HOME? DID SHE hear him right?

“Well, this is home. I’m going to my old home, technically,” he clarified as if reading her mind.

“Florence, you mean?”

Nico gave a nod in affirmation.

“Shouldn’t we stay here for the wish?” Samson had told her to take a mental health break, but just how much of one was really needed? “What if someone needs us?”

“We won’t be long and we won’t be using any time on our watches. Additionally, I already cleared it with Eslar.”

“Cleared it with Eslar,” she repeated. “It’s no wonder the elf has a big head, he practically runs the place.”

“Careful, or with those ears he may hear you.”

A laugh escaped her in the form of a snort. Nico’s easy way wore her down quickly. Samson had said to take a break, but all she’d done was run from one place to the next, hopelessly working herself up further. Really, she hadn’t taken that break yet, Jo decided.

“Well, if you’re sure it won’t be an issue.”

“I’m sure.” Nico waited for her to catch up before starting down the stairs.

“So, why Florence?”

“I must see my muse on occasion. Furthermore, it gives me the opportunity to stroll through some art supply stores, see what artists are using these days, give me some ideas.”

“I thought you couldn’t take things back from the real world?”

“You can’t,” he affirmed.

“Then. . .”

“The mansion is very good to me.” The answer seemed mysterious, but Jo heard it for what it was: another “because magic” explanation. “I find often that after I go on these excursions, I’ll have some new supplies in my room with which to work, or the recreation room will take on a new shape for my practice.”

“Reality is what you make it,” Jo paraphrased one of the first things Wayne had said to her upon entering the Society.

“Well said.”

Jo pulled open the door to the briefing room, holding it for Nico. She hated being in there the instant her foot met the obsidian floor. The usually chilly air was now bitterly cold, as if the mansion itself was angry for the wishes being passed along to its occupants. While the idea of a semi-sentient mansion was somewhat off-putting, it was nice to think of someone standing up for them, even if that someone was a building.

Nico paused at the Door. Jo’s eyes fell on his hand as it began punching in the coordinates. He was three numbers in when the fourth button stuck. The man paused, staring at it in confusion. He pressed it again, finally freeing it from its depressed state. The motion reminded Jo briefly of the flickering monitor, but the thought vanished from her mind the second the Door opened.

Italy.

It was a country of postcards made real. They stepped into a shadowed street made of stone. Condensed buildings stretched up in walls of plaster and warm-hued paints on either side of them. Doorways, square and arched, indented by wooden doors with heavy knockers stood just off the street. Metal pleated doors, most bearing some sort of graffiti, covered garages. Up ahead there was a sign with a big white P on a blue background; behind her a café was just beginning to open up, popping the umbrellas above the few outdoor tables in a fenced-off section.

“What do you think?” Nico asked, starting off in a direction only he knew.

“It’s lovely.” The way the buildings were built on top of each other, clearly constructed and renovated at very different times, had her thinking of Paris. Yet this was wholly different. “Quieter than I thought it would be and it seems. . . I don’t know, real?”

“How so?”

Jo tried to think of the best way to rephrase her odd statement. “Like the people here aren’t. . . I don’t know, fake?”

“How would they be fake?”

“Not touristy, I mean.” She finally landed on what it was. “This feels like a real street where real people live.”

Nico laughed loudly. Yet the sweet sounds of his amusement did not resonate or echo. They existed only for her ears. “Of course it is. And, I will say that the people who live in touristy areas are also real.”

“Obviously.” Jo shook her head, laughing a bit at herself. “I don’t know what I was saying.”

“It’s inviting?” he suggested.

“Inviting, that may be a good word for it. . .” Jo half-mused, half-agreed. He held up his right hand horizontal, so his fingers stretched parallel to the ground. Nico pointed at the base of the line between his middle and ring fingers. “If the Cathedral is here—” Jo had seen the famous Duomo of Florence from Nico’s room back in the mansion. “The Ponte Vecchio is here.” He moved his finger down and to the left. “It’s a very famous bridge, I’m sure you know of it.”

She gave a sort of non-committal hum and a nod. She hadn’t heard of it, but didn’t want to risk discouraging the man.

“Up here—” he moved up from the initial placement of his finger to the base of the line between his ring and pinky fingers “—is the Palazzo Medici.”

“And that’s where we are?”

A chuckle, though Jo didn’t know why the question was funny. “No, this humble little street is not the palace of the Medici.” He moved his finger to the right some—east, if the top of his hand was north, from the Palazzo. “We’re right around here.”

“I guess I see why it doesn’t feel too touristy, then.” Jo wasn’t sure what else to say, though she didn’t want to give the impression of not appreciating the quick geography overview. “But it’s lovely here.”

“This was to be my street.”

Jo nearly stopped mid-step just as they had begun walking again. His street, his home. She tried to imagine Nico wandering the stone pathways of Florence in a very different time. Even though she knew next to nothing of the Italian Renaissance, she had an easy time conjuring up notions of Nico bustling from place to place, struggling with canvases nearly as big as he was.

“In fact, that building—” He stopped at a cross-section, pointing down an alley. “The blue one, was to be our home. In my time, it was owned by the Medici family and was to be my atelier. We would’ve been comfortable there. A better life than most of our status, certainly.”

“We. . . You and Julia?” Jo clarified delicately. Even if she felt closer to the man now than ever, his past was still a topic Jo would tread on lightly.

“Just so.” Nico nodded, a faraway look overtaking his eyes. “She was my muse, my inspiration. A woman whose outer beauty could only be matched by her inner.”

Jo remembered the last time she’d been in Nico’s room, the portrait he’d been composing so carefully. She had no doubt that it was still out on the easel where he worked, waiting for its artist to return. “Your muse. You said we were going to see your muse.” She’d thought he’d meant the city. He must’ve, surely; there was no way Julia was still alive. Unless she had some modern-day descendant that Nico kept tabs on.

“Yes, in due time.” He began walking again. “I have two other stops first.”

“The art store, and—?”

“The Medici archives.”

That sounded familiar to her, and not because he’d just spoken about a Medici palace. But Jo stilled her questions for a while. Nico was patient, and had already displayed a tolerance for them, but she didn’t want to wear him out. Furthermore, there was something to be said for simply walking through a new place and letting her mind be distracted by all there was to take in. Even if the sounds were dulled and the smells were muted outside of time, there was still much to see.

“This is my favorite art shop in the city.”

They ducked into a small doorway that led into a narrow hall before quickly unfolding into the densest collection of art supplies—anything supplies—that Jo had ever seen. Every square inch of space was taken up by boxes in storage, some with the fronts ripped off to display tubes of paint within. There were cases and cases of brushes in every shape and size. Most of them looked identical to her, but the way Nico inspected them informed her that they were far from it.

“How did you become an artist?” Jo asked, running her fingers over a series of markers precariously perched, zero fear of actually knocking any over.

Nico paused, thinking a moment. “How much do you know about artists in the fifteenth century?”

“Assume I know nothing.” Jo grinned. “And even if I did, who’s to say it would be the same between your time and mine, with all the wishes separating us?”

“Fair point.” Nico chuckled, continuing along. “I find that modernity has idealized the notion of artist. In my time, we were seen as having little difference from any other craftsmen, like tailors or cobblers.”

“But art requires so much talent.”

Nico paused at this, bringing a knuckle to his chin. “Do you think so?”

“Of course,” Jo insisted. “And you must, too, otherwise you wouldn’t have laughed at the mere notion of my picking up painting.”

He laughed and something about the sound reminded her of a sun shower—an impossible delight. “Much of art can be learned, despite what one may say in jest. It’s a technique. Just like a musician learns their instrument, I learned the canvas.”

Jo remained skeptical that it’d be so simple, but she kept the thoughts to herself, allowing him to continue.

“Apprentices would work under the master, whose name usually went on the majority—if not all—of the work. He’d also oversee commissions, and tend to the shop duties. I was one such apprentice, until my work caught the eye of one of the Medici daughters and I earned a patron outright.”

“Apprentices working under a master, huh. . .” Jo looked at a wall of markers. She’d never imagined there could be so many colors. Her eyes were drawn to one on the upper right, a soft, gray-bluish white. On the colored cap were a number, letter, and the name of the color: SNOW.

Just like that, she was back to thinking of him, completely distracted from whatever else Nico was saying. Wayne’s warnings rang loudly in her head. Everything with Snow seemed confusing at best, agonizing at worst. How bad could it get if she pursued something and was rejected? Unless she already had been rejected, and was willfully ignoring the fact?

“Not unlike us, hmm?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jo blurted, startled. Nico was suddenly at her side.

“Apprentices working for a master.”

“The Wish Granter’s Apprentices. . . sounds like a movie or something.”

“I suppose it does.” He started for the door. “Speaking of masters, on to our second stop.”

“Did you get what you needed?” Jo asked as they rounded the corner on the way out.

“I believe I did.” Nico beamed. “Some positively stunning new colors are being produced. Now, there’s something you may enjoy, the science of paint colors. . .”

The conversation on the way to the Medici archives remained light, and mostly focused on Nico and his extensive knowledge of art supplies. Jo wasn’t usually one for museums, but she found the experience to be much more palatable when there was no ticketing process, security screening, waiting in line, pushing around people, or ropes to keep her from getting close to the art.

They strolled to the Da Vinci wing, out of time and completely unhindered. Nico spent several minutes studying the recently discovered sketch, critiquing it in more ways than she would’ve thought imaginable for what looked to Jo like a scribble on a piece of ancient notebook paper—a very very talented scribble, but scribble none the less.

Seemingly satisfied, Nico led their departure, heading away from the Duomo and further north. The longer they walked, the quieter Nico became, until he hardly said anything at all. Usually, Jo would assume it was a result of him talking almost all day, mostly at her. But this felt different. There was a solemn weight to his silence, like someone in a deep meditation. Jo’s lips remained still as well, not wanting to jar his thoughts.

They stopped before a small iron gate wedged into a tall wall, barely wide enough for a person to slip through. It wasn’t locked, but it looked as though it hadn’t been opened in some time. Through the bars, Jo saw the wall of a church—characterized by stained-glass windows lining the stone.

But the stone she focused on was on the ground.

Nico plucked his watch from his pocket, holding it out and clicking a nob.

“I thought you said we weren’t using time.”

“Just a minute. . . only for the gate.” He ushered her through, closed the gate. But surprisingly, did not click out of time. Jo followed close behind him, curious.

The courtyard felt like it was another world altogether. Jo had walked through realities, but this was a different sort of magic. This was a power she couldn’t comprehend or wield, even if she tried.

Vines clung to the side of the church, markings on the stone indicating where someone had attempted to cut back the foliage. Awnings and rooftops cast the ground in near-perpetual shadow, the grasses under their feet struggling to grow. Stones seemed to be in no particular order. The newest looked as if it had seen a thousand rainstorms since it was placed.

There were no footprints save Nico’s. There were no epitaphs on the tombstones or mementos left. Just little weather-worn nubs insisting on remembrance to an earth that threatened to claim them once and for all.

In the shadow of the church, in the back corner, Nico made his way to a gravestone that had been sheltered enough from the elements, preserving some of its engravings. The name written confirmed Jo’s suspicions, but even if the letters had been expunged by time, the carving of a woman’s face would’ve been recognizable to Jo anywhere.

“Julia,” she whispered.

“My muse.” Nico knelt down before the grave. He ran his finger through the dirt and quickly scribbled a star on the corner of the tombstone. Then, and only then, did he return to his watch, clocking out of time. “My compass star, always guiding me home, ever lighting my life.”

“She was truly stunning.”

“My wish was to save her, you know.”

Jo didn’t know. She had made the broad-stroke assumption that his wish related to Julia based on the way he spoke of his lost love and a few other comments Jo had interpreted. Still, the details were obscure.

“Save her how?”

“I was not the only one to notice the ethereal nature of my Julia.” Nico ran a hand over the top of the tombstone, as if caressing it. “There were others, of course. But she only had eyes for me, and I for her. At least, until someone too powerful turned his gaze to her.”

“Who?” Jo’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Her research came back to her—the mention of a mistress.

“Pope Alexander VI.”

“A pope?” Jo hadn’t wanted to be correct in her assumptions of possible connections. “I read. . . I mean, weren’t they all pious and whatnot?” She didn’t actually know; the Catholic Church had been absorbed by the state of Italy during World War III in a play for its global reach and resources. While it still technically remained its own entity, it had long since fallen from public consciousness in the countries of North America as anything more than a puppet of a foreign power.

“Supposedly—ideally. But ideals are like the subjects of paintings. Lovely to look at, but categorically untouchable.” Nico trailed off and sighed. “The Vatican had commissioned me for a Madonna. Foolishly, I used Julia for reference.”

He hung his head. Such a sad weight settled onto the shoulders of the man that Jo nearly tried to hoist him back upward. But she found herself pinned in place by the gravity of Nico’s sacrifice.

“The pope was known for his mistresses, you see. It was one of the worst-kept secrets in Italy. I should’ve known.” He turned to her, eyes shining with grief even after all the years that had passed.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jo whispered in response to that probing stare.

Nico huffed softly, shook his head, and looked back down at his empty hands. “They sent for her, so that she could impart further ‘inspiration.’ They took her from me, making it as if we had never promised ourselves to each other. My Julia, my light, was to be extinguished as nothing more than a new toy for that wretched man.”

“So you made a wish.”

Nico nodded gravely. “I had heard about it, whispers here and there. But I finally located a woman who could grant me the details I sought, someone who designed herself as a high sorcerer. After that. . . it was simply a matter of casting the circle.”

Jo wondered what he used to cast, but he didn’t say and she didn’t ask. She could guess well enough, given the severity of his wish.

“And Snow saw your magical lineage, so you ended up as a member of the Society.” She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been presented with the same impossible choice Snow had given her.

How did Nico choose? Life in a world with his Julia, but she would live in unimaginable pain. Or life in a world where his beloved would never think of him again, but thrive?

“I did. But the pope was assassinated and my Julia walked free before any harm was done to her. She lived a good life here in our Florence, eventually marrying another and having a whole brood of children.” Nico smiled, but Jo wondered how much sorrow he’d felt over the years—watching his love, his betrothed, marry another with no recollection of his existence.

“And you still love her, after all that,” Jo whispered mostly to herself, so she was startled when she got a response.

“Immensely. There is no time or world where I love her less.”

“I wonder. . . what that feels like.”

“Have you never been in love?”

Now, there was a question. Jo had certainly gotten around, experimented, had her fun, but love? Actual heart-pumping, world-shaking love? She thought she felt that for Yuusuke once, but the feeling wasn’t returned and it fizzled way too easily back into friendship to have been much of anything more.

“Not really,” she finally admitted, to herself as much as him. It seemed almost. . . sacrilegious to attempt to lie, even to herself, in a place like this. Before a love like the one Nico still carried. “Not a love like yours at least. . . I don’t think I’d know it even if I saw it.”

“Why is that?”

“My parents divorced when I was a kid.” Jo shrugged, turning her eyes skyward, blinking. Instead of seeing clouds, she saw spats between her mother and father, the precursors to the day he walked out.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nico said, offering the usual platitude. “But that hardly means you don’t know, or can’t know, love.”

Jo chuckled and shook her head. “No role models at home to equate to true love, really. . . And it’s not like there’s much room for it in the mob. Love just means people who can be hurt to get to you. It’s safer to act alone.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You haven’t seen what they’ll do to people who fall out of line.” Jo met his eyes, mostly as a challenge—one Nico did not attempt to meet.

“I may not know what they’d do,” he conceded one battle, and continued another. “But I do know that love is its own form of protection—to have another that will look out for you, no matter what. To have an unquestioning shelter to retreat to when the world becomes too much to bear.”

It was Jo’s turn to be quiet. She couldn’t argue with a man who had given his life for the woman he loved. Hadn’t she done the same for Yuusuke? Perhaps even if their love hadn’t been romantic, it was genuine.

“I still wouldn’t know,” she mumbled in direct contradiction to everything in her mind.

“Lying does not become you, Josephina.” Nico called her out with a gentle smile. Jo returned it weakly. He was the only man who could have her smiling while backing her into a proverbial corner at the same time. “And I mean that in all areas.”

The smile fell from her lips. “Huh?”

“I think you know exactly what love is.” He finally began walking back toward the gate, the transition in conversation begging a physical transition back to what their lives now were. “And I think you’re looking to find it.”

“I don’t know—” A look from Nico had Jo changing gears mid-sentence. “I can’t.”

“Why not? The foundation is clearly there, waiting to be built upon.”

“We are talking about the same Snow, aren’t we?” The idea of there being the opportunity for something genuine between them seemed so outrageous that she had no choice but to clarify. The contrast between Nico’s counsel and Wayne’s was so disparate, Jo felt something like a short circuit sparking in her brain.

“Who else?”

“Snow is. . . he’s. . .”

“If you doubt yourself when it comes to seeing the ways of love, fine. But you have made it clear you don’t doubt me. I know what a love that transcends time looks like.”

“Getting a little heavy, aren’t we? It’s not like he and I have even broached the subject of a date, even.” Jo laughed, feeling nervous energy creep up from somewhere deep within. She wanted to change the topic, desperately. And yet. . . didn’t. She had originally sought out Nico for clarity and all she felt was more of a mess.

“Have faith in yourself, Jo,” Nico encouraged. “You know what to do.”

“Wayne thinks it’s a bad idea. Too risky,” Jo mumbled.

“I have no doubt. There’s no denying it is risky, and Wayne treasures this team—we all do.” Nico took her hand and looked her right in the eye. The other hand was held out, waiting, as the Door appeared over the gate, but Jo kept her attention solely on his face. “Trust me Jo: some people are well worth the risk of putting yourself out there and being hurt.”

As he turned to input the code on the door, Jo took one more look at the cemetery. There were no flowers on the graves here. No mementos from loved ones. No mourners weeping. It was clearly a place that had been mostly forgotten by a world that had long since moved on from it.

But one man remembered. One man, outside of time, cared enough to show Jo that there was one force greater than circles, or wishes, or magic. It was the only force that could triumph over them all, lasting when all else was dust and stars on stones. Love.

She could never again question if such a thing would be worth it.