by Rysa Walker
"Eliza! Daisy!" He snaps his fingers as he says each name, as though he has magical powers and can make them appear before him at will. They do appear—Daisy scurrying like a mouse and Eliza taking her own sweet time about it.
"Bring the damn cuffs! I want him to do it again. Out here in the open this time, where I can see."
Daisy is already scuttling back to grab the cuffs before I can answer.
"No, sir. With all due respect, that's a trade secret."
He doesn't look convinced, so I add. "It's part of my agreement with Mr. Houdini. If I break it, you and I both land in court."
Easley thinks about that for a minute, and then waves a hand at Daisy, shooing her away like a fly. "Be here Friday. By three so you can get familiar with the girls."
I'm tempted to note that getting familiar with the girls appears to be his specialty. Since that seems unwise under the circumstances, I just nod and stick out my hand to shake on it.
There's a grease stain from the handcuffs on my shirt, a few inches above the wrist. Easley's eyes flit over it and down to my outstretched hand for a second. Then he reaches into his pocket and slaps a dollar bill into my palm. "An advance. Get a haircut. And clean your shirt. You look like a bum."
Easley starts to follow the girls backstage, but the sound of raised female voices from the wings apparently makes him think better of it. He turns on his heel, heading for the exit.
"Yes sir, Mr. Easley. I'll see you on Friday. At three."
"I said by three," he shouts over his shoulder. "Not at three."
It takes a lot of gall from him to dig at me about timeliness when he kept me waiting half the afternoon, but I just shove the gear into my bag. I need to get out of here before the Little General changes his mind.
∞
3 ∞
Anyone can see where the developers for Norumbega Park got most of their ideas. The park opened in 1897, just four years after the Exposition in Chicago. There's even a fountain in the center of the park that's a cheap copy of one of the fountains at the World's Fair. While it's a puny imitation of the Expo, Norumbega has the advantage of being permanent—at least until 1963. It will be here long after the trolley lines that provide the park with electricity are replaced by cars and buses. The Expo, on the other hand, was torn down six months after the fair ended, and except for those with a CHRONOS key, if you missed it, you missed it.
I won't be mentioning these similarities to Kate, however. She's a bit touchy on the subject of the World's Fair. It was twelve years ago, but I remember her face in the glow of the CHRONOS medallion like it was yesterday. I remember her leaving me with Katherine, the woman who would one day be her grandmother, and pushing both of us toward the window, away from the fire. I had nightmares for a solid year where I'd wake up screaming, the smell of smoke and death fresh and vivid in my mind. Most of all, I remember Kate going back to deal with Holmes on her own. The medallion strapped to my thigh is the one she put around my neck that night. She made me swear I wouldn't take it off, and I've never once broken that promise.
Kate remembers none of it, even though I'd swear she was younger when it happened. Katherine can't remember it either, and I know she was younger, only a few years older than I am now. Kate suspects the entire thing was a trick by Prudence and the Cyrists, and I'll admit that Prudence could pass for Kate in the eyes of a stranger. But I'm a long way from being a stranger to either of them. I could tell them apart at fifty paces. I could tell them apart in the dark. And I can't imagine why Prudence would want me to have a spare medallion.
Kate and I have long since agreed to disagree on that point. Doesn't matter. I know it was her.
The sun's been down for well over an hour when the trolley pulls into South Station. Jess's store is just a few blocks over and I'd planned to stop by and tell him about the interview, maybe grab Kate a ginger ale. But it'll keep until tomorrow, I guess. Kate will be waiting for the news. And even though she seemed pretty confident, I'm looking forward to letting her know I didn't blow it.
I take my usual shortcut through the alley to shave off a few extra minutes. About twenty feet in, I feel a sharp tug at the back of my collar. My fists are up as I wrench free and turn back toward the street. Three guys, two of them with at least twenty pounds on me.
There's barely six feet between the buildings, so there's not much room to maneuver. I focus on the two bigger opponents, saving the short guy for last.
That's a mistake, it turns out. He's the one holding the club.
My last thought as I hit the cobblestones is that I really should've stopped to get Kate that ginger ale.
∞
"Hey, mister. You, okay?" The voice is high pitched, like those awful singers at Norumbega. It hurts my head.
When I open my eyes, a small, grimy boot is nudging my chest. I start to pull myself up and then a sharp burst of pain makes me reconsider, so I just shift my eyes toward the source of the noise. The girl staring down at me is in her teens. A boy a few years younger, most likely her brother, stands behind her.
"Yer bleedin'. You know that?" Her voice is like an ice-pick to my brain.
"I didn't." I move myself slowly into a half-sitting position, and lean back against the wall of the building behind me. "But it doesn't surprise me."
"Ain' a lot of blood. I cut my leg last summer and there was way more than that. Mama said I might even need stitches, but Papa said it was too much money to call in a doctor, so she'd have to stitch it up herself, and she didn't wanna do that. Papa said—"
I hold up my hand to cut her off. "What time is it?" I'm hesitant to ask, since it means she'll speak again and my head really can't take it, but maybe the boy will answer this time.
No such luck. "After eight-thirty. We got off work at eight. That was a while ago, so maybe nine, I don' know. You think it's nine yet, Jer?" she asks the kid, but he just shrugs. "Well, I'd say maybe closer to nine. Could be after, even. Anyhow, you okay? 'Cause we gotta get home."
Yes, please. Go! Even though I don't say it out loud, my expression must've gotten the point across, because they both give me an odd look and head back toward the street.
I lift my fingers to the side of my head and they come away sticky, but not dripping. The girl was right. It's not a lot of blood. There is, however, one hell of a lump beneath the cut.
The bag with my gear is gone, along with my jacket. I glance down and see that they've taken my dress shirt, as well, leaving me in just an undershirt and pants. My pockets are flipped inside out, so they scored maybe five dollars total, counting the buck that Easley handed me when I left Norumbega.
No shoes. No belt. No watch-chain that was clipped to the belt and therefore, no CHRONOS key. I'm guessing it will turn up in a pawn shop within the week, unless they just toss it. I can't bear thinking about that right now, as it'll mean adding one more missing key to Kate's list.
Dragging myself to my feet, I brace against the wall, fighting down a wave of dizziness. It's most of a mile to my place, but Jess's house is maybe two blocks in the other direction. Looks like Kate will get that ginger ale after all. Or more likely, she's already had it. I'm at least an hour late, judging from the estimate of my shrill angel of mercy, and Jess's store is the first place Kate would look.
I pass the darkened windows of John Jessup Fine Tobaccos and Sundries a few minutes later and work my way up the staircase to Jess and Amelia's apartment. When I reach the top, I'm still a bit disoriented, so I pause for a moment before knocking.
They're early risers, so they could easily be asleep already. During the months that I lived in the storeroom downstairs, I learned that breakfast was likely to be a cold one if you slept much past dawn.
I knock again, and finally hear Amelia's voice. "Who on earth at this hour…"
"It's Kiernan Dunne, Mrs. Jessup. Sorry, but I need to see Jess…"
The door opens a crack. She peers out at me, dark eyes widening when she sees the blood. Her gray hair, which is usually up in a k
not, now hangs down in long thick braids with light blue ribbons at the end. The braids, along with the dim light of the lantern, make her seem much younger than her seventy-odd years.
"Little wonder you're in trouble, out roaming the streets at night." Her mouth tightens, but she opens the door, stepping aside to let me in. "Get inside, you fool boy."
Amelia hides a soft heart behind a shrew's tongue. When I started work at the shop last year, she carried on something awful about how Jess didn't need to be hiring anyone when there was barely work or money for the two of them. But she made sure I had a comfortable spot to sleep in the storeroom and I don't think I've eaten better since I left the Cyrist Farm. Even though she'll give Jess all kinds of hell about some little thing he's forgotten to do, her eyes always soften when he comes into the room. And her brow creases with worry when he struggles with tasks around the store that were a lot easier when he was thirty-five than they are four decades later when his hands are twisted with rheumatism.
She shakes her head as she looks me up and down. "I'll get Jess up and we'll see what can be done with you. Stay there on the mat."
She's still muttering something under her breath when she comes back out of the bedroom a few seconds later, heading into the kitchen.
Jess is right behind her. He's a tall man—he may even have been taller than I am when he was young—but the years have hunched him over. What little hair he has left is pure silver. It's standing up in odd little tufts on his head right now, a very different look from the meticulously groomed, dapper man who stands behind his tobacco counter during the day.
He pushes his glasses onto his face and gives me a long look. His blue eyes are concerned, but he laughs. "I suppose you're gonna tell me the other fellow looks worse?"
"No. All three of them got away without so much as a scratch. The club the short bastard was swinging might have cracked when it met my skull, though."
He snorts and shakes his head. "You need to sit down—no, no, not there. Amelia'll kill us both if you get blood on her sofa. Come into the kitchen. She's not gonna be satisfied until we get you bandaged up."
"Kate—"
"Was here just before the store closed up at eight. She thought you might've stopped by to let me know about the job and lost track of time. That was more than an hour ago, so I imagine she's plenty worried by now. Where did this happen?"
"An alley off of Harrison. Just after dark."
"Hmmm…surprised Kate didn't see you on her way home."
"Yeah, well, unlike me, Kate's smart enough not to take a shortcut through the alley." That's likely true, although not the full truth. Kate didn't have to walk more than twenty feet to get to the store, since she set up a stable point out back months ago.
"Well, least they left you your pants, boy. How much money were you carrying?"
"More than I wanted to lose. But they also got my gear and my dad's medallion." The sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach again as I think about the CHRONOS key.
Jess tsks once and tips my head to the side a bit so that he can see the knot.
Amelia appears beside him, holding a bottle of whiskey and a dampened handkerchief. I hiss as the cloth touches the cut.
"Oh, stop being such a baby," she says, but she moves her hand so that she's dabbing the cloth around the edges of the cut now, rather than dead against it. She motions with her head toward the collection of photographs carefully arranged on the mantel and on the bookshelves in the parlor. "I tended to three sons and five grandsons and several girls who managed to get into as many scrapes as the boys. I think I know what I'm doing. You've got gravel or glass or something in there. It's hard to see for all that hair. And you might as well take off those britches and let me see if I can salvage them. They're likely ruined, but I'll do what I can about that tear tomorrow and try to get the blood out."
Ten long, torturous minutes later, the cut on my head is clean and Amelia has bandaged it, along with one I didn't even realize I had on my knee, where the pants were torn. I'm dressed in some of Jess's old clothes—a bit too loose at the waist, but a pair of suspenders takes care of that. I'm still barefoot, because my feet won't fit into any shoes Jess owns. And even though I lied and said I'd already eaten, I've been fed a thick sandwich of leftover bacon and cheese, along with a glass of milk and an oatmeal cookie. Amelia tried to talk me into staying overnight in the storeroom, but finally threw her hands up and huffed off to bed when I insisted that I needed to get home.
"Are you sure you can walk back, son?" Jess asks in a low voice after she's closed the bedroom door behind her.
Truthfully, I'm not entirely sure, even though I'm feeling much better. I plan on taking the same shortcut Kate did, however, now that I'm clear-headed enough to use the CHRONOS key without the risk of landing God knows where.
"I'm okay," I say, glancing at the clock on the mantel. "And I need to get going. Kate will be worried."
I slide the wooden chair back from the table and take two steps toward the door. A wave of dizziness and nausea passes through me, nearly driving me to my knees.
"Whoa there, boy." Jess reaches out and grabs me, holding me steady, his gnarled hands surprisingly firm on my shoulders. "I don't think you're going any further than the couch."
It's not the head injury. At least, I don't think it is. I've felt this sensation several times before, but never this strong.
I stagger backward and Jess eases me onto the sofa as the room shifts. The changes are tiny, almost imperceptible. A doily on the table near the door seems to evaporate. The clock in the middle of the mantel is the same and the hands still say it's nine twenty-seven. One of the photographs to the right of the clock, however—a picture of a girl maybe seven or eight years old—disappears. All of the other pictures slide an inch or so to the right. Some of the photos have small changes, too—a girl who wears braids instead of curls, a boy who's lost his coat.
Someone is mucking about with the timeline. And this doesn't feel like a minor adjustment.
Jess sucks in his breath and now it's my turn to grab him.
"What's wrong? Are you okay? Jess?"
He doesn't answer, just sinks down into a chair, his face pale.
"Jess?" He still doesn't respond. My voice rises, panic seeping in. "Jess!" He looks like he's having a stroke or something. I'm about to call for Amelia when he grabs my arm.
"That curtain. I saw it change right in front of my eyes." He jerks his head toward the wall behind him. "And how many samplers are over there?"
I glance at the framed embroidery pieces on the parlor wall, each with a different picture or quotation, and count them. They do look different, although I'd be hard pressed to say how they've changed.
"Five," I say.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bedroom door open. Amelia is looking at Jess, her face filled with worry.
"There were six a minute ago. Two rows of three." His voice is stronger now. "One from each of my granddaughters. They made them as a Christmas gift two years back. Remember, Amelia?"
She crosses over to where he's seated and crouches down next to him, peering into his eyes. "Jess. You're scaring me. You know we have ten grandchildren. A matched set—five boys and five girls."
"Name 'em," he demands. "The girls. Name the girls for me."
She gives me a worried glance and then does as he asks. "Gladys, Mildred, Florence, and Ruth. And Amelia, named after me."
He shakes his head. "And Irene. Mary's oldest girl is Irene. She helped out in the shop until they moved to Springfield. They had Irene and then Henry, Jr. and then Elmer."
"Jess, what is wrong with you? Mary has two boys. She had Henry, Jr. the year after she married in…let me see, 1889. Maybe you're thinking of Arnold Shelly's girl. Her name is Irene. Or maybe it's Eileen, I can't remember."
"No." Despite the fear in his eyes, there's a stubborn set to his jaw. "Irene. You met her in the store once, Kiernan, when Mary's family was here last Christmas. She's about a year yo
unger than Kate. Blonde hair, pretty girl. She was fluttering her eyes at you until I told her you were spoken for." He looks back at Amelia, and his voice is shaking as he speaks. "Irene, not Eileen. Mary's girl. Dear God, woman, what kind of grandmother forgets her own granddaughter?"
Amelia gives him a hurt look and turns toward me. "What happened to him? Do you know?"
Yes, I know. Something about this time shift means that Jess is down one grandchild. He shouldn't remember the girl any more than Amelia does. But I was leaning against him as the shift happened, and he was a hair's breadth away from the CHRONOS key.
I shake my head firmly. "I was getting up to leave and something just seemed to come over him."
Jess's eyes narrow and I can tell he's calling me all sorts of traitorous names in his head.
"Can you help me get him to bed, Kiernan?" she asks. "Maybe a good night's sleep…"
I nod and grab his elbow, but he yanks his arm away from me.
"I can get myself to bed. You go on home."
I turn to Amelia. "Would you get him a glass of water? And see if you can find him some aspirin."
She would normally huff at me for bossing her about in her own house, so I'm a bit surprised when she gives me a frightened half nod and heads into the kitchen.
I follow Jess into their room and find him sitting on the edge of the bed. Although he still seems shaken, he's more angry than anything else.
"I told you, I'm fine," he says.
"I know you are, Jess," I say in a low voice. "Listen, I've got to check on Kate, but you're not going mad, okay? Irene—well, you do remember her. So do I. Amelia's not going to believe you, however, and if you keep talking about it, they'll be carting you off to Danvers in a straightjacket. I'll explain it all tomorrow, but we can't talk about it in front of Amelia."
"Why not? What happened to me? To both of us, 'cause I know you saw it, too."
Amelia's silhouette blocks the glow of the lamp from the parlor. I glance over my shoulder, and then turn back to him.
