NICO LED HER back the way she’d come, smiling at her over his shoulder as they passed through the Four-Way. She gave him a quick smile back, shuffling to catch up.

“So where are we going?” she asked, matching his pace. All he gave her in response was a rather giddy-looking gesture towards the door they were approaching on their right. Jo instantly recognized it as Nico’s room, the little bird painted on his nameplate oddly welcoming.

As Nico reached for the doorknob, Jo realized she’d yet to see inside of anyone else’s room but her own. She knew his would certainly not look like her messy apartment, but she couldn’t begin to imagine what shape Nico’s sanctuary would take. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. What did Wayne or Eslar find soothing in their personal quarters? Or even more curiously, Snow?

Before she could get too consumed by her newest slew of questions, Nico was opening the door and ushering her inside.

It was unlike anything she could have imagined and yet so very fitting for the warm, friendly, Italian artist.

The ceiling was vaulted high, making the room feel open and airy; the large span of space was cluttered without being the slightest bit cramped. In fact, the room felt like a breath of fresh air, as if she were standing on the rooftop of a skyscraper overlooking a giant city, contained within four corners but in no way confined.

“Give me a second, I want to make sure it’s ready.” Nico grinned, an excited bounce to his step as he rushed over to the far side of the room.

Jo watched him go, and the way he stumbled over his footing a bit in his haste had her stifling a small bubble of laughter. The wall he stopped at was crowded with canvases in various stages of completion. Some were completely blank, but most had splashes of color, partial designs, patterns and sketches of bodies or flowers or night skies or an image that only the artist could conceive. Even from a distance, she could tell they were stunning.

Nico rifled through them for a second before looking over his shoulder at her. “No peeking! J-just one second.” Jo nodded and turned away from him when he continued to stare expectantly; the sound of him shuffling through his pieces promptly picked back up.

She busied herself in the meantime by walking around the room. The wall opposite Nico’s collection seemed to be comprised primarily of shelving units, each one filled to the brim with art supplies and books. It reminded her of the art studio at her old high school, splattered with dried paint, stained in ink, and marred with scratches from hundreds of projects. It was that sort of “messy clean” only an artist could achieve.

She picked up a paintbrush, noticing that, despite the obvious signs of recent use—discoloration at the tip, caked paint around the edge—it also seemed relatively new. Maybe that was the room’s way of providing comfort; enough signs of age to be soothing, but no actual decay.

Jo put the brush down and turned her attention back to the rest of the room—the large, patterned rug that filled a circle-shaped portion of the cement floor, the bed in the corner overflowing with dark, rumpled linens; a leather chair, pale at the corners, that was kept company by a lone reading light whose switch was worn to a deep brass from years of use.

But the parts of the room that grabbed her attention most were the giant, floor to ceiling windows taking up nearly one full wall. Behind the perfectly polished glass, what Jo’s limited knowledge of geography told her, was somewhere in modern-day Italy.

The windows pulled her to them, as if she were in a trance. Her hand rose instinctively to the glass, smearing the immaculate cleaning job with an instinct to touch the vision before her. It was beautiful, exactly as she’d seen in pictures.

“Home,” Nico said, and Jo jumped a bit at the sudden appearance of him at her side. He laughed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, that’s on me.” Jo waved him away, smiling a bit in embarrassment. “I was kind of lost in my own head, that’s all.” Nico nodded, staring out at the expanse of old and new architecture that was all crammed together like one big happy family. A thought occurred to Jo, stumbling out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Is this really Italy? Like, the real one?”

Surprisingly, Nico didn’t look uncomfortable or disturbed by the question. Instead, his eyes grew wistful, a soft and sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He nodded. “It’s Florence. Not my Florence, not anymore. But still my home and I still like to keep up with it for all its fantastic creations and fatal flaws. It’s the city where my promised and I had once planned on raising our family, so I can’t seem to let it go.”

“You were engaged?” Jo asked, trying to keep her question sincere and kind despite how curious she was. Nico didn’t seem to mind her prying, but she didn’t want to push it.

As if in explanation, Nico reached into his pocket, pulled out his over-sized, antiquated pocket watch, and clicked it open. Jo hadn’t noticed it the first time, too focused on the time, then. Engraved on the inside of the simple silver casing was a name in elaborate cursive.

Julia d’Este

“We had planned on marrying in the spring, when the weather would be tame,” Nico said softly. “It would be unfair to our guests to have them suffer at the hands of the season during the ceremony, she’d said. My Julia was the most kind and beautiful thing to ever grace this world and the next.”

“You really loved her.”

“Love, not loved.” Nico glanced at Jo out of the corner of his eye, smile growing warmer still. And then vanishing entirely. His stare seemed to grow somber as his mind wandered out upon the city, so lost in thought it seemed he’d even forgotten that he was holding his watch between them, open to the face, his thumb absently rubbing against the grooves of Julia’s name.

Jo found herself drawn to that watch face: three clocks positioned amid a backdrop of pearl. For the second time, she couldn’t help but wonder why one of them seemed frozen, stopped forever at 1:17. When she opened her mouth to ask, however, the words wouldn’t come. Not because she didn’t want to know, but because it felt too personal, like a line she shouldn’t cross.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Jo eventually tried, hoping for a change in conversation that might lift Nico’s mood a bit. He seemed the sort of person who should always be smiling—like when he was happy, the whole world was happy with him. “When were you born?”

To Jo’s surprise, this actually managed to pull a chuckle out of the man. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped his watch shut and pocketed it, leaning back on his heels.

“December 9th, 1484.”

Before she could stop herself, Jo heard herself whisper a stunned, “Holy shit.”

Nico laughed, loud and boisterous. “I know, right? And I’m not even the oldest one here. Eslar, Samson, and Pan were already around when I arrived, and for all we know, Snow could have been running things even long before them.”

That struck Jo as odd. “You don’t know how long Snow’s been here?”

Nico just shrugged. “No one does, and if he hasn’t told Eslar, he’s not telling anyone. The Society seems, as far as I can tell, to have always been around.”

Jo made a mental note to look into that one a bit more later—on her list of Society focused missions it was somewhere between “figuring out time” and “learn how to use her magic in a helpful way.” For now, she turned away from the window as Nico did.

Her eyes fell instantly on a large painting Nico had placed on an easel in the center of his circular rug.

Without really meaning to, she found herself walking towards it, breath hitching in her throat. Even though it was stylized, the colors blending together and brush strokes intermingling in a way that was clearly an artist’s rendering, the likeness was irrefutable.

It was a painting of the Texas skyline, the sweeping deserts in oranges and tans, the smattering of cacti and foliage in dark greens and bright streaks of yellow, blots of purples and reds playing stark contrast against their stalks.

It was a painting of home.

“Nico, what—?” Jo’s voice was strangely choked. When she looked behind her, Nico was leaning against the window, watching her reaction with a knowing smile on his face.

“I thought you could use some art for your room.” It was all he said, but even she could hear the layers of unspoken understanding beneath the words. When she raised an eyebrow in question, he just motioned for her to look back at the painting. “Go on,” he added. “It’s yours. Take a good look.”

Not quite sure whether or not she was imagining the mischievousness in his voice, Jo nodded, turning back towards the painting and taking a step closer.

It really was remarkable work, his artistic talent obvious. He’d managed to take an image straight from her mind and render it in near perfection with what looked to be no more than a handful of colors. In fact, the more she looked at it, the more she felt as though she was looking not at a painting, not even at a photograph, but at a memory.

She remembered quiet drives through the endless ribbon of road that was Long Horn, the wind turbines gently spinning as her mother drove past. As Jo looked closer, she could even see them, strips of white paint just barely interrupting the distant expanse of burnt sienna.

She remembered heat lightning cracking open an indigo sky, distant flashes of yellow sparkling with an aura of purples and pinks, swirls of light in rainless and cloudless heavens.

Empanadas and sopapillas and hot chocolate with cinnamon coated her tongue. Abuelita’s old quilt in all its sturdy, faded familiarity fell in comforting weight over her shoulders. The rumble of her father’s dirty pickup reached her ears. Jo felt her mother’s hands in her hair and her arms around her waist and all the indescribable feelings that summed together, formed the essence of home.

Colors became sensations that evoked memories she’d long and momentarily forgotten but had never stopped treasuring.

Her shoulders sagged under the soothing touch of nostalgia, the image on canvas blurring into her own recollection. There was a word for this feeling, she realized, something she hadn’t felt since she got here. Something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time, even.

Contentment. Not happiness, but a calm acceptance that her situation in life wasn’t just “not so bad” but pretty good, even.

It felt like letting go. And she felt better.

She didn’t need to ask to know that Nico’s magic had something to do with this. She could practically feel it vibrating beneath her skin, calming nerves she’d only been minutely aware were so frayed. In the back of her mind, she wondered if she should be upset, having her emotions manipulated so easily and completely. But this hadn’t felt like Wayne’s magic, struggling against invisible tethers. Every sensation was wholly hers; the painting merely brought them forth, played up certain things and dialed down others. Alongside the acceptance of it all was a deeper sense of genuineness, an offering of Nico’s that felt like more of a gift than an exploitation.

This was his way of welcoming her to the Society. This was his way of making her feel more at home.

So, with eyes still blinking from the fresh feel of hot air, the scent of desert still clogging her nose, Jo turned away from the painting and walked up to Nico. Without warning, she wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling him tense in surprise. Quickly, however, he eased into the embrace, hugging her back tightly and without restraint.

He smelt like fresh paint and cedar, his arms strong and warm. The realness of him brought her back from the deluge of memories, but did not sever the sensation of peace those images left in their wake.

After a long moment, Jo pulled back, running a hand over her face to check for any stray tears. Dry—looked like she was solidly back on the right track when it came to crying.

“Thank you,” she said, keeping as much appreciation in her voice as she could.

That knowing smile on Nico’s face only grew in response, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

He’d never know it, but he’d given her the greatest gift of all—cementing her resolve for what she must do next, regardless of the consequences. She may not exist, but that didn’t mean she was ready to turn her back on the home she knew.