As Quentin looked through the open door of the hospital room, a moth settled on his hand. The last thing he noticed before he smashed it against the wall was the perfect heart-shaped black marks on its wings.

"Ouch!" he cried, shaking his smarting fingers.

Eliot, Margo, and Jane looked up. They stood, gathered around a man with a sore-covered, weather-beaten face. While Quentin was used to his friends helping the homeless, he'd never seen them working with a beggar who was in such bad condition. The man had no eyes and a missing hand.

"Are you okay?" Eliot asked Quentin.

After assuring himself the Beast wasn't present, Quentin said, "Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "What--um, what happened to that guy?"

"The Beast happened to him," Margo said.

"We were working in the soup kitchen," Eliot explained with bright eyes. "Gods and holy lights! Why would anyone kill homeless people?"

It was hard, looking at Eliot now, to believe what Dean Fogg had said under the influence of the truth spell. There was no one Quentin knew who was more selfless, noble, and just plain good than Eliot Waugh. To think that every other timeline on which they'd battled the Beast he was a hedonist with a substance abuse problem was staggering.

"This was the only man we could save," Margo said.

Suddenly, the beggar flailed his arms. "Where is my King?"

"He's awake," Jane said.

"Who saved me?" the beggar asked. "Was it you, my King?"

"Who are you?" Jane asked. "How did you survive?"

"I am a knight of Filory," the beggar replied. "Armored with a thousand spells of defense."

"What is your quest, Sir Knight?" Jane asked.

"To unite my King with the Priestess. The Pure One who is not pure, but who secretly lusts for our beloved King."

At these words, Margo drew back, as if only now considering the possibility that the filthy man covered in bandages and blood might carry disease.

"What a powerful delusion," Margo said.

"No--No. It's um," Quentin said. "Tell him, Jane, uh, Chatwin."

Jane met his gaze, surprise showing on her face. No one was supposed to know her true name. Eliot, however, looked unsurprised.

"That's ridiculous," Margo said.

"No, um. Dean Fogg said so under the truth spell," Quentin replied.

"That voice!" the beggar cried with joy. "It is the Fool!"

At this, Margo laughed nervously. Was it mockery? Regardless, Quentin's cheeks warmed.

"I'm not a fool," he muttered.

"Not a fool, the Fool, the Royal Court Jester of Filory, reborn these many times, circling through the ages until now."

A chill walked across Quentin's scalp. How did this beggar know about the time spell?

"I know how you like card tricks, Fool." The beggar reached inside his jacket and withdrew the King of Hearts. As always, the King was pictured as pushing a dagger into the side of his own head. "Take this."

Margo stopped smiling.

The image on the card filled Quentin with dread. He took a step back.

Eliot stared at the wounded beggar with renewed interest.

"Please, Fool," the beggar said. "Take the card."

Quentin took another step back. The card looked ordinary, but it called to him. Cards did that sometimes. They knew the trick and helped Quentin to perform it. He felt the depth of power beneath the card's blood-stained surface. As much as magic normally attracted and fascinated him, this time it gave him shivers.

"Take it, Fool," Jane said. "If this man is truly a knight, you must."

Quentin took the card with his left hand, and with his right, he reached inside the picture, grabbed the wrist of the King of Hearts, and drew the dagger out. As he did, the card ripped itself to shreds, and the pieces fluttered in the air like moths. The weapon was long and silvery, with a handle that shone like opal, and a large clock in the pommel.

"Behold the Dagger of Eternity," the beggar said. "The soul sacrificed by it will be reborn in every age and on every timeline forever. By it, the noble King of Filory must be slain."

"Who's the King?" Quentin asked.

Jane Chatwin had the answer. She turned to face Eliot and dropped to one knee.

"My lord," she said.

Of course. Who else but the noble, friend of the poor, the helper of the sick? Who else but Eliot? Quentin dropped to one knee. Margo did as well.

Eliot retreated, hunched his shoulders, and held up his hand in a warding gesture. For one brief moment, fear shone in his noble face. When it passed, he stood up straighter, and his expression calmed. Was it a trick of the light, or did the sunlight paint a crown of jewels in Eliot's thick hair?

"So I must die," Eliot said. He strode forward, his face a picture of selfless determination.

"To live again always," the beggar said. "To one day play your part in defeating the Beast."

"Quentin." Eliot swallowed. "Please give me the dagger."

"No!" the beggar cried. "The Priestess must slay you! The one who secretly lusts after you in her heart."

All heads turned toward Margo.

"Why is everyone looking at me?" she asked.

When no one answered, she let her shoulders drop. "Fine. But I can't sacrifice Eliot. I--I don't want to ever lose him."

"If the Beast is to be defeated, you must," the beggar said.

Quentin put the blade into her trembling hands.

Eliot knelt before her and opened his shirt. With her free hand, she ran her fingers across his chest.

will we be together again in some future time and place?" she asked.

"Alas," the beggar whispered. "Our noble King is never to be yours."

She swallowed. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

"Not even, you know, once?" She bit her lip.

The two stared into each other's eyes.

"I'm gay." Eliot paused, then added, "Mostly."

She leaned in and placed her lips softly against his.

"He must remain pure for the sacrifice, Priestess. Pain is magic, and it is your loss that will fuel the spell."

They parted.

Slowly, she raised the weapon then lowered it. "I can't do this! Where would I be without Eliot?"

"Lost. Alone," the beggar said.

Margo shot him a dark look.

"You've got a--um--a lot of friends," Quentin said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Me, Penny, Alice. Lots."

"This is stupid," Margo said. "Filory is just a story."

"It's not," Eliot said. "I've seen it."

Margo shot Quentin a pleading look. "Don't ask me to do this."

"The Beast will kill us all if you don't," Eliot said.

Eliot lifted Margo's hand, helping her raise the blade. "I will always remember you," he promised. "In every timeline."

"Help me," Margo whispered.

Quentin put his hand over hers and Eliot's. When he did, he felt the spell of courage flow from the dagger, giving them the strength they needed. The blade slid easily into Eliot's chest, coming to rest with a shuddering thump. Eliot gasped, wobbled, and blood spilled from his mouth.

Margo screamed, pulled the dagger out, and threw it. She covered the spring of red pumping from Eliot's heart with her hands. "You may not be mine, but I am yours." She kissed him.

For an instant, a crown of stars flashed on Eliot's brow. His blood stopped flowing.

"It is done," the beggar said. "The pure, good man is gone, hidden once again inside the hedonist until the time he is needed."

Eliot blinked. His face lit with a dazed smile as he gazed at Margo. "May I call you Bambi?"

In answer, she smothered his mouth was hers.

Quentin smiled. A hedonist Eliot would be hard to get used to. Would he even like the man?

A moth landed on Margo's hair. Then another.

Quentin glanced wildly about and spotted the Beast, standing in the shadows, wrapped in moths, the Dagger of Eternity in his hands. He held it up and laughed. "Do any of you imagine Filory will have another king?"

"Long live Filory and the King!" the beggar shouted.

The Beast threw the dagger into the beggar's chest. He shuddered and went still.

"Does anyone else think there will be a future time or timeline when you can defeat me?" the Beast roared.

A ghostly blade materialized and touched each of the knight's shoulders. He opened his eyes, and they were whole. He raised his hands and flexed ten fingers. No sores marked his smiling face. "I know only this. One day, there will again be a King of Filory."

With a cry, the Beast gestured magically. Margo, Eliot, and the Knight coughed blood. Pain blossomed in Quentin's chest, and a warm trickle bubbled from his lips. He tried to cast a spell, but his fingers fell, leaving bloody stumps.

As he took his final breath, he noticed one thing that gave him hope: Jane Chatwin had somehow slipped away.