And with that, Mr. March tossed enough money onto the table to cover the entire bill and then joined the crowds on the streets of New York. Even now it was a bustling metropolis, the engine of the American dream. Or perhaps Neil was being sentimental. The country was at war, and the city was full of struggling immigrants, the poor, the diseased, and of course, the criminals. Perhaps he did belong here, he thought ruefully.
He opened the slip of paper. The name of the contact was September Wilde, and she lived in New Orleans.
Chapter 12
December 28, 1863
New Orleans, Louisiana
“In a way, I envy you,” said McCullen as they walked down the boulevard on the way to call upon Miss September Wilde. “You haven’t had great wealth, but you haven’t had great poverty either.”
“I wouldn’t say you’re in great poverty,” said Seamus. “You’ll land on your feet. You always do. And as I recall, both of us have had a good taste of poverty.”
“Yes, yes. But what I mean is that I’ve had wealth and influence, and now I have none of that. Had I taken a wife, I might still have her. But after a six-year absence, who can say?”
Seamus tried to sneak a glance at him, to assess if he was speaking the truth or having him on. It was impossible to know. McCullen understood that he had lost all that he had spent years building, but he still had his mind, his cleverness, his talents and his way with people. He would not suffer long.
But after spending two days together, Seamus wondered. Could it be that McCullen, stripped of money and power and free of their intoxicating influence, would revert to the decent man Seamus had known when they had been cellmates?
“You’ve built a life for yourself,” continued McCullen. “Granted, it’s not a life of prestige, but it’s solid. Good and solid.”
“Not so terribly solid. I was just almost eaten by a monster living inside a time rip.”
“You’re willfully misunderstanding me. You have people. Hazel and Miss Sanchez and Mrs. Washington. They would still care about you if you were a beggar on the streets.”
McCullen turned his face aside, looking off across the street. McCullen had no one, Seamus knew. If he had taken a wife, she would have been someone from the upper class, a woman of wealth, interested in preserving her social place. When he vanished, she would have had him declared dead and moved on to other prospects. What a change from six years ago. At the Mardi Gras ball, matrons had pushed their daughters to dance with McCullen. Where were his admirers and friends now? He could not even secure a place at his own gentlemen’s club.
If he had been corrupted by the pleasures of the world before, perhaps this was his opportunity for redemption.
They turned down the last street toward September Wilde’s house. The last time Seamus had come this way, Hazel had accompanied him. Miss Wilde was a black woman living in a middle-class white neighborhood, so upon first meeting her, Seamus had assumed she was a servant. She was not, but somehow she managed to own a house here without being driven out or harassed. She also worked with Mr. Neil Grey, so presumably she was some sort of time traveler, though Seamus had always found her at home whenever he had visited.
At their knock, Miss Wilde pulled open the door. She was in her late fifties or early sixties as close as he could guess, with spectacles and gray hair cropped unfashionably short. Her long features relaxed into a smile when she recognized him.
“Mr. Connor! Delighted to see you.”
“Miss Wilde, may I introduce my … colleague, Mr. McCullen.”
The look she gave McCullen was frosty, but she greeted him politely. “Do come in. I have a pie cooling.”
They seated themselves in the front room, and Miss Wilde took the chair across from them. A sleek white cat strolled into the room and leapt up onto the stuffed arm of her chair.
“Something has happened,” said Seamus, not wanting to waste time on niceties. “Something with the time rips. In the past, you have been reticent to tell me anything about the machine or traveling in time, and I understand that. But this is urgent. Perhaps you should call Mr. Grey.”
“He isn’t here. Last I heard he was sailing to Peru.”
“You might want to call him on your telephone or whatnot. We’ve seen something, at Jackson Square. There is a rumor that a few people have disappeared in that area, and we went to take readings to see what we could learn. We found a fresh rip, one that had opened recently. And when we got close, it opened and there was this giant serpent-like creature. It was white and eyeless, and it somehow pulled on the air and me and everything around us.”
Ms. Wilde looked concerned now, and she leaned forward in her chair. “Haven’t you been closing the time rips when they become unstable? I thought you and young Miss Dubois monitored them closely.”
“Yes, we have. That’s just it. They’re becoming unstable despite our efforts. If it wasn’t for McCullen closing the door so quickly, the monster would have eaten me.”
She looked at McCullen, who had not said a word the entire time.
“Well done,” she said.
After a moment’s hesitation, McCullen waved the compliment away as if it were nothing.
“Is it because of a time loop?” Seamus asked. The older version of Hazel had mentioned time loops in 1961. “Is this one of the bad things that can happen when there’s an instability?”
Ms. Wilde looked at the cat as if she wanted to say something to it, but then turned back to Seamus. “If a void wyrm has come, then I suppose you need to know a few things.”
“A void wyrm?”
“An ancient species. A creature that lives in the empty space between worlds. Are you familiar with the creature known as the trapdoor spider?”
“I can’t say as I am.”
“The spider makes its home in a small space, a hole in a log for instance. It then makes a plug over its home using its webbing. It strings web all around the hole, and waits. When prey comes by, it steps on the webbing and the spider feels it. It opens its trap door, grabs the prey and slips back into its hiding place. The void wyrm is similar. It makes its home in the pockets between worlds, near spaces that are unstable. It doesn’t use webbing, of course, but it can sense when prey is near and then open the door and feed. You said some people had vanished?”
“Yes, I fear they were eaten by the thing.”
“Most likely they were. Unfortunately. But if the void wyrm has come, it’s because this has become a good place to feed. That means that we need to close the door.”
“I would if I could,” said Seamus. “But I cannot. Neither McCullen nor I have the knowledge.”
“And that is why you came to me?”
“Can’t you close it, or call one of your time agents and have them do it?”
She smiled. “This isn’t a job for an agent, not this time. I need to consult with my siblings. You need not worry about it further. Thank you for notifying me.”
“And that’s all? It will be taken care of?”
“Yes. Thank you for coming by.” She stood. “Would you like to stay for a slice of pie before you go?”
Seamus was about to say no, but McCullen said, “We’d love to, thank you.”
She went into the kitchen and left them alone. The white cat folded its paws underneath itself and closed its eyes.
“We need to get home,” Seamus said. “We’ve no time for pie.”
“I want to ask her a few things,” said McCullen.
Miss Wilde reappeared with plates of warm apple pie. Seamus had not realized how hungry he was, but then remembered that he had skipped supper.
“I’m not from this world,” said McCullen. Seamus almost choked at the abruptness of it. “And I want to find out how to get back. And Mr. Connor’s friend, Miss Sanchez, will also need to get back to her
world. How can I do it?”
Miss Wilde raised her eyebrows. “There’s a world that is close to many others, including this world. It’s almost like a hub world with other universes, like spokes, touching it in various places.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Seamus. “You can’t tell us because giving me the information will form an unstable time loop.”
McCullen clearly didn’t understand, so Seamus explained. “Information and objects have to have an origin. If we learn the information from Miss Wilde, and then in my future I tell her the information, then it has no origin. Someone has to come up with the idea in the first place.”
“Sounds like rubbish to me.”
“It’s just that sort of rubbish that prevents us from attracting void wyrms,” Ms. Wilde said. “And I can, in fact, give you help in getting there. Because you didn’t discover it.”
“Who did?”
“My people,” she said and went to a bureau against the far wall. She opened a drawer, pulled out a pencil and paper and started to write. “Go to this world. People there have narrow feet, like Miss Sanchez, but it isn’t her world. From there, you should be able to reach her world, and yours.” She looked at McCullen. “But the synchronicities you require to travel are more difficult to manage.”
When she approached them, McCullen reached out for the paper, but she handed it to Seamus instead. He opened it, memorized its contents, folded it and put it into his coat pocket.
“Tell me how you’ll get rid of this void wyrm,” he said. “And who, exactly, are your people? Do you mean the time travelers?”
“Some of us can travel between, yes. The Twelve will want to know about the void wyrm. Only a few of us are able to seal the door with ease. If my suspicions are correct, someone is interfering with timelines, and that is why the doorway became unstable and attracted the wyrm in the first place.” Seamus and McCullen had finished their slices of pie and Miss Wilde collected the plates. “I will be going on a trip to speak with my siblings. One brother lives here in New Orleans, and another is in Los Angeles.”
She glanced at the cat, who had not moved. “Time is short and I’ll need to send a message to June in San Francisco too.” The cat stretched and trotted out of the room.
“Were you born in Miss Sanchez’s time? Or Mr. Grey’s?” asked Seamus. As long as she was being so forthcoming, he wanted to know everything.
She smiled fondly at him. “If I told you my birthday, I don’t think you’d believe me.”
Miss Wilde moved toward the front door, and both men took her cue and followed.
“If you require anything else from me,” she said, “I’ll be at Augustus’s Music Shop or here.”
“Is there nothing else you can tell us? No other help you can offer?” Seamus asked.
They stood on the front steps and put their hats on. Miss Wilde looked up at the sky, as if assessing the weather.
“Only my blessing,” she said.
Chapter 13
December 31, 1863
New Orleans, Louisiana
It was Sunday morning, and Hazel had no music lessons to teach and no obligations aside from her morning Mass attendance. She decided not to stop to speak to the priest afterwards to ask about obtaining a dispensation to marry Mr. Ross. The guilt prickled her as she headed home, but she did not turn back.
She hurried home, changed out of her Sunday best and went to help Mrs. Washington prepare lunch in the kitchen.
“Any hopes or resolutions for the New Year?” asked Mrs. Washington, elbow-deep in flour and soft, white bread dough.
“I don’t know,” Hazel sighed.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Mrs. Washington knew her moods, and there was no hiding that she was unhappy. She thought of calling on her friend Cassandra. She was a good friend, but her opinions on Mr. Ross were unchanging. She would tell Hazel that she was a fool to reject such a man. Mrs. Washington was a steadier soul.
“Mr. Ross asked me to marry him.”
“From the way you sound, I take it you refused him?”
“No.” Hazel sighed and looked out the kitchen window at a hummingbird that was flitting around the bougainvillea. It didn’t have to worry about marriages or people disappearing forever through time rips. Its understanding of the world was limited and its choices in life were few. It was content.
“If you’ve accepted him and you’re this unhappy about it, I’d think you might want to reconsider.” Mrs. Washington wiped her hands and rummaged through the cabinets for the bread pans.
“I didn’t accept him either. I told him I’d think about it.”
The housekeeper set the pans down, and after a moment, nodded. “That was wise. It’s good to keep a clear head about these things. Consider your future, especially since you’re still young.”
Mrs. Washington placed the dough into the pans, covered them and set them aside to rise. Hazel sliced cheese, cold pork and apples and filled four plates, two for McCullen and the Professor, and two for Mrs. Washington and herself.
“I don’t know that thinking it over is going to help,” said Hazel. “It seems like the more I think about it, the more miserable I become.”
“I wish I could tell you what to do. I wish I had a good answer for you.”
Hazel knew that there was no one to help her but herself. Each choice she made opened one door but closed another. Perhaps it was the loss of options that bothered her. The hummingbird outside was still darting from flower to flower, a rounded iridescent emerald glittering in the sunshine. Its life was almost absent of choices, and it was happy. But something was wrong with that sort of thinking, and she knew it.
“It’s nearly noon,” said Mrs. Washington, glancing at the kitchen clock. Hazel loaded up the tray along with two glasses of tea. The Professor always liked his lunches at noon precisely, and he was so lax about everything else that Mrs. Washington had once said she felt obligated to do that one thing for him every day exactly as he wished.
“I’ll take it up,” said Hazel.
When she reached the upper hallway, the clock was already chiming. Then the air all around her shimmered.
“Professor!” she yelled and darted toward the laboratory, hoping to escape the shimmer. The lunch tray slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor.
The Professor had described the void wyrm to her, and she wasn’t about to get eaten by it, or pulled into some other world or time. She lunged for the laboratory doorknob, desperate to escape from the air that shimmered on every side of her, filling the hallway from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Her hand was about to grasp the knob when the door flew open. She landed hard on her hands and knees and then scrambled into the laboratory, her legs tangling in her skirts.
Then strong arms grasped her under the arms and hauled to her feet. It was McCullen. The air inside the room was not shimmering. Had she escaped? The Professor hurried past her and McCullen looked beyond her, into the hallway.
There was a shout, a happy shout in a woman’s voice. She knew the voice. Miss Sanchez. She leapt forward and threw her arms around the Professor’s neck with a look of pure joy. She held onto him and he gently lowered his cheek to rest against her hair and after a long while, she let him go. Behind her stood a machine. It looked like the Professor’s current machine, a trunk with a paneled brass sphere on top, but was much more polished and sophisticated-looking than his cobbled-together device. After glancing between the machine and Miss Sanchez a few times, the Professor was unable to resist its pull. He knelt to examine the thing.
“Hazel?” said Miss Sanchez, and then Hazel found herself the recipient of an enthusiastic hug. Hazel hugged her back. Miss Sanchez seemed so much smaller now.
“How long has it been for you?” said the Professor over his shoulder. He was on his knees, digging into
the innards of the machine.
“Only a few days,” said Miss Sanchez.
So Miss Sanchez was still in her mid-twenties. Hazel watched as Miss Sanchez pulled herself up a few inches and addressed McCullen.
“Thank you for saving my life,” she said. Hazel remembered how Miss Sanchez had almost drowned in the Mississippi because of her huge dress. Once wet, the dress would have pulled her under to her death. But McCullen had saved her, just before they had been swept through the time rip into 1961.
“My pleasure,” said McCullen. There was an awkward moment of silence. Hazel wondered if Miss Sanchez was about to rebuke McCullen for returning here without her.
“Where did you get the machine?” asked Hazel.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Miss Sanchez said. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown! Look at you. How long has it been?”
“Six years.”
“And what’s the date today?”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, 1863,” said Hazel.
“And was there a war?”
“It started when you said, in 1861. New Orleans is occupied by the Union now.”
“Are you both all right? Have you been safe?”
“Don’t worry about us,” said Hazel. “I had to come home from school in Boston when the war started, but I wasn’t in any danger. And we’re safe as can be.”
Miss Sanchez looked doubtful, and while McCullen went to sit back at the laboratory table, Hazel went to see what the Professor was doing. The machine Miss Sanchez had used was from the future, a later model of the Professor’s own creation, she was certain.
“It’s broken,” the Professor said, running his hands through his hair. “It could only make one trip. There was a failsafe. I think it was intentional.”
“But it has a little book with all the coordinates,” said Miss Sanchez. “It has been used hundreds of times, according to this.” She pulled open a small flip-out writing surface and retrieved a hand-written book from the small space inside. The Professor took it.
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 37
