The Forgotten Locket

“Are you all right?”

  He nodded. “It’s just . . . I haven’t been back since . . .” He shuddered and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to come back so soon.”

  “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” I said, though we both knew I was glossing over the truth. “Once we get used to it, I mean.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place.” He exhaled slowly, his body still tense, but less so. He rubbed his chest in the spot over his heart. “At least the pressure is gone. That’s something.”

  Orlando looked down at the river and frowned. He studied the wild rush of time that swept past us, almost too fast for the eye to follow. Crouching down, he examined one of the thin silver offshoots that had started to peel away from the main body of the river. He twisted around to look at me over his shoulder. “Let me guess. It’s not supposed to be doing this, right?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Do you know what’s causing it?”

  “I’m lucky I remember enough to notice the difference.”

  Orlando stood up, dusting his hands together. “I wonder how far it extends. Maybe this is an isolated instance.” He looked into the distance, squinting as though that might help him see farther in the flat light of the bank.

  “Somehow I don’t think we’ll be that lucky.”

  We walked together along the edge of the bank, careful to make sure our steps didn’t touch either the river or the newly created streams branching off it.

  It didn’t take long to confirm my worst fears. Once I knew what to look for, I saw the fragments of time everywhere. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of silver threads spooled off the river. Some of them pulsed with a brighter light than others, seeming to flow faster and stronger. I watched as a thin thread was absorbed into the larger stream next to it and I shivered.

  Orlando stopped and I drew up next to him. Up until then, we’d manage to keep the river on our right-hand side, following the various twists and turns like a path through a labyrinth, but now the way was blocked.

  The river forked into two distinct and separate directions. The main river still ran straight forward, but a new thread had broken off and curved to the left, cutting through the bank directly in front of us. The second stream was more narrow and the flow more sluggish than the main river.

  “Is this as bad as I think it is?” Orlando said quietly.

  I nodded, too terrified to speak.

  “So if the river has become so unstable that it is branching apart, which clearly it is”—he gestured to the evidence in front of us—“then what happens when it unravels completely?”

  I closed my eyes, briefly blocking out the sight of the fraying river. The implications of Orlando’s deduction were too massive, too terrible. I didn’t want any of the answers I thought of to be true.

  “What can we do to stop it?” Orlando asked. “We have to stop it, right?”

  “I don’t know if we can,” I said.

  Orlando pointed across the river. “What’s that?”

  I rose up on my toes, looking past Orlando’s outstretched arm to see what had drawn his attention, and my breath caught in my throat.

  There was someone else on the bank besides us. A tall figure strode forward out of the barren landscape, his steps sure-footed and swift. Dark black hair swept back from his forehead. The harsh, flat light cut sharp angles across his face and turned the bandage over his eyes into a swath of shadow, but as he drew closer, I realized it was a face I recognized.

  This was the man I had met on the bank once before. This was the man I had seen in my dreams. This was the man who had given me back my name.

  The breath I had been holding slipped out of my body like silk.

  I took a step back, my hand clutching at Orlando’s elbow for support. My whole body burned with an unexpected heat, and the feather-soft brush of warmth along my nerves gave way to the flash burn of flame inside my bones. A light flared behind my eyes, illuminating the darkness that crouched like an animal in my mind. I couldn’t take my eyes off the man who stood before me. I didn’t want to.

  He was part sunshine, part shadow. He was bright as a diamond.

  I heard a strangled groan escape from Orlando, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him head toward the figure, his movements uncoordinated and hurried.

  “No, don’t—” I started, but that was as far as I got.

  Orlando’s attention was completely focused on the newcomer and he heedlessly stepped forward—directly into the thin trickle of the new branch of the river. He realized his mistake immediately. He had one moment to look up at me in surprise and anguish, and then he disappeared.

  I gasped. I wasn’t sure where Orlando had gone. I hoped he would simply return to the apothecary shop, but I had no way of knowing.

  For a moment, I considered following Orlando, but there was something about this new boy that made me stay, made me want to wait for him, made me want to hear him speak and say my name again.

  The stranger continued to walk directly toward me as though he could see me even with the bandage across his eyes.

  He walked right up to the edge of the narrow branch of the river and stopped in front of me, his toes so close to the flickering waves that I could see the shifting images reflected in his boots.

  “I promised I would be waiting for you,” he said, his voice soft and low, ragged with regret.

  I shivered. I couldn’t speak. At the sound of his voice, the darkness in my memories turned to light. My body remembered what my mind could not: the feel of his hair on my fingers, the smell of his skin, the taste of his lips. The feeling of flying. I knew him.

  But unlike when I had fallen under Lorenzo’s spell at the cathedral, this time my certainty wasn’t based on a false memory or a wish of what someone else wanted me to feel.

  This time, I knew.

  “I promised to protect you.” He took a breath, then slowly reached out his hand across the split river. Gold chains gleamed around the corded muscles of his wrists.

  I drew a breath too, my heart already aching with anticipation. I reached for his hand with mine. Our fingers touched, and at that small point of contact, I felt the shiver move from me to him.

  “I failed you,” he said with a sorrow as vast as the ocean. “I wasn’t there when you needed me most. And because of that, Zo was able to hurt you.” His fingers trembled as they slid into place against my flat palm. “I swore to you that I would make it up to you. I would make it right.”

  “How?” The single word encompassed all the questions I wanted to ask. It was all I could manage.

  In answer, he took a step into the broken river.

  I gasped, expecting him to disappear like Orlando had, but he didn’t.

  He took another step, and then he was across the river, closing the space between us. He stood next to me on the bank, close enough that when he breathed, the edges of his shirt brushed against mine.

  I heard a rustle of chimes as delicate as a wish rise up and encircle us both.

  He caught my hands in his and took a deep breath. “I know you don’t remember me”—his voice trembled—“but I think I can reverse what has happened to you. I think I can help you regain your memories. Will you let me try? Will you trust me?”

  I nodded instinctively, remembering the wish I’d made to Orlando and knowing in my heart that right here, right now, I had found the right answer to my impossible problem.

  He pulled me into his arms, and I bit my lip. I hadn’t realized how much I had felt like my life was in free fall until I was suddenly caught, cradled. Held.

  Here was a safe harbor in the storm of my uncertainty. Here was a strength and a comfort I hadn’t imagined existed. Here, I felt like I was finally home.

  He pressed me close to him, molding his body around mine. His voice whispered in my ear. “Then listen to me. To my voice. To the words. To the spaces between the words. Can you feel them? Can you hear them? Are you listening
?”

  The rhythm of his words matched the rise and fall of his chest, echoed the steady beating of his heart.

  I nodded again, not daring to speak. I didn’t want to interrupt the smooth flow of sound against my ear. I didn’t want to start falling again.

  The words he spoke washed over me in a waterfall. The relentless rhythm of his voice surrounded me and swept through me. The words melted into each other endlessly, effortlessly.

  The music of his voice seemed to seep into my body. The cadence threatened to rock me to sleep even though I’d never felt more awake. I was acutely aware of everything that was happening to me, around me, inside me. Slowly, the beat of my heart, the flow of my blood, and the breath in my lungs drew into alignment, each element working perfectly with the next.

  I felt cool and smooth. Weightless. Balanced.

  I felt, if not exactly whole, at least closer to being healed.

  Turning my face upward, I let the tears that had pooled in my eyes slide down my cheeks without bothering to wipe them away.

  With a sound like an avalanche, the block in my mind cracked, crumbled, and was washed away. I took a deep breath, feeling free, body and soul.

  And at the touch of his lips to mine, I remembered.

  I felt like the river had split again, but this time, a branch had entered me, washing me clean. Wave after wave of memory welled up, an endless, bubbling spring of faces, names, events, emotions, and moments that I knew I would never forget. All those small, individual memories that made up me.

  I remembered the birthday party when I had turned six. My family had set up a mini–bowling alley in the basement, and we had invited Jason and his family over to celebrate together. Jason had bowled a strike on his first frame and then refused to play anymore; he didn’t want to ruin a perfect score.

  I remembered the first time I’d tasted crème brulée: the sound of my spoon breaking through the crust of caramelized sugar, the taste of the smooth vanilla custard with a hint of passion fruit layered in.

  I remembered each individual day when I first met Natalie. Valerie. Leo.

  More: Reading Heart of Darkness. Dancing alone in my room, dressed in my pajamas and striped socks. Waiting up with Hannah to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve. Hanging stockings on Christmas Eve. Crying when my pet turtle, Lightning, died.

  I remembered lying in the grass on a sweet summer night and counting the stars.

  I remembered a black door, a brass hinge, and the sound of silver chimes ringing through me. The chains that linked me with Tony, V, and Zo. The light in Valerie’s eyes as she vacillated between sanity and madness. The photograph that protected Natalie.

  I remembered everything.

  I opened my eyes, feeling like a veil had been torn away. I felt the weight of my life return to me and settle on my shoulders, on my heart. But it didn’t feel like a burden to be carried. It felt like a mantle of power. This was my life in all its glory, the good and the bad. This was who I was. I had made the choices that had shaped me. And now that the puzzle pieces of my life, my memories, had been restored, I could go forward, making new choices that would shape my future.

  Among the wild cascade of light and sound in my mind, though, there was one memory that gleamed the brightest, that felt the sharpest and clearest and cleanest.

  And he was standing before me, his arms still around me, his mouth still close to mine.

  His name was Dante.

  He was the part of me that had been missing.

  Now he was back, and we were together. Finally. Forever and always. The way we were meant to be.

  I was whole. I was home.

  And I was never going to let him go.

  Chapter 9

  Abby?”

  I smiled at the sound of my nickname. It felt so good to be wearing my own true name again. And to be able to share this moment with Dante was the sweetest gift I could have asked for.

  I nestled into his embrace, unwilling to break away for even a moment.

  “Abby?” he said again, and this time I heard the strain in his voice.

  “What is it? Are you all right?”

  His body trembled next to me. “I’ll be fine. It’s just . . . that took more out of me than I’d planned.” Dante untangled himself slightly from me. He still held onto my arms, but I could tell that he wanted—needed—to sit down.

  “You planned this?” I sat down on the flat ground, pulling him into place next to me. I crossed my legs under me, but I didn’t let go of his hand. The small contact was not enough after being apart for so long—in body, soul, and mind—but it would have to do.

  “Well, not all of it. There was always the chance you might have said no.”

  “Not likely.”

  Dante smiled, then winced. He touched the bandage at his temple with fingers that trembled.

  “Your eyes,” I said gently. “Are they bothering you?” With the block in my mind destroyed, I knew exactly how Dante had been injured. As much as I didn’t want to remember that moment when Zo had drawn a blade across Dante’s eyes, I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it.

  “No more than usual.” His voice was as shallow as his breathing.

  I reached for the cloth, barely touching the edge. “Will you show me?”

  A muscle jumped in Dante’s jaw. “You don’t want to see—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted gently, “I do. Please.”

  He hesitated, then gave one swift nod.

  I shifted to my knees before him, my heart fluttering.

  He sat as still as a statue as I quietly slipped my hands over his shoulders to the back of his neck. I touched the knot holding the bandage in place and, with shaking fingers, I slowly and carefully worked it free, trying not to pull the fabric tight against his eyes.

  As soon as the knot was loose, Dante reached up and held the edges in place. “Abby—” he started. “No. Here—I’ll do it.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’m ready.” I sat back on my heels, giving him the time he needed to unveil his eyes.

  He took a deep breath, held it, then let it go. After a long moment, he lowered the bandage, crumpling the fabric in his hands, and turned his face to me.

  I had thought I was ready for anything, but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw or for the sharp stab of anguish I felt.

  My throat closed up at the sight of his eyes; I couldn’t look away. Dante’s eyes had once been the gray of storm clouds and iced steel, but now a film covered them that was as thick and sluggish as the one that skimmed the surface of the river. A bold scar carved a path on his face, drawing a line from cheek to cheek, right across his eyes.

  It was impossible that he could see anything.

  I realized too late that he was waiting for me to say something. “Dante—” I started, hoping I could mask the despair in my voice.

  He heard it anyway. “I’m sorry,” he said and raised the bandage, poised to cover his eyes and hide them away again.

  Touching his wrist, I stopped him. I could feel his heartbeat racing as he waited, tense and on edge, for me to do something, say something.

  I reached out and placed my palm against his cheek—a perfect fit—and turned his face toward me. My fingers brushed the very edge of the scar that marked the length of his wound.

  He flinched, but barely.

  I took a deep breath. My words were steady and sure, though my heart shook with uncertainty. “V once told me that the only person who could hurt a Master of Time was another Master of Time. Tell me he was wrong. Tell me Zo’s attack wasn’t permanent. Tell me he . . . missed.”

  He knew what I wanted to hear, but he was Dante, so he gave me the truth instead. He always gave me the truth. “V was correct. A wound inflicted by a Master of Time is different from other wounds. The damage done is permanent. Zo’s attack was precise, and since he gave me these wounds, they are . . . irreversible.”

  The hand I had pressed against his face flashed cold. A trembling started in my finger
tips, rippling down through my wrist, my arm, and into my chest. “No.”

  But denying it wouldn’t change the truth. Dante’s eyes—his beautiful, clear eyes that could see into the soul of me—were gone. Blinded by Zo’s blade. The scar would stay, and the gray film that covered his eyes would remain as a veil over his vision for as long as he lived. And as a Master of Time, he would live for a very long time.

  “No,” I said again, louder, covering my mouth with my hands.

  Tears ran down from my own eyes. I almost didn’t feel it when Dante reached out and brushed them away. “Ah, no, Abby. It’s not worth crying about.”