All We Have Is Time

35. May 2, 1851 London, England

Beatrix wakes groggy and bleary-eyed. She has barely slept, despite crawling into the soft bed hours ago. The words pounding a relentless drumbeat through her skull make sure of that.

My obituary.

About three months.

I can’t see you again.

She groans and pulls the duvet over her head, turns her world dark again. But she can’t escape herself.

You will live to regret this moment. And then you will keep on living.

The faerie made it sound like that night—that decision—would be the only one Beatrix would ever regret; that all the rest of her days would be spent lamenting that singular moment that changed her life.

If only that were true.