She gazed at the machine in front of her. It looked nothing like the long tubelike interior she associated with plane flights. Here, she could see the engine. See the propellers. The fabric stretched into wings, the levers that would control them. It was the difference between a bicycle and a subway train. The difference between seeing with her own eyes and blindly trusting.
Somehow her wobbly legs carried her forward to the seat beside the pilot’s position. She bundled her full skirt at her ankles and fixed the belt snuggly over the bundle—tricky wearing a corset. And then somehow, when the propellers were spun, when the engine turned over, when the catapult weight shot them forward—somehow Jillian was sitting in the passenger’s seat: scared, triumphant, exhilarated, and most of all, amazed.
Almost at once, oncoming wind whipped her hair out of the ballet bun she’d fixed at nape level. She clutched the loose strands; she wanted to see. The air, bitterly cold, stung her face, and when she grinned, the cold made her teeth ache, but she couldn’t stop grinning. Their climb was so gradual, so graceful that Jillian was shocked to see the grandstand looking like a miniature replica when they curved back toward the racetrack. This was splendid. Magnificent. She laughed out loud.
“It is something, isn’t it?” called Wilbur Wright.
“Yes,” Jillian shouted back.
“What direction would you like to go?”
“Any direction,” she called back.
It didn’t matter where they went. It was all marvelous from this vantage point. It was a magical land dotted with tiny cottages edging wooded copses, silver threads of streams where miniature cattle drank.
Wilbur shifted the levers under each hand, making slight alterations to their direction and angle. Jillian’s mind was awhirl, her heart racing. With a shock, she realized it wasn’t racing with fear. Her heart raced for the magnificence of the moment, for the beauty spread below her, for the God’s-eye view of yellow fields and verdant woods in squares and rectangles, uneven triangles and lumpy parallelograms, in shapes of every possibility, like a child had cut the land in pieces for a crazy quilt.
“I believe you requested an interview?” Wright’s voice was steady over the noisy engine, the voice of someone who knew exactly how loudly to speak.
Jillian couldn’t recall a single one of her seven questions—the questions meant to reassure her about flight and safety, the questions meant to lend her courage. Giddiness welled up inside her. This wasn’t scary—it was marvelous!
“I’ll be cutting the engine now,” called Wilbur. “And then I’m afraid we’ll have to head back. I am sorry we couldn’t stay up longer.”
Cutting the engine.
Jillian pressed her lips together.
When the clattering engine fell silent a moment later, her stomach clenched briefly. But there was no horrible tumble to the ground. There was nothing but a gentle descent, nothing but the hiss of wind as it blew over the cloth of the wings, flapped the skirt at her ankles, whistled past her ears.
“This is the best part,” Wilbur said softly.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s so . . . so . . .” She didn’t have words. “I don’t know why I was scared to try it.”
“You did appear a bit peaked as we left the ground,” remarked Wilbur. “Ah, will you look at that. Fuel’s arrived.” He was pointing at a horse-drawn wagon below them. “You can rely on the French to do things in their own time.” The parentheses on either side of his mouth twitched as a smile flickered over his face. “Now, then, I am afraid I shall be a bit occupied once we touch ground. I believe you had a question or two?”
She had, but somehow none of the old questions mattered. All that mattered was her newfound courage. All that mattered was containing it, corralling it, preventing it from escaping.
“Are you ever afraid?” she asked.
Grinning, Wilbur adjusted the pitch of his craft. “I reckon I used to be afraid of failure. And Orville and I worried plenty whether some other fellows might get to powered flight ahead of us. As well, I have been accused of fretting overmuch about someone stealing our ideas, which is a variety of fear. But, no—” he shook his head slowly “—I don’t reckon as I have ever been afeard to fly.”
She nodded.
“My brother and I had three problems to solve,” continued Wilbur. “Lift, power, and control. So long as we could solve them well, and thoroughly, what was left to fear? Is a bird afraid when it takes wing? Or a child when he takes his first steps?” He shrugged, as if to say of course not.
The trees seemed now to be rushing toward them, the grandstand growing larger by the minute. Jillian hated having to return to the ground, but she wasn’t afraid of it!
Wilbur spoke again. “It is my observation that when it comes to flying, people are fearful of one or more of those same problems Orville and I set ourselves to solve.”
Jillian’s brow furrowed.
“Some folks are afraid of lift. They’re the ones who claim that if God had wanted us to fly, he would have given us wings.” Wilbur shrugged. “I reckon such folk are no different from those as will not set foot in a boat or enter a cavern below ground. They like solid ground under their feet, and nothing less will satisfy ’em.”
Below them, the racetrack resumed its proportions, a vast meadow of winter-dead grass.
“Other folks might have concerns as to what keeps all the parts moving in the manner they ought,” said Wilbur. “Such folk are afraid of the power aspect of flying. I have a mite more respect for such folks’ concerns.”
“They say you check every last inch of your craft before you’ll fly,” said Jillian.
“I do. And I have no opinion at all of any pilot who would not do the same.”
They were about to land. Jillian held her breath.
“Lastly, there are folk as cannot relinquish control over a given situation.”
Control. Something leaped in Jillian’s stomach. Was this the sort of fear she carried inside?
The craft came in contact with the field, bouncing slightly and then skidding forward, just like a sled. Laughter bubbled up from her belly. It was . . . fun. Like riding Bucephalus when he was feeling his oats.
Wilbur caught her eye briefly, possibly amused by her response to the landing. “Control,” he continued, “is the most important part of keeping safe in the air, and a lack of understanding of, or respect for, control has claimed the lives of many a would-be aviator.” Turning his cap brim forward, he added, “I reckon any persons as cannot learn to give up control will never feel at ease in an aircraft. Unless they are in the pilot’s seat.”
He leaped to the ground, undid the belt at her ankles, and offered a hand to Jillian. As soon as she’d stepped off the craft, ten men rushed forward to hoist the craft onto wheels in order to move it to the fuel and then the catapult.
Jillian could tell by the way Wilbur was eyeing the men’s actions that he wanted to exert some control right now, and that her presence was creating a conflict of interest.
“I’ll say goodbye now,” she said, extending a hand and shaking. “Thank you. For the flight. And for the conversation.”
Wilbur grinned. “Au revoir, Miss Applegate.”
And then, because 1903 was still in her future, she murmured to his retreating form, “Au revoir. Until we meet again.”
She marched toward the nearby woods to await her journey home.
“Control,” she murmured to herself. She liked control. The sole purpose of her obsessive planning was control. But she’d liked flying, too, with its wild loss of control. The freedom of it. Maybe she could fly to see Halley in Los Angeles. Could she do it? It was worth a try. It would be another step in the right direction.
Checking her pocket watch, Jillian saw she had another six minutes remaining. She had almost reached the woods when she heard a familiar voice.
“Miss Applegate!”
Her heart began to race again. She knew that voice. Turning, she saw him running toward her: Everett.
<
br /> He was wearing a grease-covered work apron. Looking impossibly handsome. Racing as if his life depended on catching her. Two very different feelings competed inside her—the thrill of knowing he was so desperate to reach her, and frustration that she had no choice but to leave him.
“Mr. Randolph. I’m just going.” She sounded cold. She didn’t mean to sound cold. This was what DaVinci meant. She tried again. “I’m so happy to see you, but I’m afraid I must go—”
“No, please,” Reaching her, he leaned forward to catch his breath, resting his hands on his knees. “Not until I’ve told you something.”
Jillian’s heart twisted. “It’s just, I don’t have time—”
“Only a minute of your time,” he said, still breathing hard. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
Her lips pinched together.
“Just one minute.” His blue eyes gazed earnestly into hers. “Please.”
She paused. Checked her pocket watch. “One minute,” she murmured.
Briefly, a smile crossed his face. It wasn’t his lazy, self-assured smile. This time he looked vulnerable. Uncertain.
“I wasn’t honest with you when we met yesterday,” he began. “I knew who you were. I recognized you the instant I saw you. But I wanted you to recognize me, so I . . .” He shook his head. “It was stupid. I pretended not to know you. Not at first, I mean. And then it became plain you didn’t remember me, and, well . . .”
He shook his head.
Jillian frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“The thing is, I’ve been in love with you for five years.”
Jillian’s eyes flew wide. “I’m sure you don’t mean that.” Her voice had shrunk to a whisper.
“I know it’s crazy. Maybe it was the hard knock to the head from that fall . . .”
He paused and smiled shyly, recollecting a memory he expected her to share, but all she could do was stare at him, silently counting down the seconds that would place them a century apart.
“But here’s what I do know,” Everett said. “Since that day we met five years ago, there’s been no one else. I look for your smile in the faces of strangers. I see your eyes in my dreams. I thought . . .” He stopped and drew his hands through his hair. “I was sure I’d never see you again. But here you are, and here I am, and I’d be a blamed fool to let you leave without explaining how I felt that day. How I feel to this day.”
At his confession, her thoughts swirled in confusion, her heart tripping hummingbird-fast.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For everything.”
He stepped closer. So close she could smell the scent of lemon and soap that clung to his clothes. His eyes were hungry; he wanted to kiss her. To kiss her again, from his perspective. No. She couldn’t let it happen. If she kissed him, she wouldn’t be able to leave, wouldn’t be able to get away. This wasn’t a part of the plan. It couldn’t happen.
He stepped closer. She could tell he was waiting for a signal from her, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought to keep his hands from reaching for hers, his mouth from closing the distance between them.
Oh, she could imagine it, could practically feel those lips meeting hers. Warm. Soft. Inviting. She wanted him to kiss her; she wanted to kiss him, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t be responsible for Everett spending another five years dreaming of a girl who couldn’t exist for him.
She took a step back. She wouldn’t be the ghost who kept him from finding someone real.
“I have to go.”
“Don’t go,” said Everett. He reached for her hand, and where he touched her, her skin seemed to burn. “It meant something to you, too. I know it did. A kiss like that—”
“I . . . I’m not free. Find someone else who is—someone who can make you happy.”
He stood without saying anything, emotion playing across his chiseled jaw, his clear eyes. “I understand,” he said at last. “But know this. I’ll carry the memory of that kiss with me every day of my life, clear to my dying breath.”
He released her hand and strode away.
32
· JESÚS TORRES, JD ·
Montecito, the Present
It took Torres several minutes to locate the breaker box. He wished he’d left his madre’s at three instead of four. He was going to hit traffic. Real traffic. He squinted at the breaker switches. The writing next to some of the switches was smudged beyond recognition. He tried several of the unmarked ones, but none of them got rid of the racket coming from the basement. At one point he managed to turn off the motion detector lights, but then he decided those lights were still valuable for scaring off potential intruders or shedding a little light for visitors like himself.
Finally he found the switch he needed. The . . . whatever it was groaned and quit making noise. He added “call a locksmith” to his task list so he could get a look inside the basement on his next visit. He should probably put in a call to UCSB to get a name and number before school recessed for the semester break. Hopefully the university could send someone over to evaluate the lab and any equipment.
Running half an hour behind schedule, Jesús Torres started his car and drove away from Khan’s estate, never having noticed the white rental car parked on the far side of the house.
33
· JILLIAN ·
Le Mans, France, 1908
Jillian checked her watch again. Had it gained time? She should have been transported back by now. Not that she wanted to go . . .
The back of her hand still burned with the heat of Everett’s touch where he’d grasped it, desperate to make her change her mind, to convince her to stay. She brought her hand to her cheek. She ached to stay . . . to live here, to get to know Everett. Pretentious, arrogant Everett. Hardworking, flight-obsessed Everett. Vulnerable, honest Everett. Everett who had loved her for five years, based on what? A twenty-minute encounter? That and some kiss she should have known better than to give. What had possessed her? Or, would possess her? Warmth flared through her torso. The answer to that question was easy.
From where she sheltered among the oaks and shrubs, she could still see him as he marched away, head down, hands clenched at his sides: heartbroken.
DaVinci would have jumped up and grabbed him by the hand and hauled his chiseled jaw back to the twenty-first century. Edmund would have offered a stirring speech about Cupid’s law demanding it. Halley would have . . . Jillian wasn’t sure what Halley would have done. But it didn’t matter. Jillian wasn’t DaVinci or Edmund or Halley. She was Jillian. Jillian who examined things from every angle, who worked out the minutia of a trip to the beach. Jillian who would never do anything as irreversible as pulling someone out of their own time.
But if Everett was right, she was also Jillian who would one day throw caution to the wind and kiss a stranger.
She imagined changing her mind . . . running after him, calling for him, raising her lips to his, but before she could act on the impulse, her limbs froze with the embrace of space–time. As she hurtled forward, she realized that in 1903, Everett wouldn’t be a stranger. And she knew this one truth: If she went back to 1903, she wouldn’t waste the moment. She would kiss him.
She fell forward as she landed back inside the familiar basement. There were tears clinging to her lower lids. She would kiss him. She would, as she should have just now. Just a century ago. All the planning in the world couldn’t change the way his gaze made her feel. She had felt seen. Known. Alive.
She was swiping at her eyes when darkness, sudden and complete, fell on the basement. There was no light; it was darker than her room with the blackout shades lowered. Not so much as the reassuring blink of LEDs remained. And then, as if it were suddenly being choked to death, the machine’s whine and rattle died off. Somehow this was even more unnerving than the blackness.
Feeling her way off the platform, she gazed into the dark, as if by staring at it, she could lessen it. And then, while she was still trying to figure out why the power had gone out, s
he heard another sound. She recognized it at once. It was the ignition of a Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet engine.
Jillian held her breath. The noise receded as the vehicle drove away from the house. She listened for a count of three hundred after that, and then, hearing nothing more, she made her way over to the door, heart pounding inside her chest. What had just happened?
34
· KHAN ·
Wellesley, Florida, the Present
The bittersweet truth of Khan’s discovery of the law of temporal inertia was the fact that there was no one to share it with. Not yet, at any rate. He considered telling Littlewood what he’d discovered but decided against it. Really, there was too much to be gained by withholding the discovery. Besides, he still needed to check a few variables. Establish absolute proof.
Khan needed to learn more. To begin with, he needed to confirm it was possible to take items from the past into the future without disturbing the timeline. He had pocketed a copy of Littlewood’s checklist of things that might be altered. He took it out now, turning his back to Littlewood so as to avoid being seen.
It was an odd list: the level the Dow was trading at; the name of the last three presidents of the United States, Russia, and Mexico; the high and low temperatures in a handful of places (including Antarctica, San Francisco, and Kamchatka), and an assorted laundry list of other things which might indicate substantial temporal rift.
He was running through the checklist—and, truth be told, growing bored with the dull sameness of the events, names, temperatures, and so on—when Littlewood asked him a question.
“Can I just have a look at what you dug up on the tremors in Santa Barbara County?”
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 15
