“You got it.” Wayne gave her a tired looking grin, and a little wink. “We’re teammates after all. I’d do anything for this team.” He disappeared into his room, leaving Jo standing before herdoor.
She hoped he was being sincere. . . because for the second time since she’d arrived in the Society, her redemption rested squarely on Wayne’sshoulders.
Chapter 22
Almost Like Permission
JO’S HEARTSKIPPED a half beat when she opened the door to herroom.
Unlike the disjointed recreation of her old bedroom, what lay spread out before now was an almost flawless depiction of her and Wayne’s hotel room in Paris. The plush bed, the too-loud carpet pattern, the painting hanging on the wall above an ornate side table—though it wasn’t the gaudy meta one. It was the rendering of Texas Nico had given her. Even the balcony had followed, a portion of her room now overlooking a perpetual Paris nighttime, an illusion that both calmed and irritatedher.
Despite the agitation at herself and the situation as a whole, Jo still felt her furrowed brow softening at thatview.
Taking a moment to walk the length of the room, feeling the carpet dip softly beneath her shoes, Jo thought about Paris. Even if it had made a mess (one Jo was still certain she could clean up, if they let her) she couldn’t find herself regretting it. She’d helped Yuusuke, again. Something about that fact, about making sure her wish hadn’t gone to waste, was relieving. Even if he went off to get himself killed again in the future—Jo swallowed anger at the mere thought—that’d be his choice, and she could live withit.
Jo leaned against the wall by the window, wondering if she saw reality, or just a glorified hologram on a long-timed feedbackloop.
That wasn’t all she’d found in Paris. She’d secured an unlikely, but very welcome ally. Wayne had given her some scrap of confidence in her magic and the freedom to believe in it. And he’d given her a brief distraction afterward, icing on the cake that she’d desperatelyneeded.
Jo’s cheeks heated despite herself at the memory. It’d been far too long since she’d been with someone. At least a year. Perhaps it’d be that long until she’d go to Wayne again for some relief? Her dating pool had suddenly become very shallow. Jo turned back into the room and away from thethought.
Snow’s face flashed before her eyes and she waved a hand through the air, as if shooing the image. It lingered persistently, his disappointed and somewhat angry look seared into herretinas.
With a flop, Jo threw herself into the bed, half expecting the sheets to remain immovable beneath her as they had in Paris when she was pulled out of time. Thankfully, however, they crumpled and fluffed against the attack, cradling her in a nest of feather pillows and a cloud-like comforter. Once she knew she could, she settled herself in, burying her feet beneath the soft linens and propping her head beneath herhands.
Their infuriating leader floated up to the forefront of her thoughtsagain.
“Damn it, Snow.” Jo shook her head. “Stop looking at me like that.” Disappointment was so much worse than anger. She had to do it—surely, he sawthat?
A firm knock on her door jarred her thoughts. Jo bolted upright, practically sprinting to answer it. Wayne had really come through for her, yet again, and now Eslarwas—
Whatever Eslar was doing, it was not standing at herdoor.
“Hey there,” Jo said to the awkwardly hovering Takako, trying to hide herdisappointment.
“I apologize for bothering you solate.”
“Is it?” Jo looked out the window of her room; the Paris skyline was still lit up. Jo shrugged. “Not like time really matters to me—us,anyway.”
“It doesn’t,” Takako confirmed in her uniquely mechanical way. Jo found her tone incredibly reassuring in its own right. “But it’s nearly pastmidnight.”
“Oh.” Jo wasn’t sure what else to say so she simply waited. Takako fidgeted awkwardly, hands clasped behind her back. “Is there. . . something else?” Jo asked hopefully, still thinking ofEslar.
Takako brought her hands from around her back, rejoining them to cradle something that was very, very familiar. Every detail was exactly as Jo remembered. Unlike Nico’s painting, this had a preciseness to it that was undeniable. It wasn’t blurred colors that evoked vague, sensory notions ofhome.
It was a literal piece of home, in the shape of a ceramicmug.
“Is it the right one?” she asked, and Jo wondered if she heard a bit of nerves in Takako’svoice.
“Yes,” she whispered, finally accepting thetoken.
The visage of the most iconic mouse in the world was inked underneath a scratched veneer of clear glaze. It was white on the outside, red on the inside. The handle looked like half anear.
Jo cradled the mug, identical to the one her mother had gotten her at Disney all those years ago, and had one question. “How?”
“You spoke about the mug, in the kitchen, when Nico broke his. . . not that long ago.” Takako buried her hands in her pockets, as if assuring that Jo couldn’t hand it back toher.
“I know I did,but—”
