"Marco," I said slowly. "Look at this."
Marco leaned over the table, and I watched his face change.
"That's not possible," he said.
"What," Dorian said, sharp, already moving to look.
Marco didn't answer immediately, he picked up the photograph, held it closer to the window where the grey morning light was strengthening, turned it slightly, and when he looked up his face had gone the colour of the cream invitation card.
"That's me," he said.
Everyone fell silent in the kitchen.
"That's not possible," Dorian said, but he was already looking and comparing things, and I watched him do the math, the same fast recalculation, except this time it wasn't landing anywhere good. "Marco, you'd have be... what, twenty, in this photograph—"
"Nineteen," Marco said. His voice had gone strange and
