“I’m going to the recreation room. . . Maybe I can still do something,” he said hopelessly.
No one stopped him. Not even Jo. Her mind was too far from that room to think of anything other than the phantom fingers that ghosted over her cheeks, as if wiping away rogue tears that had yet to fall.
It would not be her.
It was a horrifying truth, and one Jo knew deep in her bones. She could feel Snow’s mouth on hers, their hungry kisses, his promises to protect her. If it was left to him, right or wrong, deserved or not, Snow would not choose her to die.
Chapter 34
Snow’s Choice
AS JO SAT, staring at nothing, Takako’s measured steps blazed a trail for the rest of them. Samson and Eslar left together. At the edge of Jo’s hearing, she could make out softly spoken words between them, diminishing like a trembling note until nothing more could be heard.
A palm on her shoulder startled her back to reality. Wayne hovered, looking down with heartbreaking sadness. He opened his mouth, but only a sigh escaped. What more was there to say? What could be said?
They were all waiting for the verdict of their fate.
He left as well, head bowed, exposing the nape of his neck for the guillotine of Snow’s decision that hung invisible over them all. Jo looked at the chairs, ears buzzing. Her eyes drifted toward the Door and the instinct to run in the opposite direction, go as far as she could anywhere else in the world, had her standing. She fantasized over the idea of opening the Door for the last time, finding the pin code that would lead to their freedom.
Her hand pressed against the cool steel, dropping to the pin pad. It hovered, quivering like a hummingbird in suspension.
With an animalistic noise of anger she punched her hand right into the steel. The skin over her knuckles split instantly and her bones vibrated into her jaw. Jo hovered, panting, leaving crimson streaks as she slumped away.
It was useless. There was nowhere she could run. She existed nowhere else. She and everyone else in the Society were chained to their mission. Perhaps it would be better to take the out of death.
Jo shook her head violently and turned away from the door.
No.
She might dream of escape. She might be the sort to nest under covers until frustration and pain subsided. She might let anger get the better of logic at times. But she would not run in that way—never in that way.
Alone, Jo made her solemn march towards the Four-Way. Snow. She had to tell him before his thoughts got too far. She had to make sure that his decision, whatever it was, was not influenced in any way by them, whatever they were. If she was chosen or spared, it had to be because of more than their affections.
Voices slowed her steps halfway between the stairs and recreation rooms: Nico’s honeyed tones and Snow’s icy words. Jo slowed to a stop. Vaguely, she remembered Nico leaving the briefing room while muttering about the painting, though it seemed like a far-away dream now.
Jo didn’t know why she crept; she had nothing to hide from these men. She had no anger for Nico, and whatever frustrations she held toward Snow for his secrets would keep. There would be a time and place to fight for answers. But the eve of an impossible decision was neither.
Undetected, Jo shifted along the wall, leaning a few feet from the door, close enough to hear the quiet words within.
“It must be someone,” Nico said tiredly. She could envision the man she’d watched work the night before, eyes grown distant and sad by the weight of the world. “Let it be me.”
“Your magic—“
“Is far more limited than the rest of them.”
Jo would disagree with Nico here, but she kept her mouth shut for the sake of listening to the rest of the conversation. Expectedly, Snow spoke for her. “Your magic. . . is critical. Changing the hearts and minds of people is something not easily accomplished.”
“And is useless if it doesn’t work every time.” Jo’s heart ached at the sorrow in his words. The man’s guilt was apparent. “I’m tired, Snow. I’ve been at this a long time, surely you understand.”
Silence.
“I didn’t quite understand until I had her here. She sat there, in that stool, just as my Julia had.” Jo’s heart clenched, unprepared for Nico’s mention of her. It felt wrong somehow, listening to his words while knowing full well he was unaware of her audience. Still, she stayed, transfixed and curious. “My muse is gone, and her legacy is beginning to wane. Every time I return to her place of rest, I see it a little more weathered, her expression a little further worn away. With it, my inspiration, my will. . . and my magic itself.”
Jo leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. To love someone so much that your very essence, your magic, was tied to them. She glanced back toward the door, imagining Snow within. Would she, they, someday be so entwined? For all it sounded thrilling, it was also a terrifying notion, and one that seemed almost impossible to envision.
“Your magic is lessened?” Snow asked, his voice bringing her back to the present. It was Nico’s, however, that kept her there.
“I have no other explanation for my failure. It was as if everything I had painted cracked under the weight of the Prime Minister’s will.”
“Lack of time?” Snow suggested, seemingly reaching. The iciness of his voice had lifted some, as if the warmth of Nico’s words had melted it.
Another silence left Jo wondering what body cues Nico was offering. A nod? A shrug? She inched closer to the door. If she couldn’t see them, she didn’t want to miss a single word.
“You’re sure?” Snow asked, finally, and Jo’s pulse picked up.
“I am,” Nico said with conviction. “I owe it to them, for my failure.”
“The failure belongs to the team, not one individual.” Snow’s egalitarianism should’ve been heartwarming, but Jo just found her heart in knots. The failure was the team’s, but one person must bear the consequences alone. Surely some cruel god was sitting and cackling at their fate. How else were they meant to explain such undeserved tragedy?
Nico laughed softly. “Accept this, will you? As a professional favor, if nothing else. We’ve had a good run.”
“We have.” A genuine sorrow, the ache of it seemingly splintering his composure, finally leached into Snow’s words. Jo felt a similar ache blooming across her chest, spiraling like sticky tendrils down into her heart.
“There is someone waiting for me in heaven, you know.” Nico’s claim was honest and pure, a belief there that Jo had neither expected, nor could even begin to understand. In any other situation, Jo was certain it would have been comforting. “I have been away from her for far too long. . . and while she may not recognize me, I will have much to tell her. Surely, you must know how I feel.” There was an agonizingly long silence. “I knew you would.”
What had she missed? What non-verbal exchange had just happened? Jo’s heart could still somehow flutter, even among knots.
“Very well.” As if she could block out the condemnation of Snow’s words, Jo pressed her eyes closed, desperately biting back a sob. If she thought she felt guilty listening in on this conversation before, it was infinitesimal to how deeply she regretted it now. She did not want to hear what could be Nico’s final moments; it didn’t seem fair. “It shall be you.”
“I have one request,” Nico added hastily.
“Yes?”
“I have a time I want it to be done.”
Another delay, long enough for Snow to comprehend something Jo could not, judging from his tone. “Of course.”
Despite herself, tears broke through Jo’s emotional dam and streamed down her face. It wasn’t fair. None of it was. She wanted to take action, she wanted to do something. But what could be done at a moment like this? She knew too little of magic to hack a solution for the very fabric of reality that surrounded the Society. If anyone did, it was Snow. And something in Jo assured her that if there was a way for him to redesign their fate, he would. He’d said it himself: he didn’t have the powe
r to do so. The pain in his voice proved the truth of it.
Which meant he was a prisoner, just like the rest of them. A chess piece in a greater game. A powerful piece, certainly, but a piece nonetheless. Jo turned her head toward the black door adjacent to Snow’s.
There was one other person seemingly as old as the Society itself and with a magic as terrifying as Snow’s.
Even as her eyes blurred with fresh tears, Jo stared the door down as if willing it to give up its occupant’s secrets. Pan, their executioner. If there was one person who would see their circumstance as a game, it would be her.
Chapter 35
Until the End
JO’S EYES WERE still pinned on the ominous black door when the recreation room Nico had taken residence in finally opened wide. She turned towards the sound on reflex, the motion causing unfallen tears to give way, her already wet cheeks glistening with new streaks of pain and sadness.
It wasn’t Nico who greeted her startled attention, though she shouldn’t have expected him to be willing to leave the sanctity of his room so soon after being sentenced. Instead it was Snow, his own eyes red-rimmed and holding far more exhaustion than she’d ever seen in a person.
When he captured her gaze, it was beyond Jo’s capabilities to hold back her fresh wave of tears. She felt whipped about in a hurricane of her own emotions, torn apart by the need to scream and the need to beg. She wanted Snow to hold her, to comfort her, but she also didn’t want to be comforted. She didn’t deserve it, not when Nico was the one damned by the brutal reality of sacrifice. She wanted Snow to fix this, to tell her he was mistaken and that everything would be okay. She wanted him to promise her that Nico would live, that they all would live. But she also knew he wouldn’t, was painfully aware that he couldn’t. So she also wanted him to say nothing at all.
She wanted to go back to before they’d failed, when the promise of success had led Jo to Snow’s room, to his bed, reveling not in physical intimacy, but an intimacy nonetheless. She wanted to feel his closeness, his touch, and not have it tainted by the fear of what was to come. Jo knew that if Snow couldn’t save Nico’s life, there was no way he had enough magic to turn back time (at least not for them; for a wish, maybe, but not for them), but Jo couldn’t help silently praying for a miracle regardless.
It seemed greedy to wish for more time when she’d been given an endless supply of it. But Nico’s was being unexpectedly cut short, which made the Society feel less like the blessing of eternity and more like the eventuality of a slaughterhouse.
In the end, Snow chose silence, his eyes the only thing betraying his own swirling typhoon of barely-contained emotions. She could see him hurting, could practically feel it emanating off of him in waves of self-loathing. It was impossible to miss; Snow wanted to be the executioner no more than any of them wanted to bear witness to the execution.
But it wouldn’t be Snow in the end, would it? He’d been forced to choose the head that would fall in the basket, but it was Pan who’d be swinging the ax.
Amid the ever-present grief, Jo felt a spike of pure rage dig deep into the center of her chest, the tears filling her eyes almost hot with anger. It was an anger that must have shown on her face, because Snow’s own expression shifted at the sight. She caught a brief glimpse of pity, of immeasurable heartache, and then, once again, he schooled his features back into place, all traces of that previous openness gone.
The change in demeanor caught Jo off guard, her rage snuffed out. But before she could put any of her own emotions into words, Snow walked past her, leaving her alone with her silent tears in front of Nico’s doorway.
For a brief moment, Jo considered following him, but there was nothing she could think to say, no amount of comfort she felt able to give. Not to Snow at least. But when Jo glanced at the still slightly cracked door of Nico’s room, she realized where her comfort might still be of use.
It was probably selfish, forcing herself into Nico’s personal space when he might wish to spend his last hours alone, but Jo needed his presence as much as she hoped he might need hers. Even if it meant overstepping, she needed to be there for him—needed as much time left with him as he was willing to give.
When Jo let herself in, it was to find Nico standing by the window, staring out at the impossible view of a Florence sunset. The buttery glow painted Nico’s silhouette in hues of orange and pink, the last rays of the sun catching at his cheeks in a telling shimmer. That was all it took, the sight of Nico’s own tears causing a new wave of grief to settle into Jo’s bones. She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat, but a soft sob still escaped.
Nico turned to look at her then, a flash of surprise giving way to a soft smile. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes caused another tear to fall, and Jo was wrapping the man up in an embrace before she even registered the decision to do so. Nico settled into her arms easily, pulling her close with his own wordless thanks. It felt like the comfort she’d been needing; even though Nico was the one knocking on death’s door, he was still the one doing the comforting. Jo would have laughed if the very thought hadn’t filled her chest with another blossom of devastation.
There was no way of knowing how long they simply held each other, sometimes crying and sometimes just finding comfort in each other’s silent presence. Eventually, Nico pulled away, raising both hands to gently cup Jo’s face as his thumbs wiped away the remnants of tears. He leaned in, chastely kissing one cheek, then the other, before letting his hands fall.
“You know.” It wasn’t a question, and Jo wondered how long he’d been aware of her presence lurking outside the door.
“I do.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, stifling a loud sniffle.
“It has been an honor working alongside you, Josephina Espinosa,” he said, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze. “And it has been nothing short of a blessing to get to know you.” Nico’s smile held every ounce of the sunshine she’d come to expect of the man, even if his eyes were mostly clouded.
“I’ll stay with you,” she found herself saying, knowing instantly that the words were right. “Until the end, to the very last minute.” For a breath, Nico simply held her gaze, but then the clouds in his eyes parted some, his face filling with matching warmth. When he hugged her once more, it was as true and heartfelt a “thank you” as she’d ever received.
She watched him paint for hours, curled up in a blanket on the stool by the fireplace. It was another portrait of his Julia, Jo realized, around the time her eyelids began to get heavy. She watched him carefully shade in the curves of her face, add highlights to the flowing waves of her hair.
It was sometime between the streaks of yellow being added to the background and Nico signing his name that a deep and dreamless sleep overtook Jo.
Chapter 36
One-Seventeen A.M.
JO BLINKED, DROWSY. She’d fallen asleep. When was the last time that had happened?
Everything was hazy as her mind began to work once more. This didn’t feel like waking, it felt like suddenly existing again.
The beginning of the wish—that was the last time she’d actually slept since becoming a full member of the Society. She’d been woken the night Snow had come to her after he’d rewound time.
Jo searched her memories further, willing her mind to work, slotting things back into place. The details of the past day were suspended just out of her reach like the tiny motes of dust drifting past Nico’s easel. Jo blinked, her eyes dry and aching; she’d shed more tears in the last few days than she ever remembered shedding in her life. The room was filled with a serene stillness—a stillness that came from being the only breathing presence within.
With the stone of the wall now more warmed from her back than the smoldering remnants of the fire, Jo rubbed at her eyes and straightened. She looked around the room. Everything was as she remembered—the cluttered work table, the easel perched with the (now mostly finished) painting of Julia, the other various shelves and half-finished canvases
. Everything was in its place.
Everything but the painter himself.
Jo stood with a stretch and a yawn. Everything seemed like a distant dream.
No. It all came rushing back, right as she was about to leave. Something struck her as odd: this wasn’t a distant dream she could shrug off alongside the shroud of sleep, but a vivid waking nightmare that she couldn’t escape even if she tried.
At the foot of the easel, surrounded by splotches of dried paint, Nico’s favored brush rested. She tilted her head, looking at the object in confusion; something about it rankled her so, but she couldn’t seem to pinpoint what it might be. The hair on her neck stood on edge. She stared at that mauve splotch on the floor where the paintbrush had landed; there was a splatter, and a streak where the brush had rolled before coming to its final resting place.
Final resting place.
Jo spun in place. “Nico?” she called out to the empty room, as if he would step out of thin air and surprise her. “Nico?” Her voice was a little more strained when he didn’t.
She took several long steps into the hallway; it was completely empty in the early dawn. “Nico?” she called again. There was still silence, still a creeping sense of foreboding waiting to swallow her up. She wouldn’t let it; she’d find him before it could.
He’s gone to his room, she told herself, lied to herself. That was it. He’d needed. . . a new tube of paint, or canvas, or something. He’d gotten tired. He’d worked hard enough to want somewhere to rest his weary hands, and in all his infinite manners he hadn’t wanted to disturb her.
Story after story ran through her mind, every possible reason concocted for where the painter might be.
Jo paused at the Four-Way, looking down the hallway to the common area and listening. There was no sound, yet her feet carried her in that direction anyway. In a surreal daze, Jo stopped at the entryway. It appeared empty, until she saw a foot hanging over the edge of the couch.