a time, Corinthe sometimes forgot to keep up appearances.
Sylvia told Corinthe that she’d been a principal for ten years, and that she could see potential. That she had a good eye for these things, and if Corinthe applied herself, she could become an outstanding student.
Corinthe hadn’t bothered to argue. It wouldn’t matter soon.
During Sylvia’s “Welcome to Mission High, Keep Your Nose Clean” speech, Corinthe had simply gazed at her, almost without breathing. She couldn’t let herself get attached—not to Sylvia. Not to anyone.
It would only lead to disappointment.
Corinthe shifted slightly in the doorway. “My foster mom was supposed to pick me up, but she never showed. Do you think …?” Her voice trailed off and she raised her eyes expectantly. She hated lying. Back when she lived in Pyralis, she hadn’t even known how to lie. But this, too, was the job of an Executor.
Sylvia shuffled her stack of folders from her left arm to her right so she could check her watch. Corinthe could see indecision in the principal’s expressions. She probably had plans tonight, but Corinthe knew that Sylvia would never leave a student in the lurch.
She cared about her students too much. Corinthe felt a pulse of—what was it? Guilt?—feelings she had never known before coming here.
“Where do you live?”
Corinthe tilted her head slightly. “It won’t be a long drive.” She spoke in measured tones. She had to be careful not to give anything away.
“Come on, then,” Sylvia said with a sigh.
They left through the main doors. Sylvia walked quickly down the sidewalk, and Corinthe followed a few steps behind, trying not to notice the way the principal’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Not her business.
Sylvia turned left at the end of the block and continued toward the staff lot. “Here we are,” she said cheerfully. She stopped next to a small black sedan parked under a flickering streetlamp and pulled out her keys. A quick mechanical chirp echoed in the thick spring air. She threw her things into the back and slid into the driver’s seat. Corinthe quickly climbed into the passenger side.
The car growled to life and Sylvia maneuvered it onto the street. “So. Which way?” she asked.
Corinthe pointed. Sylvia eyed the girl, then turned, zigzagging the car right onto Church, left onto Duboce, right onto Castro Street, each time in response to a silent gesture from Corinthe. The pendant hanging from her rearview mirror swayed back and forth with each turn. Corinthe glanced at it each time it swung her way. Something about it made her feel uneasy.
“It’s St. Jude,” Sylvia explained. “The patron saint of lost causes. Kind of a sad saint, when you think about it.” She half laughed. “Still, everyone could use a miracle, don’t you think?”
“Sure, I guess,” Corinthe said neutrally. She didn’t really believe in miracles—had not even known the word until coming to Humana. Fate was controlled by the Unseen Ones. Everything that happened was orchestrated and carried out exactly as planned. There were no last-minute reprieves. No changes in plan. No sudden moments of salvation.
And today, Sylvia would die.
At first, Luc thought that the silence meant he was dead.
But the ache in his muscles felt too real. There was a ringing in his ears. Then, gradually, sound began to reassert itself. Birds calling to each other. Someone laughing. Wind rippling through trees.
He slowly opened his eyes. He was staring up at a domed ceiling. He sat up with a groan, blinking. He was at the rotunda. Late-afternoon sun streamed in between the columns, speckling the ground with patterns of dark and light. When he carefully pushed to his feet, the sound of laughter filtered through the air.
Everything was perfect. The columns were standing, completely undamaged, and on the street, there was no sign that an earthquake had ever happened.
His heart stopped. Had it worked?
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Five-thirty.
There were several missed text messages from Karen.
Reminder. Dinner at six. Don’t be late again. Want to talk about my party tomorrow night. <3 K
He read the message: once, twice, three times.
If Karen’s party was tomorrow, that meant it was Thursday night. Which meant it was the day he had first seen Corinthe.
He’d done it. He’d turned the clock back.
He was running before he realized it. Thursday. Thursday was the day of the accident—the day Corinthe caused the car to swerve, the day he extracted her from the wreckage. He had to stop her. He needed time to explain everything to Corinthe, to make her