Zeta has a serious expression on his face—I’m starting to wonder whether he has any other expression—and the flecks of gray at his temples seem to have multiplied since this morning, and he’s clasping his hands together so tightly his veins are bulging out of his forearms. At least someone else recognizes the importance of this mission.
Speaking of my oh-so-competent teammates, Yellow has on skin-tight, high-waisted black jeans with a leather motorcycle jacket. Her hair is teased and frizzed and piled half on top of her head in a ponytail that resembles an ostrich plume. The whole look is not at all fashionable today, but somehow Yellow pulls it off. I hate to admit it, but she does. Violet’s wearing black leggings with a black miniskirt and a black off-the-shoulder sweater. She’s ditched the purple wig, and her real hair is cut supershort, like a pixie. I sort of look like the homeless cousin next to them, and both of them stare at me when I walk in. But I don’t care. I’m going to stop a burglary tonight. The two of them can do whatever they want.
“One shot,” Zeta tells us. “That’s all you get to stop this.”
“I still don’t understand why we only get one shot,” I say.
Zeta turns to me with patient eyes. Polar opposite from the Boston Massacre, the last time I asked this question. “It’s not our doing; it’s the wormhole. Once you open it to a specific date, your watch can’t go back there again.”
“What about someone else’s?”
Zeta tilts his head to the side an inch. “It’s possible, but then you’d run the risk of injuring your fellow team members on a mission you bungled in the first place. Too many cooks in the kitchen, so to speak. Does that make sense?”
I guess? Not really.
“Plus it gives you a false sense of security,” Zeta says. “No do-overs. It’s a better motto. Now are you ready?”
We all set our watches for midnight on March 18. That will give us almost an hour and a half to get to the museum before the thieves knock on the door dressed like cops. I spent four hours after Violet and Yellow left, trying to figure out a way to break into the museum beforehand, but I failed. It’s just impossible. There are too many alarms and too many cameras. Going to have to go in after the thieves. It’s the only way.
Yellow enters the gravity chamber first. Zeta shuts the door behind her, waits a few seconds, and opens it for Violet. And then it’s my turn. Zeta puts out his arm to stop me.
“You can do this,” he tells me.
“I know,” I say. I’m staring straight ahead at the door, bouncing back and forth between my heels. I’m a bundle of nervous energy, and I just want to go already.
“I believe in you, Iris.” Zeta’s voice sounds different than it ever has. It’s softer. There’s no intensity in it. He really wants me to succeed. It’s as if he knows I’m the only one who can. I turn to look at him.
“I won’t fail,” I tell him. Zeta nods his head and opens the door, and as I hurl myself through it, all I can think is that I hope I’m right.
I land in the broom closet. It’s dark, and I can’t make out my hand five inches in front of me, but I don’t sense anyone else.
“Yellow?” I whisper. “Violet?”
Nothing. I fumble around, tripping over something long and wooden, until I find the handle that leads into the alleyway. Yellow and Violet are already turning onto Beacon Street when I step out.
“Hey!” I call to them. “What the hell?”
“Keep up,” Yellow tosses over her shoulder. Neither of them slows down.
I want to slam the door, but that will only attract attention, so I shut it as softly as I can. And then I punch the air.
St. Patrick’s Day festivities are in full swing as I step onto Beacon Street, even though there’s a cold, light rain falling. A group of drunken college girls wearing green, oversize shirts tucked into light-wash, high-waisted jeans stumble past me. One of the girls has on a glittery shamrock headband that bounces as she ambles by.
“Hurry up!” I hear Yellow say. I look past the girls to a cab. Violet’s already in the backseat, and Yellow is holding open the door. “The T doesn’t run anymore. Let’s go.”
“Actually, it does; it’s just totally unreliable this late,” I mutter under my breath as I jog over to the cab. Yellow squeezes into the middle seat, and I slide in next to her.
“Where to?” the cab driver asks as he resets the meter.
Yellow touches the front seat. “The Isabella—”
“Simmons College!” I interrupt her. “We’re heading back to the dorms.” And then I shoot Yellow a look that lets her know I think she’s a complete moron. Why would anyone need to go to a museum at midnight when it’s closed? Idiot. And Simmons is practically next door.
The driver lets us out in front of the dorms, and we wait until he’s rounded the corner before we walk toward the museum. There are a bunch of college kids hanging around, either coming home from a night of St. Paddy’s Day drinking or still in the middle of it.
“Now what?” Violet asks.
Yellow comes to a stop in front of the museum. “Now we keep an eye out for two men dressed as cops.” She’s standing right in front of the main door, and I sigh.
“Where did you go to school?” I ask her. “Before you joined Annum Guard. Where did you go? Did you even complete kindergarten, or do you really have no idea how to stake a lookout?”
Yellow wrinkles her nose. “I went to Andover. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s—”
“Not the kind of school where they teach you anything you need to know in the field,” I say. “Or else you’d know not to stand in front of the building like a big ‘Hey, thieves, look at me!’ sign. And besides, they come in the service entrance, not the front door.” I point back at Palace Road.
“This is my fourth fire mission,” Yellow snaps. “I’ve been doing this for almost a year and a half.”
“Congratulations. Did you mess up the first three missions just as badly as you’re about to blow this one? Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to stop a burglary.” I keep walking and turn onto the street that lines the other side of the museum, one street up from Palace.
“Where is she going?” I hear Violet ask.
“Quiet!” Yellow hisses. But then I hear them follow behind me. I walk to the end of the block and make a right on Tetlow Street to head back to Palace. There’s a dingy golden-brick apartment building on the corner, so I plant myself on the crumbling concrete stoop, underneath two very out-of-place, very large, black, winged griffins hanging on either side of the front door. I wait for Yellow and Violet to catch up.
“Now what?” Violet asks as she glances up at one of the griffins and shudders.
“We wait,” I say as I look at the other one. Those things are really creepy. They’re not calming my nerves.
We do. For a long time, nothing happens. We hear kids shouting from the streets and ambulance sirens wailing toward Beth Israel, dropping off the people who partied a little too hard downtown. But we don’t see anything.
Then at a little before one, a small hatchback creeps its way down Palace Road with the lights turned off. I drop to the ground and press myself against the building’s glass front door. Yellow and Violet at least have the common sense to do the same. I peek my head out and stare at the car as it drives past, and every hair on my arm stands on end. There are two uniformed police officers sitting inside of it. One has light-brown hair and is wearing gold, wire-rimmed glasses. The other has dark hair and a mustache. They park the car a few yards away from the service entrance.