Time Watcher, page 24
“History. Juggle?” Sarah’s tone matched that of a parent discovering their child had made a mess. “Who are you? What are you? You didn’t go anywhere near Area 51, did you?”
“I’m not an alien,” Emily murmured, following retreating Debbie with her gaze. “It was a misunderstanding. I had to do a test so I wouldn’t get in trouble with Mrs. Spencer.”
She’d gotten all the answers right. How? She stared at the unsolved equation in her notebook. She didn’t even remember—
That was it. She didn’t remember. Because a different Emily from another time had taken over. She’d traveled back to the test to save her butt. But why all the answers? It only got her into more trouble. Now she’d have to explain to Mrs. Spencer she didn’t want to go to any competition. Which made no sense since she supposedly wanted to take the test.
Emily sighed and bumped her head on the desk.
Stage fright probably wouldn’t work as an excuse.
Will waited for Emily near her house, pretending to be a casual stroller.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“I think anything I say would be an understatement. How are you, Gramps?”
“Everything is fine. I fixed your watch. Did you end up in trouble?”
“Depends on how you define trouble.” Emily inspected the area and let Will into her house once she was sure nobody was watching. She explained the events of the previous day as they headed up to her room. “So, now I need to travel back and write the answers. What I don’t get is why I answered everything correctly. I want nothing to do with their history competition.” She sat on her bed while Will took the position in front of the desk.
He scratched his chin. “Curious, indeed.”
“Are you sure I can’t change the past again? If I traveled back and only got half of the answers right…”
“No. What happened tells us that the final result, regardless of how many travels you made, was you getting all the answers correct.”
“Then I’m just plain dumb. Why would I submit myself to going all the way to DC with Mrs. Spencer? And Debbie?”
Will snapped to attention. “DC? As in Washington?”
“Yeah. Where the competition is.”
Will paced to the door, then turned to her. “My mother’s mission is in Washington. You’ll need to go there.”
Emily shot from the bed. “And you’re telling me that now?”
“I hadn’t considered it would be much of an issue. Travel is easy in your era, is it not? You have those airplanes—”
“Easy, but not cheap. I don’t have the time or the means.” Emily grunted and ran a hand through her hair. “I have the means now, don’t I?” She collapsed on the bed, splaying her limbs. “Now my answers make sense. I had to get it all right because I have to get to the damn competition.”
“It is commendable, really.”
She raised her head. “What is?”
“That you had—or, will—study history despite not liking it.”
“Study it? Oh, no, no. I already know the questions. I’ll just look up the answers. In fact, Debbie probably has cliff notes somewhere.”
His eyebrows drew together. “You intend to cheat.”
“Relax. I’ve done it before with an assignment or two.”
“I would much prefer if we go about this the honest way.”
Of course he would. She sat up, cross-legged. “Will, I can’t afford to go about it the honest way. I don’t want to, I don’t need to, I can’t. I don’t have time to study that much material! I have other tests, and the SATs are coming up—”
“Understandable. But it doesn’t mean I condone it.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m still doing it.”
“Emily—”
She walked to him and clutched his shoulders. “Guillaume Pelletier, do you want me to save your mother or not?”
His jaw twitched.
“Will?”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Simple. I look up the answers, travel back, write them down. One trip, twenty minutes. Easy-peasy.”
“I’ll let you do what you think is best. It’s your world,” he said stiffly. “But let it be known, I’m not in favor of your hornswoggling.”
She snorted. “Cheating? Well, it’s what we do, if we’re given the opportunity.”
“Not all of us,” he mumbled as she took her laptop to the bed and powered it up.
“If it’ll make you feel better, you can tell me the answers, if you know them.” She shot him a sideways glance. He remained stubbornly silent. “Okay, then. Let’s see, what did we have. Holy Roman Emperor…”
She wrote the questions down, then went in search of answers.
“Your telephone is buzzing,” Will said.
Emily checked it. Two missed calls from Nicky. Oh, no. She was supposed to visit Mama today. Emily bit her lip, then sent a quick ‘sorry, forgot’ text to her aunt.
Using schoolwork as an excuse again?
She shook off her annoying thoughts. She had more pressing matters. It wasn’t that she couldn’t bear being there, in that sad little room, where the beeping of the devices that kept Mama alive formed the other end of the conversation. In the room where she saw Dad’s heartbreak.
Emily forced herself to focus on the task at hand. This was how she’d save her. “This is a weird one,” she murmured as she checked the next question. “Krakatoa is a synonym for what? Maybe I didn’t get it right. I’ll have to travel back to make sure—”
“Disaster,” Will said.
“Okay, the situation is not that bad.”
“No, the word Krakatoa. It means disaster.”
She looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“It’s a volcano in Indonesia. It erupted two years ago—that is, in 1883. A massive explosion, they say. Thousands of lives lost.”
“Oh.”
“Ash particles spread in the atmosphere all over the world. They lowered the temperatures. The grape harvest was late. But the particles also made spectacular sunsets. Blood red and orange, so vivid you’d think there was a great fire in the distance. Sometimes, the moonlight would be blue or green. I painted some of it. It was incredible.” He grimaced. “Although the thousands of dead would disagree.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She suddenly felt so small, insignificant. The entire world around her was rooted in history. Down in the Historical District, centuries-old houses were haunted by lost souls: souls who, even if they didn’t die as dramatically as the stories went, still had to come from somewhere. They lived and they died; they walked on some same and some similar streets, perhaps sat under the very same trees she had.
And she’d never cared about any of it.
“Should you continue?” Will asked.
“Right. Yeah.” She shook her head and returned to work, writing down what Will had told her, and double-checking it with a search. But it didn’t feel the same, only reading about the disaster.
In another ten minutes, she collected all the answers. “I think I’m ready. I’ll go back to the test now. You, uh, you can go if you don’t want to be an accomplice in this.”
Will shifted on his seat. “I’ll wait.”
She lowered her eyes. This is the best way. The easiest way. She readied her watch, calculated the time, and, in a second, was back in the classroom where she whizzed her way through the test. At least Will could give me credit for remembering all these answers. She didn’t have to travel back a single time in between; just wrote it all down, then traveled back to leave her past self slightly confused about what had happened. I’m sorry. You’ll get it soon enough.
“The telephone doesn’t stop buzzing,” Will told her as she returned.
“Ugh. It’s my aunt.” Emily called back. Nicky picked up immediately. “I know I forgot, I’m sorry. Didn’t you see the text?”
“Emily.” Her aunt’s voice was different—low, unstable, as if being tossed around on invisible waves. Emily had never heard it like this.
No. She had. Once. That evening before Christmas.
Shivers spread over her skin, and she felt it, knew it, before Nicky continued.
“It’s your mama.”
Part 5
Rebels
Chapter 31
Hartford
January 1865
Frozen rain, mixed with snow, fell outside, the dreary atmosphere reflecting the mood inside the parlor where the neighbors gathered for the funeral. Brayden stared numbly at the casket, the priest’s words echoing as if far away. Reality felt so thin he was afraid he’d fall into nothingness if he shifted his feet.
With the service concluded, he said some words to Jim and Gertrude and headed home. The ground didn’t swallow him, and the snowflakes sticking to his coat were certainly real. The dark splotches that spread under his boots and the screams echoing around him—those weren’t.
The split second before the shot repeated itself over and over, in his dreaming and waking moments. Caddie lying on the ground. The man pointing the rifle at Fabienne’s chest. Both falling as Brayden shot. He’d hit the man as he intended, but his mind was stuck on the moment and all the ifs coming with it.
If only he’d been there sooner.
If only he’d gone for the man’s hand, made him drop the rifle.
If only she were still alive.
Mrs. Beasley greeted him at home. “The doctor visited.”
“How is she?”
The housekeeper followed him upstairs. “The fever hasn’t broken, but he looked at her wound and said there are no worrisome signs. He gave her some morphine for the pain. She’s gone back to sleep now.” Mrs. Beasley stopped by the bedroom door.
Brayden pushed it in. They left a window open to ventilate the room, and it was appropriately cold.
At first glance, Fabienne looked peaceful, sleeping on the bed, wrapped in blankets. Only the glistening pallor of her skin held a hint of her true condition. Dr. Byrne had gotten the bullet out, cleaned the wound, and dressed it with a beeswax-based ointment and bandages.
The rest was up to fate.
“Thank you,” Brayden said to the housekeeper. “You can attend to your other duties. I’ll watch over her.” He lowered himself into a chair by the bed.
Did the dreams haunt Fabienne, too? Or did her fever chase them away? He didn’t know what to do to escape from his. He could get stupidly drunk, but that would only help for a while. He could drill all the logic of the world into his heart, make it see reason. Caddie had slimmer chances of survival, even if he’d carried her out of the forest first. He’d have risked losing them both. Simple math.
But there was always an if, a maybe, a decision that couldn’t be supported by numbers. Fabienne skipping along a forest path on a summer day, quoting French poetry, with mischievous eyes and a smile that sent warmth all the way down to his toes. Caddie ruffling his hair when he was a little boy and went to her with a problem his father was too busy to solve, and not letting him go back home until he'd tried whatever dessert she'd recently baked.
How could he willingly abandon either of them?
Next to him, Fabienne shifted, still deep in sleep—or dreams. He wiped her forehead with a fresh handkerchief.
“You’re going to be fine.” In the quiet room, his voice sounded weak, forlorn.
Brayden soon dozed off himself, the ringing of bullets accompanying him into sleep.
***
In a dark void where heat pressed on Fabienne like a pillow, strings of unconnected memories chased after her. Running through a narrow back alley. Shots. Cold, snow, the forest—smoke, blood, the trees, the stink of the backyard, Caddie’s whimpering, the last kiss on the forehead Antoine gave her—hot, cold, burning—pain, always the pain—voices and blurred shapes—
Tearing herself away, Fabienne gasped for air and grabbed her side. Memories slowly dissipated, and her eyes adjusted to the light.
She was in her bedroom on a sunny morning. It was clean and cold, empty and quiet. Safe.
Brayden strode through the doorway. “You’re awake.” His voice was remarkably even. He poured some water from the pitcher and offered her a glass.
She drank eagerly, the fresh water quenching the fire in her throat. Memories of the forest came back, clearer this time.
“Caddie,” she rasped. Mon Dieu, Caddie! She tossed away the covers and sat up. “I need to see Caddie. I have to—”
Brayden grasped her shoulders and set her back down; she was too weak to resist. His jaw tensed as his eyes searched the room, avoiding her gaze. “Caddie is gone.”
Fabienne shook her heavy head.
“Her wound was too severe. We couldn’t do anything.”
“But you…” More flashes came back. Brayden leaning over her, then going to Caddie. “You were there. How were you there?”
“Jim and I had the shooting match. On the way back, we stopped by Caddie’s house.” He sounded strangely detached, as if he merely recited learned words. “Gertrude told me about your odd behavior. I went after you. Turns out two men, escaped Confederate prisoners, were hiding in the cabin. One’s dead. The other one ran, and we haven’t seen him since.”
He didn’t know she knew. A heaviness, dark, acidic, all-consuming, spread in her chest. This was all her fault. Memories flashed through: she and Caddie, both wounded. Only Brayden to help. He couldn’t have carried them both.
Her throat felt tight. “You chose me.”
He looked away, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “Now that you’re properly awake, I’ll order the cook to prepare some real food. She’s been waiting for days to serve something other than broth.” He left.
A week later, Fabienne was allowed to rise and do light chores. She insisted on going down for breakfast and supper. Each time, Brayden was nowhere to be seen. She took to sneaking around the house, feeling much like on her first day here—uncertain, unwelcome, skittish. Only this time, she’d have given everything for a glimpse of the golden hair.
But Brayden was avoiding her.
It was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? He only followed her wishes from before. She had put distance between them… in a time that felt so long ago, hidden behind a half-sheer curtain of interlaced snowflakes, separated from this Fabienne not by weeks, but by the dramatic reworkings of her soul. She’d cut him out; still, she wanted him; and still, she knew she didn’t deserve him. Just like Gertrude had said. She was a plague—only Brayden didn’t go first. Caddie did.
In her dreams, the snowflake curtain shattered, and the snowflakes fell on her, dark against the too-bright sky. She lay on the ground, unable to move. Her skin felt like ice. Snow wouldn’t melt on that. It would keep building and building. If she couldn’t get away, would it cover her? Bury her?
Branches spread across the sky. Roots and vines burst from the ground, twisting and turning, creating a nest around her. No, not a nest. They were enveloping her, binding her, pulling her beneath. She wouldn’t freeze, buried in snow, because she’d suffocate first—
A shot rang, and Fabienne came awake with a straggling breath. She flailed her arms, fighting off the roots that turned into the empty air of her bedroom.
“Fabienne. Fabienne, calm down.”
Light seeped in from the open door to the hallway. Brayden kneeled in front of her, holding her hands steady. The pitch dark outside indicated it was still the middle of the night, yet Brayden was fully dressed. Tired shadows underlined his eyes.
Slowly, she forced her breathing back to normal. She clutched his hands for reassurance. He’s here. “I was dreaming.”
He sat on the bed, their hips touching through the covers. “I know.”
His hand twitched, and she forced herself to release her grip. He only came to see what was going on. He was free to leave now.
Brayden didn’t move.
“You resent me.” She struggled to get the words past the lump in her throat. “I was the wrong choice.”
He kept his eyes on the blanket. “Don’t say that.”
“I shouldn’t be the one still here. Caddie was like—”
He grabbed her shoulders. “I know who Caddie was to me,” he said in a low voice. “But you were… you are…”
He was so close his breath brushed her skin. A warm charge passed between them as he touched her cheek. The fire in her froze in a breathless moment when she jutted her chin forward, then unleashed when his lips descended on hers. The flames raged, no longer chasing her in dreams, but blissfully carrying her away from all bad memories. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, then his shirt, then his vest; she pulled and fumbled with the buttons while his arms closed around her, clenching her nightgown. She pulled at his shoulder to get him closer, then leaned back as he half-covered her. Their teeth clashed in a wild kiss. She pushed in deeper, letting their breaths mingle, their tongues meet. Not enough. Her impatient hands progressed down his body and tugged at his trousers, clumsily trying to undo the buttons.
Brayden’s hand closed around hers. He broke the kiss. “We have to stop,” he said with raspy breath. He moved away and sat on his knees.
“No.” She reached for him, but he grabbed her hands. When they fell to her lap, he cupped her face.
“It’s not going to help,” he said.
But she needed him—the solution, the reprieve, even if each kiss came with a cut of guilt. He was the only escape she could see, the sunshine that peeked through the branches, the warmth that melted the ice off her skin.
Brayden rested his forehead on hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you in the past weeks.”
“It’s always the same. I see it every night,” she said in a small voice.
“I know. I see it, too.” He crushed her in an embrace. “You’re going to be fine. You never have to set foot into that forest again. You’re safe here. You’re safe.”
The pent-up emotions unleashed a cascade of tears. They slipped down her cheeks until Brayden’s shirt swallowed them. She’d killed Caddie. She’d rejected him. And yet he was here, comforting her.
