our life together to be what I wanted.
By the time we’d woken and dressed, we were nearly late. Grey checked on the body of his former self while I pulled on my boots and cloak. Once again, the morning looked dreary, as if the entire seventeenth century were miserable.
Grey returned from the second bedroom, looking handsome as ever, even in his strange old clothing. It was a style that had always appeared a bit funny in old paintings, but on him, it looked good.
“He’s fine,” Grey said. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
I finished fastening my cloak. “How’s the coffee in this century?”
“Not what you’re used to.”
“No frappes?” I teased.
“Certainly not. Though the pastries are not terrible.”
At the thought of them, my stomach growled. We’d both worked up an appetite last night.
Together, we left his flat, making our way quickly through the magic-lit hallways. When we reached the front foyer where Miranda usually stood, I was almost surprised not to see her there.
Instead, it was Clarence. Grey stopped by briefly. “No cleaning today, Clarence. My rooms are to remain undisturbed.”
“Very good, my lord.” Clarence nodded. “You’ve a meeting with Madam Stockhausen this evening.”
Grey frowned, and I could tell that he was trying to remember what it was about. Finally, he said, “Please reschedule until the day after tomorrow.”
Clarence nodded. “Of course. And one more thing. Councilor Rasla came by to ask for you. And about your guest.”
My soul chilled at the thought.
“We have no business with him,” Grey said. “Turn him away next time.”
“I will do so. Have a fine day, my lord.”
“You as well, Clarence.” Grey turned, and I followed him out into the drizzly morning. “I suppose that answers the question of whether he recognized me.”
“Yeah. Not good.” The air was cool and wet, a welcome refresher until I had my caffeine. I sucked in a breath, trying to drive away the thought of Rasla. “Any idea who Madam Stockhausen is?”
“Not a clue. But hopefully, we’ll be done by then, and my previous self will be conscious.” He shook his head. “And I’ll have to determine how Rasla resisted my magic so that I can erase his memory of us.”
We made our way across town, headed for the Mages’ coffee shop. The morning crowd was out and about, but everything still looked so different compared to the Guild City that I knew. True, the bones were there—the roads and buildings were the same, but they looked newer. The people, however, looked older, more worn down. Even supernaturals were subject to the difficulties of life in the past. Everything was louder, dirtier, busier.
Finally, we reached the square in front of the Mages’ Guild. I spotted their enormous coffee shop and whistled low. “It looks fab.”
Grey nodded, his gaze moving over the façade. It looked much nicer than the building I remembered. The plaster gleamed white between the straight, dark wooden beams. The windows glittered, even though the sun was well hidden, and the structure looked like it was standing up a bit straighter. That could be said of the whole town, in fact. Time hadn’t yet worn on the buildings, and it showed.
“It’s brand new,” Grey said. “Come.” He strode across the square, and I followed.
Noise filtered through the windows as we neared, the sound of boisterous conversation and laughter. Grey opened the door, and I entered, inspecting every inch of the coffee shop that I could see.
Like the outside, everything looked nicer and straighter than the place I’d visited in my time. The ceiling wasn’t quite as slanted, and everything gleamed with the shine of newness.
The bar was in the same location and the same size, though the massive, whirring espresso machines were nowhere to be seen. There were other coffee-making apparatuses, though—gleaming metal and glass containers that billowed steam.
It was far warmer inside, and I reached up to remove my cloak.
A host stood near the door, his clothing impeccable. He spotted Grey and approached.
“My lord.” His voice echoed with reverence, reminding me that my mate was the most powerful person in Guild City.
Grey inclined his head. “A private room, please. We have someone meeting us soon. An older woman named Mrs. Birch-Cleve.”
“But of course.” The man’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Follow me.”
He hurried off toward the stairs, and we followed. As I crossed the coffee shop, I peeked into the various rooms that I could see. As before, there was one dedicated to music—albeit far older music than I preferred. Another room was full of