, of the soft thud of footsteps finding their way across the room, all the way to where I now stand.

20

“I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting,” a male voice calls. “I was—”

He reaches for me at the same time I turn, and the second he notes the startled look on my face, he steps back.

“My apologies,” he says. “I’m afraid I mistook you for another.”

His eyes meet mine, and though the room is dim, lit only by the muted glow of an early spring moon and the flickering candles scattered about, I can still make out a mane of dark curls, a finely chiseled face, a set of broad shoulders, and a lean waist. This man is pretty much the definition of what Elodie would refer to as dreamy, even though he is kind of old, probably somewhere in his mid-thirties.

“No need to apologize,” I say, discreetly tucking the square of paper back into my pocket. “I was merely…” The words stall on my tongue, and I mentally kick myself for not preparing an excuse for a situation like this.

“You were perhaps taking a break from dancing?” he offers, his deep-blue gaze lighting on mine.

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