Timebound

by Rysa Walker

  “No, Connor, you were right to show me. Thank you. It makes me feel good to know for certain that my dad is a good person in any timeline. I kind of knew it already—I could tell he wasn’t trying to hurt me—but it’s nice to see that he wants to… be there for me, at least as much as he can be.”

  I leaned back in my chair and shook my head. “But this letter doesn’t change anything, Connor—we both know that. Even if Saul were to back off and wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I’d have to wear a medallion every time I walked out the door. So would you. My mom would still be gone and Katherine—your kids, too. And Harry still wouldn’t be my dad. My biological father, yeah—but not my dad. I’ll have all of my memories, but he…”

  Connor glanced toward the door, and then quickly looked down at his feet. He didn’t say anything, but I could follow his train of thought—the same would be true of my relationship with Trey.

  “I know, Connor—but I’ve had a month with Trey and nearly seventeen years with Dad. And Trey seems convinced that all I have to do is kiss him and we’ll magically be… us again.”

  “Princess Charming, I presume?” He gave me a halfhearted grin. “The only problem is that you seem less convinced on that point than Trey.”

  “Yeah, but letting him know that isn’t going to make it any easier on either of us, is it?” I glanced at the clock. Five-forty-eight. The six o’clock deadline was obviously fluid—I’d be arriving early on the morning of October 28th, 1893, no matter what time it happened to be when I left the library. But every minute I waited made it more likely that I would lose my nerve.

  “I’ll meet you in the library in ten minutes, okay?” I gave him a shaky smile and walked to the back door, tucking the letter into my pocket.

  Trey was seated on the low stone wall surrounding the patio, with his back to me. Daphne lay at his feet, happily chewing on the edge of her neon green Frisbee. The late-afternoon sun was low in the sky, and combined with the few remaining tears in my eyes, it created a soft golden aura around him. I stood there for a minute, just looking at him, wanting to cement this in my memory. He turned toward me and smiled, and I had to fight back a fresh wave of tears.

  I bent down and called Daphne to me, delaying the moment when I’d need to look up at Trey. “You take care of Connor for a little while, okay, girl? I’m going to go get Katherine.” The good-bye was more for me than for Daphne, since from her perspective, if everything worked out as planned, I’d only be gone a matter of minutes. She lifted her head and sniffed at my cheeks where the tears had been, giving me a soft lick before she went back to gnawing on the toy.

  “What was that about?” Trey said, motioning his head toward the kitchen.

  I sat down beside him and pulled the letter out of my pocket. He started to speak when he finished reading, but I smiled gently at him and shook my head. “It’s okay, Trey. I’m glad I read it, although I’m still sorry that I interrupted his life. He seemed so happy there—but you know, he’s happy with Sara, too. And with me.”

  I took his hand and laced my fingers through his. “And we don’t know how any of this works; Katherine said that even in her era there was this huge debate about whether changing something would just spin off a new timeline… whether there could be an infinite number of different timelines all coexisting on separate planes. She said that maybe this timeline goes on, too, somehow, and some version of my dad will still be—”

  “No,” Trey interrupted, his voice resolute. “No. I don’t believe that. This timeline ends.” I realized with a pang that while the infinite-planes-of-existence theory had sounded pretty good to me, since this version of Dad and my two little half brothers might still exist in some cosmic sense, it had a very different meaning for Trey.

  He shook his head, squeezing my hand tightly. “I don’t want an infinite number of lives on different planes if even one of them means I’m not with you. You’re going back to fix this reality, to make it right again so that we can be together. And it will be okay. Estella always tells me that you have to have faith to get through life—and I’m not sure I have the type of faith she’s talking about, but I have faith in you. In us.”

  He pulled me to my feet and held me a few inches away, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What was it Westley said to Buttercup? ‘This is true love—you think this happens every day?’”

  “I just wish you were going to be there with me in this particular Fire Swamp.”

  “Me too,” he admitted. “But you can do this. I know you can.”

  His optimism wavered a bit when we were saying a final good-bye at the front door. There were tears in his eyes when he kissed me. “I love you, Kate. Just find me, okay?” And then he was gone. I rested my forehead against the door, half hoping he would open it again and give me an excuse to change my mind.

  After a moment, I heard his car start and pull away. Connor came up behind me and squeezed my shoulders. “Come on, girl. If we’re going to do this thing, might as well get it over with.”

  I gave him a shaky grin. “Easy for you to say. Two minutes after I leave, you’ll know if I succeeded. I’m the one who’s going to have to chase Katherine around Chicago all day.”

  “You know I’d switch places…” he began.

  “I know, Connor,” I said. “Just teasing. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be…”

  So at exactly 5:58 P.M. I was in the library, my parasol and handbag in one hand and the CHRONOS key in the other. Daphne was barking downstairs in the kitchen, probably at her nemesis the squirrel, and Trey was in his car, headed home. Connor was in front of me, looking like he was about to change his mind again and tell me we’d find some other way. I leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek and then, without pausing to think further, locked in the destination and closed my eyes.

  18

  When my eyes opened again, I was looking at a clear blue morning sky and could feel the faint chill of a crisp October breeze against my face. I’d gotten used to the sight of the lush green foliage at the stable point when viewing the location in the log, but it was a bit startling to have my other senses kick in as well. The island itself was quiet except for birds and chirping insects; I could detect the dull hum of a crowd in the distance. I caught the faint aroma of roasting peanuts and, much closer, the unmistakable smell of mud.

  The local time was 8:03 A.M., one minute after Katherine and Saul’s arrival. The gates of the Exposition had opened at eight, so it was still too soon for foot traffic to make its way to the Wooded Island near the center of the fairgrounds. I glanced around quickly. A dark-haired kid of maybe seven or eight years was energetically sweeping the sidewalk in front of a rustic cabin, and a bit farther away to the right I could see the retreating figures of Saul and Katherine.

  Each time that I had viewed their arrival through the medallion, I’d seen Saul grab Katherine’s elbow to help her up the small hill that provided cover for their sudden appearance on the island. The gesture had seemed like unnecessary gallantry, but I now realized that the soggy terrain, combined with decidedly unsensible clothing, was going to make it a lot more difficult to reach the sidewalk than I’d thought.

  Sighing, I tucked the CHRONOS key into the hidden pocket in the bodice of my dress. I hiked up the long skirt with one hand and used my unopened parasol as a brace to pull myself up the incline. The ground was not as tightly packed as it looked and the tip of my parasol sank about six inches into the loose, damp soil and mulch, throwing me off balance. I caught myself and managed—just barely—not to fall flat on my face, but I made enough noise to attract the attention of the kid sweeping in front of the cabin.

  My parasol was now streaked with dark mud and my gloves were ruined—so much for maintaining a ladylike appearance. I peeled off the gloves and stashed them in my bag, brushing the soil and stray leaves off the parasol as best I could before opening it, my hands shaking badly.

  The shaking hands brought to mind my one and only time onstage, during a fifth-grade play. I ha
d been desperately afraid that the curtain would go up, with dozens of eyes watching, and I would forget both of my very short lines. Even though the only eyes on me right now were those of the boy in front of the cabin, the feeling was the same. I took in a few deep breaths to calm myself, and then gave the kid a haughty look that I hoped would suggest he mind his own business. I turned to follow Saul and Katherine, who were now on the bridge that crossed the lagoon to link the Wooded Island with the main Exposition.

  I could still see them clearly as I approached the bridge over the lagoon. Saul towered over Katherine’s petite form, in her gray dress and purple hat topped with the lavender feather—just as I remembered from the many times I had watched them through the medallion.

  I picked up my pace, still hoping to follow plan A and keep the two of them in sight. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a necessity. They would end up at the Ferris wheel around ten-fifteen, and—if that failed for some reason—I could always follow them downtown, where Katherine would be alone for much of the afternoon. But even if the version ahead of me was a half century younger than the grandmother I knew, and even if she had no idea who I was, I knew that I would feel much more comfortable if that silly lavender feather remained in view.

  Plan A, however, was in jeopardy from the beginning. My ungraceful climb to the sidewalk had put me farther behind the two of them than I had planned. It would only take me a few minutes to catch up if I walked quickly, but there was trouble, quite literally, on the horizon. Although they were the only two people walking away from the island, about fifty yards ahead of them were the thousands of people who had arrived via the much more conventional route of the Sixty-Seventh Street entrance. Crowds were gathering around the various buildings in front of us and, unless Katherine and Saul turned to the right or left and walked along the lagoon surrounding the Wooded Island, they would be swallowed by the crowd before I closed the distance between us.

  And then, to make matters worse, I heard someone running up behind me on the bridge. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that it was the little kid from the cabin.

  “You dropped this on the island, miss!” he said, a bit out of breath. He had a folded envelope in one grubby hand and a damp rag in the other. “And you’ll want me to be helpin’ you with that umbrellow—if you leave that mud to stay on it, the fabric’ll be ruint.”

  I recognized the envelope at once and my heart rose into my throat. It was Dad’s letter, which I’d stashed back in my pocket without thinking after Trey finished reading it. It must have fallen out during my stumble up the hill.

  The letter had been stuffed a bit carelessly back into the envelope, and I suspected that the inquisitive eyes in front of me had at least glanced at it; although, he would hardly have had a chance to read it carefully during his run across the bridge—and that was assuming a kid his age could even read in this era. The postmark was clear on the envelope, but surely he would think it was a mistake if he had seen the date?

  The boy reached up with the hand holding the letter to pull my parasol down and wipe the dark stain off the top. I let him have the parasol and took the letter, tucking it quickly into my purse.

  “Thank you. I wouldn’t have wanted to lose this…” I dug about in the small coin purse inside the bag, trying to decide what an appropriate tip might be.

  “Int’restin’ stamp,” he said. “Must’ve come from a long way to cost forty-four cents for just sendin’ a letter. And I ain’ ever seen a stamp with a tiger on it like that. Looks like one of them tigers they have over on the Midway and the paintin’ on it is real bright an’ colorful. Don’ guess you could let me keep it for my c’lection?”

  I shook my head, glancing back over the bridge. Katherine was nearly out of sight. “I’m very sorry—but my sister collects stamps, too, and this is from our father, so it’s already spoken for…”

  He finished wiping off the parasol—I can’t say that there was a noticeable improvement, other than the dirt being spread around a bit—and handed it back to me, shrugging. “S’okay, miss. Just real unusual, so I thought…”

  “Here,” I said, giving him my best smile. “Take this—a reward for returning the letter and a bit for your trouble.” I handed him a half-dollar coin, hoping that it might take his mind off the stamp. “I really need to be going, however—I’m running way behind. Again, thank you.”

  His dark eyes grew very large, and it occurred to me that I might have been a bit too generous. A nickel or dime would have clearly been more appropriate. Running the numbers in my head, I realized that I’d given him the modern equivalent of about a twelve-dollar tip.

  “No, miss. Thank you,” he said, pocketing the coin and falling into step beside me. “What are you plannin’ to see first? Do you have a map? If not…” He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a grimy, much-folded map of the Expo, clearly hoping that he’d be able to tap the rich girl for another buck or two before she got away.

  “No, thank you, I have a map right here,” I said, picking up the pace a bit. I tugged the official-looking replica of a Rand McNally Expo map out of my bag and craned my neck to see if Katherine’s feather was still in view. It was, just a few feet into the crowd.

  The kid was keeping up with me, step for step. “Don’t you need to get back to your job?” I asked, although it felt a bit odd saying that to a kid who should be in about the third grade.

  “Nope—I’m all finished there for the day. I don’ have to be to my other job ’til later.” He skipped a few steps ahead and then turned to look at me, walking backward. “Those maps are no good, y’know. Half of ’em was written before the fair was even finished so they could get ’em printed in time and some of the exhibits moved aroun’. What you need is a guide. A respectable young lady shouldn’ be wanderin’ the fair without an escort, anyway.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ve seen plenty of women touring the fair without a male escort.”

  “Well, t’gether, yes,” he admitted. “But not walkin’ aroun’ by their lonesome much, right? I c’n be your guide—I done it nine times already, once for a group of ladies all the way from London. I know ever’thin’ about the fair, ’cause me dad worked here the whole time they was buildin’ it.”

  He paused and drew in a deep breath. “For two dollars I can show you ever’thin’ worth seein’ here and ways to avoid the crowd and”—he blushed a bit—“where the ladies’ necessary is, an’ all that kind of stuff…”

  I was about to ask what a necessary was, but then I considered his blush and put two and two together.

  “So what d’you say, miss?” he continued, quickly. “You don’ wanna be goin’ around by y’rself. There’s spots what ain’ safe for a young lady to be in—there’s some bad folk here might take advan’age of a girl on her own, y’know.”

  We had reached the middle of the avenue between the Mining Building and the Electricity Building. The gold dome of the Administration Building was just ahead, but Katherine’s lavender feather was nowhere in sight.

  Sighing, I glanced around and could see that he was correct—there were plenty of women in groups or even pairs, but I didn’t see even one unaccompanied female. I had to admit that I would probably look less conspicuous if I wasn’t alone.

  There was also the fact that he had seen the letter. I still wasn’t sure how much he had read, and I decided that it might make sense to keep the kid in sight and under my control until I was out of there. And it was pretty clear that the promise of additional cash would keep him close.

  He could tell that I was mulling it over, so he stood quietly, stick-straight, with his hands behind his back—a small, grubby soldier awaiting inspection. It was apparently difficult for him to keep perfectly still, however, especially with such a major business deal on the line, and the excess energy had him bobbing up and down on his toes, like a pogo stick.

  “I thought you had another job to be at.”

  “Not ’til a lot later,” he said, shaking his head. �
�And that’s just helpin’ me mom at the booth t’night, and she’d much rather I was workin’ somewhere else if I c’n bring in some extra. It’s been tough since me dad…” Died? Left? He didn’t finish the sentence and his face closed while thinking about it, so I decided not to press.

  He was thin and his clothes were worn, and I suspected that his assessment that his mother would be happy to have a few extra dollars for the week was dead-on. He also seemed pretty sharp—which was a mixed bag, given that he knew more than I wanted him to about my arrival. The dark eyes were a bit mischievous, but his face looked honest and open.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Well, they used t’call me dad Mick and me Little Mickey, on accoun’ of us bein’ Irish an’ all. Only he’s gone now and I’m not that little anymore, so you c’n just call me Mick.”

  “Okay, Mick—how old are you?”

  “Twelve years, miss,” he answered without a pause.

  I raised a very skeptical eyebrow. “How old are you really? I’m not going to refuse to hire you because of your age—I just want to know.”

  “Nearly nine,” he said.

  “Try again.”

  “No really—I’ll be nine in August,” he said.

  Given that it was October, he seemed to be stretching “nearly nine” to the breaking point, but at least that age seemed plausible. I tried to think up a story that an eight-year-old would buy, one that might keep him close and quiet until I was ready for the jump home. My mind flashed back to a book I’d read in middle school about Nellie Bly, the famous girl reporter of the 1880s who had traveled around the world on her own in seventy-two days. I was pretty sure she had been about my age when she started reporting.

  “Okay,” I said, bending down closer to his eye level. “Here’s the deal I can offer, Mick, and it’s not open for negotiation. I’m Kate—I’m a journalist, a writer… for a newspaper back East. I usually work with a partner, my photographer, but he’s been delayed. I could use an assistant, but you’ll have to do exactly as I say—no questions and no talking to anyone about this, because I’m working on an exclusive, okay?”