Page 93 of Once a Villain
Aaron must have been able to feel her tension, because his hand smoothed over her back comfortingly. “It doesn’t make sense, though,” he murmured. “Even if this has happened before, it shouldn’t be possible now. Eleanor said that when she locked the timeline, every other timeline would be wiped away as if they’d never existed. And yet...” He nodded at the tear Joan had made, with its view of the ruins.
The tear was such a small thing—the size of Joan’s hand. “So what are we saying?” she said slowly. She couldn’t have called the feeling inside her hope—it wasn’t strong enough to be hope. “That maybe Eleanordidn’tlock the timeline as she thought? Maybe wecanstill repair it?”
And then the full implications hit her like a storm.I couldn’t lock the timeline while you were still alive, Eleanor had said to Nick.I need you dead.
She heard Aaron’s breath hitch. His beautiful features were frozen, pale as the sand outside. He clutched at her, almost reflexively, just like he’d reached for her in sleep. Then he released her.
“He can’t be alive,” Joan heard herself say. “He couldn’t have survived that fall.”
“Then how is this tear here?”
“I don’t know,” Joan said.
Twenty-Eight
Aaron drove them from the stadium along dark roads still strewn with rose petals. Joan could sense roiling emotion under his usual ice-cold surface.
“I’m here,” she said to him. “With you.” She couldn’t bring herself to sayeven if he’s alive. Nick wasn’t alive. “Whatever happens, I choose you.”
Aaron’s elegant fingers tapped at the wheel. He stopped at the lights, waiting for no one—the street was dead. “I hope heisalive,” he said to Joan. “Please don’t think I wish otherwise.” The grind in his voice, though, made Joan’s chest tighten, and when the lights turned green again, the car jumped as if he’d pushed too hard on the gas.
Outside, the dark streets of Eleanor’s London rolled by. It was an airless evening. The burnt-elm banners of the Argents were limp on their posts, and the leaves of the plane trees were still.
Joan shut her eyes. This speculation was too painful. Nickwasdead. She’d seen him die. She’d seen him fall with her own eyes. He wasdead.
Aaron was quiet beside her. Joan could feel his tension, even with her eyes closed.It’ll always be him for you.Whatever happened, Joan had the terrible, sinking feeling that Aaron wouldforever view himself as her second choice, and she didn’t know how to change that. She’d met Nick first. She’d loved him first, and Aaron knew it. But she loved Aaron too. And it was the same desperate, wrenching love.
“The thing is... ,” Aaron said softly. “Even if heisdead now, we might have the chance to bring him back. If the timeline isn’t locked, we might still be able to repair it. He’d be alive again in the new iteration.” Joan turned to stare at him. For some reason, that hadn’t occurred to her. “The timeline would bring the two of you back together as it always does,” Aaron said. “But as for you and me...” He hesitated. “We’ll likely forget each other.”
He was watching the road, his knuckles white on the wheel, and Joan realized that he’d been turning the prospect over in his mind ever since they’d seen the tear at the colosseum.
“I—I didn’t forget you last time.” She didn’t even know how to address the idea of Nick returning in the next timeline.
Aaron flicked her an oddly gentle look. He didn’t answer, but Joan heard his unsaid response.He’dforgottenher.
“I’ll create a bubble around us like when Eleanor attacked us. We’ll both remember.”
“You might not have the chance or choice,” he said softly.
“Iloveyou,” Joan said. “When you forgot me last time—” The word caught behind the sudden lump in her throat. It had been worse than she’d imagined. She couldn’t let that happen again.
Aaron seemed to hear the new distress in her voice. He glanced at her and shifted his grip on the gearstick to take her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Sometimes my mind jumpsahead too far. It’s probably not worth speculating about— We don’t even know if wecanstill fix the timeline.”
Joan swallowed. He’d stopped at another set of lights. Outside, a slight breeze had started, lifting the leaves and rippling through the territory banners. They were still surrounded by the withered elms of the Argents, but Joan saw that the next street to the north had flags with dragonara serpents. The Chimera Inn had been in Portelli territory, she remembered.
Aaron hadn’t been able to get through the crowds to the rendezvous earlier in the day, but the roads were empty now.
“We should find the others,” she said. “They’ll be wondering where we are.”
Aaron sighed. “If your cousin says one word about what I’m wearing...” But he signaled right, and turned.
It was still dark when they arrived at the Chimera Inn, an old-fashioned pub with bright blue paint that stood out from its dour neighbors like a tropical bird among crows. There was no name on the building, just a sign hanging from a wrought-iron bracket with elaborate curls. It displayed a beautifully hand-painted creature with a dragon’s hind and a lion’s head, breathing a puff of fire.
Joan pushed open the door, and a bell jangled from above, announcing their entrance. The room was small, with oak paneling. A few tables and chairs were clustered around a blazing hearth and a hanging pot that smelled pleasantly of a smoky stew. Stacked bowls and a pile of spoons suggested that people could help themselves to food.
Just one of the tables was occupied. The man there barely glanced up as Joan and Aaron walked in. Tom had suggested the Chimera Inn because its customers minded their own business—much like those at the Serpentine.
The lamps were unlit along the walls; the room, though, was afternoon-bright. Joan realized why when she glanced over her shoulder. Instead of the evening street they’d left, the windows showed a daytime view of Shakespearean buildings on a cobbled street. The window was Portelli glass. A one-way view of another time.
