Page 71 of Misadventures with a Duke

A grim nod from Max. “What you experienced—and me, shortly after—was barely the beginning of it all.”

Of it all.

Another collection of words, atop his others, that should not represent so much more. Revolts and revisions. Arrests and accusations. And a horrible Reign of Terror…

“And Robespierre led the chaos?”

“Among many others,” he supplies. “Sieyès, Danton, Lafayette…but the most famous was probably Bonaparte.”

“Bonaparte?” I lurch to my feet. “That small, twitchy man? Now I know you surely play, brother.”

He is too damn somber for comfort. “Well, the twitchy gentleman was eventually crowned emperor.”

I pace a few steps, about all I can manage in the confines beneath the alley’s large puddles. “Perhaps it was fortuitous that Kavia got us out.”

“Both of us.”

He stresses the syllables as if they are incantations of their own. Meaningful ones. Before turning back around, I am already aware of the places from which they emerge. His huge heart. His boundless spirit. Max is a unique human being, genuine and intense about the way he loves—applicable, as well, to the way he grieves. I cannot fathom what it was like for him to do so in such a strange new world, thinking I was murdered along with Mother and Father.

But clearly, he has found his way here. And done so with so much joy, shining from his whole being, as he grins anew at me. “St. Peter’s balls, Bast. I still cannot believe you are here.”

I lean back against a dry part of the wall. “I do not think I do yet.”

But now, beholding the ongoing awe in his gaze, I am beginning to. No matter how staggering it might be.

My God.

I am supposed to be dead.

But I definitely am not.

I already know the how of it, especially after confirming it all by exchanging a few cursory sentences with Max. A few key phrases were all I needed to hear.

Escaping from a mob.

Kavia and Carl.

Wardrobe on fire.

Surreal. Unreal. And yet the truth…that now feels like so long ago.

I am a different man now.

And, just a few minutes after being reunited with him, I know Maximillian is too.

“But now…we must focus on keeping you here.”

I snap my head up, shaking free from my newfound fascination with the tops of my feet. It takes another second for Max’s declaration to set in—and to formulate a reply as dazed as my first one.

“Keeping me?” I cant my head. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

He scowls as if my brain has toppled out of my skull. “Because the alternative is not acceptable.” He emphasizes with a stomp, turning a smaller puddle into silver drops against the alley lights. “You do remember what happens in the original version of this story, right? In 1789, you die, brother.”

I attempt a smirk. “As you have made me well aware, Maximilian.”

He clenches his jaw. “Then why—”

“Because if I do not go back, or even try to, she dies.”