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“I don’t think there’s any reason not to like Atlas—unless you, like Rhodes, think he’s some kind of tyrant, in which case … Well, whatever, you don’t have to marry him or work for him.
He was polite, or just British. Unclear which applied more closely.
An accountant, because to own someone’s debt was to own them, full stop.
which will probably end in tears. Mine, obviously.
“Yes,” Reina confirmed. “And honestly just a terrible person in general.”
“So,” he said. “I was thinking.” “Don’t hurt yourself,” she murmured. “Tighten up, Rhodes, not your finest,” Nico chirped, undeterred.
Libby reread the sentence she’d been trying to read for ten minutes.
Nico shrugged. “She contains multitudes. I deeply respect her labyrinthine mind.”
The old Libby was the one saying no. Yet another paradox: that Nico could look at Libby and still see her as she was—still believe her to be in desperate need of pushing—when she was indescribably, irreversibly different. Now, she was the Libby who’d burned through time and space, who concerned herself less and less with the ending Ezra had been willing to die for—to kill for—just to prevent, and that was exactly the problem. Because she had trusted Ezra once. Because she believed him, even if she hated him. Because who could be warned of the empire’s fall and still carry on as before?
the look on his face, it was absolutely punchable.
You can put it behind you. What he hadn’t said. I forgive you.
You didn’t get to choose who hated you, who loved you. Nobody knew better than Callum how little a person could actually control.
Fascinating. Worrisome.
That it was always meant to end with one of us.
Not enough to qualify for sympathy, obviously, but enough to acknowledge they were both the victims of a ticking clock.
It was too much; it was everything all at once.
“You know what he’d do.” Destroy the world.
To be perfectly clear, Atlas Blakely doesn’t want to destroy the universe. He just doesn’t want to exist in this one.
What is the problem? The constancy of fate. The liquidity of prophecy. The problem is Einstein’s theory of relativity. The problem is closed-loop time travel. The problem is Atlas Blakely. The problem is Ezra Fowler. The problem is the invariability of the particular strand of the multiverse in which Ezra and Atlas meet.
The problem is that Ezra was impossible to reason with before noon and occasionally after dinner.
The problem is that it was not romantic, not platonic, not fraternal. The problem is that it was closest to alchemical—the feeling like you’ve met the person you want to make magic with for the rest of your life.
The problem is that sometimes, when Atlas looked at Ezra, he only saw an ending; someone to eventually, inevitably lose.
He was secretive, but not threateningly so. Closer to private, and deeply introverted.
Thus, from between a rock and a hard place appeared the option of time travel, a potential third.
The problem is his lifelong necessity of being that way—of confusing telepathy with wisdom or worse, with understanding.
“What made you think it was a lie?” asked Atlas. “Because,” she said. “You didn’t ask me to bring him back.”)
Okay, so then Atlas is the villain. There, are you happy now? Of course not. Because in life there are no true villains. No real heroes. There is only Atlas Blakely left to settle his accounts.
Rome falls, everything Collapses.
Something put in motion does not
the past is prologue, Stop.
Something put in motion does not
Rome falls, everything Put in motion does not Stop me, someone will have to, it will have to be
Have to remember, Dalton, that something put in motion will not
don’t actually have any game, I don’t think. Mostly I just ask nicely.” “Does that ever work?” said Tristan. “You’d be surprised.”
“Look, I know you’re the king of emotional repression, but you’re probably not doing her a favor by not letting her process everything that went wrong. Someone betrayed her—that’s a big deal.”
Think how pleased Rhodes would be to find out I’ve been the villain in the house all along.”
“There he is, the Tristan Caine we know and love,” Nico declared sunnily. “Glad we got past that, then.”
“Ethical quandary,” said Tristan at the same time Nico said, “Paper airplane.”
Do you think there’s such a thing as too much power?” She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. Atlas Blakely already knows.
Libby managed a wan smile. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
“Oh, look closer, Rhodes.” It wasn’t an actual invitation, as far as Libby could tell. Just a general admonishment.
“So,” Parisa said. “You set off a nuclear bomb.” Libby set her glass down on the table. “Thanks for not mincing words,”
“I’m wondering,” Parisa added, reaching for her wine again, “whether it’s rewritten you or not.”
anyone was going to answer for something, it would not be Libby, who’d already paid the highest price just to be sitting there. Alive. Unharmed. And more powerful than ever.
“I can make new worlds,” Libby said. “But all you have is this one.”
“Whatever happens,” Parisa said, eyes unreadable. “Live with it.”
You’ve been rewritten.
“I’m not saying I regret it. I’m just—” She shrugged. “Owning it.”
Rhodes, Nico taunted in her head, either you’re enough or you never will be—
“Five,” he repeated, “were already initiated. Which means you,” he added with a salacious wink, “are redundancy in its dullest, most pointless form.”
