Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3)

by Rysa Walker

  The cemetery looks the same, but the church is gone. In its place is a Cyrist temple. It’s not as awe-inspiring as the previous building, but it’s equally massive and shiny white like all Cyrist buildings. How many people does it take to keep it that clean when everything around is stained by smoke and soot?

  The temple gives me a shiver of unease, and I keep my eyes on its doors as I approach the corner. That’s a mistake because I collide with a kid who can’t be more than ten. His grungy face is level with my chest, something that appears to embarrass him at first, but he recovers quickly, grinning and wagging his eyebrows as he backs up toward the shoeshine stand where several other boys are gathered. He whistles a few bars of a tune I don’t recognize as I walk away. It must mean something to his buddies, however, because they howl with laughter and clap him on the back.

  I give the preteen Romeo an annoyed look and turn onto Wall Street, picking up my pace. The kids don’t worry me. They’re just goofing around. It’s that temple that has the hairs on my neck at attention. Wall Street dead-ends directly across from the temple’s entrance. The therapist I saw last year would say I’m projecting my fears onto an inanimate building, and maybe that’s true, but as I glance back over my shoulder, the entrance looks like an open mouth and the windows look like eyes. I feel like it’s watching me, and I don’t breathe easily until I turn onto Broad Street, two blocks down.

  Broad Street is more crowded than Broadway, but I don’t see any women. Men huddle in clusters along the sidewalk, and from the few bits of conversation I pick up, they’re making business deals. Maybe illegal deals, given the way their eyes dart about.

  One of them, a tall, husky guy in a poorly fitting suit, notices me, and when I pause halfway down the block, trying to find number 48, he flicks his cigar out into the street and steps in front of me. His eyes travel from head to toe, taking leisurely stops in strategic locations along the way. I feel the blood rising to my cheeks.

  “Need some help?” he says.

  “No, thank you. I see the office I’m looking for. My friends are waiting for me.”

  He laughs. “I’d say your sister is waiting for you. Except you’re the prettier of the two. And maybe smarter as well, since you know it’s better for business to keep the goods out for customers to view.”

  I’m still on edge from seeing the temple and have no patience for this creep, especially when what he just said pretty much confirms that Prudence is here.

  I step to one side and he follows.

  One of the other men says, “Aw, Hank, she don’t want nothin’ to do with you. You ain’t got enough money to buy one of the girls at Molly’s place, let alone someone hangin’ out with The Woodhull.”

  Hank ignores his buddy and slides one of his beefy hands around my waist. Four or five other guys are watching, and I’m not sure how they’d react, so I clench my teeth and resist the urge to give him a kick that would wipe all lecherous thoughts from his mind.

  Instead, I just smile and force myself to move a step closer. “Why don’t you hold on to my newspaper while I go chat with my sister? And then maybe we could . . .” I shrug and smile again.

  “Sure,” he says, a little surprised. “Hey, your sister can come, too. Tell her to bring Woodhull and Tennie C., if you want. We’ll have a party.”

  The other guys laugh, and I hurry toward the doorway.

  He must realize as I’m leaving that my mood changed too quickly, because there’s an edge in his voice as he says, “I’ll be waiting right outside, sweetheart, and I can see down the alley. Don’t go sneakin’ out the back.”

  “I won’t.” And that’s true. I have no intention of sneaking out the back door, assuming there is one. I also don’t plan on leaving this way, either, which means he’s going to have a nice, long wait.

  I ring the bell and stand there uncomfortably for a bit before ringing again. The men along the curb go back to whatever they’re negotiating, except Hank, who leans against a lamppost watching me.

  A young girl of around nine or ten finally answers the door. She has solemn eyes and light brown ringlets that frame her round face.

  “Hello. I’m Miss Keller. I have a message for Mrs. Woodhull from Mrs. Hooker. May I come in?”

  According to Katherine, suffrage activist Isabella Beecher Hooker is one of Victoria’s staunchest allies. She also happens to be the half sister of Henry Ward Beecher, the minister whose affair Victoria has just exposed in her paper.

  I still think there’s a good chance I’m stuck in a soap opera. Everyone is sleeping around, engaged in blackmail, or planning revenge. If I run into anyone with amnesia, I’ll have the full set of plot devices.

  The girl doesn’t return my smile. “Mother isn’t home, and she already has one visitor waiting. Do you have a calling card?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve run out.”

  “All right. I’ll ask the Colonel. Wait here.”

  I nod, and the girl starts to close the door, but then she sees the men behind me. Her lips press together in a knowing expression that looks much too old for her years. “No. You can wait inside. The Curb Market isn’t the best place for a lady.”

  I step inside, grateful to be away from Hank and his companions. “The Curb Market?”

  The girl cocks her head to the side. “Are you from out of town?”

  “Yes . . . why?”

  “I thought so,” she says matter-of-factly. “Those men are brokers, or at least most of them are, but they’re not the type of gentlemen allowed onto the floor of the Exchange. So they trade on the curb. That man outside the door says rude things to my mama and Aunt Tennie.” She nods toward a small bench near the door. “I’m Zulu. You can sit over there.”

  I’m about to sit, and then I remember Katherine’s warning about the padding at the back of the dress. “That’s okay. I’ll stand.”

  Halfway up the stairs, she turns back, giving me a shy smile. “I like your hat.”

  After a few minutes, Zulu comes halfway down. She looks over the railing at me, perplexed, then dashes back upstairs.

  I’m just thinking I may try my luck sitting down and risk whatever damage it causes the dress when I hear footsteps.

  Zulu, again. “Colonel Blood said you need to stay down here since we don’t know you. The other lady used to work with my mama. That’s why I let her go upstairs. She looks just like you, except she’s not dressed as nice. She’s not even wearing a hat.”

  “Lucky her,” I mutter under my breath, but the girl catches it.

  “If you don’t like your hat, why do you wear it?”

  I laugh. “Apparently it’s the proper thing to do.”

  Her expression grows very serious. “Proper isn’t always right,” she says as she comes back down to the waiting area. “Mama thinks women should be able to dress as they please. She says by the time I’m grown up, women will be able to wear breeches if they want. Do you think that’s true?”

  I think her estimate is off by about sixty years, but I say, “Let’s hope so.”

  Zulu parks herself on the bench near the door, swinging her feet in front of her. “Breeches are okay, but I wouldn’t want to wear them all the time. I like pretty things, too.” She looks up at my hat again.

  “Would you like to wear my hat?”

  Her eyes widen. “Really?”

  “Sure. Why not?” I pull the lace ribbons loose and remove the hatpin that anchors the thing to my hair.

  “Did you know my mama is going to be president one day?” she asks as I position the hat on her head.

  “I’ve heard something along those lines.”

  “It may not happen this election because only the men can vote, but Mama says one day women will vote as well. It’s our constitutional right. Do you think that’s true?”

  “I do, indeed.” Zulu’s hair is down, so I have to tie the ribbons under her chin rather than behind the neck as Katherine did for me. “There! It looks much better on you than it does on me. You
should keep it.”

  “May I really? Thank you! I have to go show the Colonel!”

  Zulu is only four or five steps up when we both hear raised voices and a door slamming above us. She slowly reverses course and sits back down on the bench.

  “I told you she doesn’t have it!” a man’s voice exclaims. “How dare you come into our place of business and accuse my wife of theft? She found you work and a place to stay, and this is how you thank her?”

  “I never said she stole anything. Please, I have a little money now.” I’m pretty sure the voice is Prudence’s. I take a step toward the staircase, but I can’t see either of them. “I’ll pay you—”

  “You need to leave. Victoria would tell you the same thing. Do I have to call the police?”

  “Fine, I’ll go. But I’m coming back. Maybe Victoria will listen to reason.”

  I hear footsteps, and then Prudence rounds the corner landing. Her hair is longer than when I saw her at Apollo Hall, pulled back in a knot. She’s in the same dress and boots, both of which look slightly worse for wear.

  Pru pauses when she sees me. Her face shifts from confused to relieved and then back to confused again. “Who are—”

  Her voice is drowned out by a loud rapping. “Open the door. Federal marshal!”

  She turns back to look up the staircase. “You already called the police?”

  A tall, thin man comes barreling down the stairs, pushing Prudence aside with his elbow. His beard is that odd style Hugh Jackman wears when he plays Wolverine, except it’s bushier around the edges. He runs one hand through his dark hair, then crouches down so that his face is at the same level as Zulu’s. I assume this is Woodhull’s second husband, Colonel James Blood—which again sounds like a soap opera name to me.

  “Zulu Maude,” he says quietly, “go to the office and get your brother. Take him to the attic and lock the door behind you. Do not open the door or speak to anyone until your mother, your aunt, or I come for you. And keep Byron quiet. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Zulu scurries up the stairs, the green hat slipping down to her shoulders as she runs.

  Another knock, even louder. “Mrs. Woodhull, open the door.”

  I glance out the window. The man who’s knocking isn’t visible from this angle, but two uniformed officers stand behind him on the sidewalk. Another man, not in uniform, sits on the driver’s seat of an enclosed carriage. The reins he’s holding are attached to a long board connecting the horns of two oxen. Again, where are the horses? Are they all dead or dying in this timeline? And if so, why?

  On the plus side, Hank and his buddies have vanished.

  Colonel Blood glances at me and then back at Prudence.

  “Zulu said you had a message from Mrs. Hooker?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

  I nod and start to speak, but he holds up his hand.

  “I don’t care what the message is. Deliver this reply. It’s too late for her hypocritical brother to cooperate. The entire nation will know his story by the time we’re through. And if there’s any justice in the world, the police will soon be knocking on his door as well.” He glances back at Prudence and shakes his head in annoyance. “Both of you go upstairs and wait in the outer office.”

  I don’t like the way he’s ordering me around, and from the look on Prudence’s face, neither does she. I gladly comply, however, since it gives us a chance to talk. She must be thinking the same thing, because she also goes upstairs without comment.

  I hear the door open behind us as we reach the second floor.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I help you?”

  “Special Agent Anthony Comstock here with Deputy Marshal Colfax and his partner. We have a federal warrant for the arrest of Mrs. Victoria Woodhull, Miss Tennessee Claflin, and other employees of the publication known as Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly.”

  “I’m sorry. Mrs. Woodhull and her sister are not here at the moment. I’m not an employee of her paper, nor am I an owner. That’s strictly my wife’s enterprise.”

  Comstock says, “You were talking with someone.”

  “Yes. Two visitors are here to speak with my wife. I told them they could wait in the office upstairs until she returns, but I suspect it will be several hours, possibly longer.”

  Pru tugs on my sleeve to pull me into the office, a large open room with high windows. Two desks are positioned in the corners, and a sofa and two chairs line the wall behind me near several bookcases. There’s a closed door on the other side of the room. The two blue banners with Bible verses that I saw at Apollo Hall hang vertically on either side.

  “Listen,” I begin, but Pru holds up her hand.

  “Shh. I need to hear what they’re saying.”

  So we both listen.

  “. . . mind if we check upstairs?”

  “Not at all,” Blood replies, and they all clunk their way up the steps.

  I was hoping to be out of here before Comstock and his crew arrived. While there are plenty of historical figures I’d like to meet, Comstock isn’t one of them, and Kiernan’s comment that Prudence was nearly arrested echoes in my head. If worst comes to worst, Prudence and I can take the CHRONOS exit. I’d rather not do it in a room full of people, but if the alternative is jail . . .

  Comstock’s portly frame is the first through the door. He looks like a groundhog, with the same atrocious facial hair as the Colonel, only in ginger. The two officers come in behind him, followed by Blood.

  “Who are you?” Comstock asks. His pinched expression suggests that he’s already decided what we are and is simply seeking names to attach to our profession.

  “Who are you?” Prudence snaps back.

  For the very first time, I kind of like my aunt.

  “I am Special Agent Anthony Comstock.”

  “Special Agent of what?” I ask. From what Connor said earlier, he’s nothing more than a vigilante at this point.

  Comstock lifts his chin proudly. “Special Agent for the YMCA Committee for the Suppression of Vice.” Prudence and I exchange an amused look that he either doesn’t notice or ignores. “Are you employees of Mrs. Woodhull?”

  We both say no, but Colonel Blood disagrees. “The young woman in green is telling the truth. I have no idea who she is. I’m afraid the other one isn’t being entirely honest, however. Her name is Prudence Pierce, and she’s worked for my wife for the past several months, helping with the campaign and, more recently, with distribution of the Weekly.”

  “That’s a lie!” Prudence jumps to her feet and takes several angry steps toward Blood. “I never worked for the paper, only for her campaign.”

  Comstock holds up his hand. “I’ll deal with you presently, miss.” He glances at me again, taking in my dress. His nostrils flare like he’s caught a whiff of something nasty, but he doesn’t say anything, just turns his attention to the closed door across from us. “Would you be so kind as to open that, Mr. Blood?”

  “It’s Colonel Blood. The office door is unlocked.”

  The marshal closest to the door opens it, and the three of them step inside. Blood hovers in the doorway, his back to us, watching them.

  “We need to talk,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” Prudence hisses back through clenched teeth. “I thought you were one of me at first. Who the hell are you?”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m your daughter.”

  Katherine and Connor both thought she might be more willing to believe my story from a daughter than from a niece. We’re still unsure exactly what Saul told Pru that convinced her to stay away from Katherine and Deborah. And I certainly look enough like her for the story to be plausible.

  “What’s your name?”

  I catch a note of challenge in her voice just before I’m about to say Kate. I doubt Prudence or Saul would have named a child after Katherine. Even Mom wouldn’t have added the Katherine part if it hadn’t been Pru’s middle name—she simply named me after the sister she lost. And I’m guessing Pru might
have done the same, given the chance.

  “Deborah. You named me Deborah.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Marie.”

  The look in her eyes tells me I was right, and then shifts to panic. I’m not sure why, until she says, “But you’re born from a surrogate, right? I told Saul no more pregnancies . . .”

  I nod quickly to reassure her. “Yes. I was born at the Farm. I met you later, and we . . . talked. Sometimes.” My insides are clenching. I’m improvising at this point and well aware that anything I say could trip me up. On top of that, how much am I changing with each word? How much of this will Prudence remember later? Is the version of her currently with my mom sane enough for this conversation to even matter?

  The tension drains from Pru’s face, replaced by confusion. “He let me name you?”

  “Yes. You told me Saul said it was . . . a birthday present.”

  Lame as hell.

  “And you and I are . . . friends?” Her expression is skeptical, but I can see that she wants to believe it.

  “We’re friends. You asked me to come back and get information to stop Saul. He’s pushing you out, doesn’t want to share control.”

  “Why didn’t I come myself?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “That’s how this usually goes. Older-Me shows up and starts giving orders, just like Simon or Philippa.”

  “You . . . can’t. You’re having trouble using the key. And you’re worried about the dual memories.”

  “Hmph. Must be an older, wiser me, because that last part never stopped her before. What—”

  She halts abruptly as the men come back into the outer office.

  “When do you expect your wife, Mr. Blood?” You can almost hear quotation marks around wife when Comstock says it.

  Blood doesn’t comment on the man’s tone or the failure to address him by his rank, but his spine stiffens and he practically spits his answer. “As I said, it could be hours.”

  Comstock gives a smug smile, then plops his behind on the couch. “We’ll wait. Colfax, Adams—sit.”

  The younger deputy, who must be Adams, gives an uncomfortable look in our direction before taking a chair by the door. I’m not sure why he hesitated, but then I realize he feels odd sitting when Prudence and I are not.