Echoes of Time

by Calia Read

  “No one should be in there,” Asa whispers back.

  Before I can reply, the floorboards in the room creak in protest. There’s more than one person in there.

  I am not Serene. I do not have an endless amount of bravery at my disposal. As much as I wish I did, I’m fully prepared to run out of this office and never look back. Now if only I could get my feet to move from the floor. However, Asa’s hands curl around my shoulders, pulling me back to the moment. He wants to face whatever or whoever is in there.

  “I’m going to check. It could be our imaginations or …”

  “Or?” I prod.

  “Or it could be somethin’ else,” Asa supplies.

  Not for a second do I believe it could be Étienne. Not here. Not in the daylight with people around. It would be such a blasé way to time travel. But, then again, Serene did once arrive in the middle of the day in Charleston before running from Étienne.

  It seems to me time can’t even perfect timing.

  “Are you going to stay?” Asa asks.

  Here it is, my option to leave. In my life, I’m never given choices but the direction of where to go. Here’s a chance to choose. As small as it may be, it feels good and makes me feel powerful. As fearful as I am, I can’t deny a small part of me is curious to know what’s happening right now. Giving the front door a furtive glance, I look at Asa before I nod. “Yes.”

  “All right. But be quiet.” He gestures for me to follow him, and I do.

  At the closed door, Asa freezes. He places his ear against the door and concentrates.

  “It’s silent right now,” Asa whispers.

  “You should still check. Open on the count of three,” I say.

  “One,” Asa starts off.

  “Two,”

  “Three,” he finishes, and then opens the door.

  “I’ve never broken into multiple buildings in one night,” I whisper.

  “Do you want to go to the hotel?” Étienne asks.

  I scoff as we walk down the sidewalk down King Street. “Absolutely not.”

  Charleston is a city that rarely sleeps, but due to the impending hurricane, there’s virtually no one out at this time. Just people who are up to no good, a few stragglers who can’t resist the lure of the nearest bar for a few drinks, and the police who patrol the area. And then there’s Étienne and me, breaking into his old business in hopes we find a clue to lead us back to the 19th century.

  For us, it’s our average night on the town.

  Some storefronts have already been boarded up, but most are still open, though they’re closed right now. Étienne keeps a close eye on the roads, no question to make sure no cops drive by.

  “Tell me more about these security systems most businesses have,” he says.

  “I’m not exactly a novice on security systems, but most of the time when an employee locks up for the night, they set the alarm so if anyone does break in, the security company and police are immediately notified.”

  “Do you think my office now has a security system?”

  “If the new business owners have any brain cells, yes.”

  “I conclude it will be difficult to get in?”

  My mouth kicks up into a half-smirk. “Definitely won’t be easy, but we’ll figure out a way. Let’s think about that once we get there. All right?”

  From beside me, Étienne nods. He takes a deep breath before he says, “This street has changed.”

  He stops in front of one store, and I’m tempted to tell him to hurry. The words are on my tongue, waiting to slip from my lips, but then I realize he’s standing in front of the same window display I gawked at in 1912. I remember how my eyes soaked in the sight of the handwritten signs. There was a sign for toothpaste, and who can forget the one for Coca-Cola?

  Étienne wears an expression of awe as he looks at the female mannequins dressed in the latest fashion with 50% off signs hung directly above them. It’s hard to say when the boutique called Azalea Park replaced the general store. Or how many stores have hung their signs above the door. All that truly matters is Étienne and I have a clear image of how this street once looked, and it’s not a grainy black and white photo you find archived at a library or online. It’s crisp and colored and fresh in our mind, and it never fades no matter how much time passes.

  “You ready?” I gently ask.

  Étienne slowly turns my way and nods. We continue toward where his business once was. While Étienne’s brow slants low as he reads the sign on the door, I squint to get a better look. “Perriwinkle Fabrics,” I read aloud. Whistling, I rock back on the heels of my feet. “Didn’t see that coming.”

  Étienne is silent beside me. I know he’s thinking about all the hard work he put into his company. His frustration is palpable, and if I don’t get him away from his window, he’s going to punch a hole straight through it.

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say they probably don’t have the most top-notch security system,” I say casually.

  He glances down at me. “Why not?”

  “Because fabric stores aren’t exactly the most hopping places to visit.”

  Étienne nods and peers into the window. It’s no use, though. Bolts of fabrics are pressed against the window, preventing us from getting a good look inside.

  I tug on his sleeve and try to pull him away from the window. “Is there a back entrance?” Étienne tucks his hands into his jean pockets and nods. “Yes. Follow me.”

  We hurry toward the alley. When we first got out of the car, exhaustion was beginning to take over my body, and my eyelids were beginning to feel heavy, but now that we’re trying to find a way into this building, my adrenaline has begun to take over.

  The pitch-black alley has only one streetlamp in the middle shining down on the overflowing dumpsters. Boxes and broken signs lean against the brick and stucco buildings. Étienne shakes his head, but he doesn’t comment on the sight. His steps quicken along the narrow alley until he abruptly stops and turns his head to the left. He points toward where a tall fence runs the length of the uneven road.

  “A large carriage house once stood there,” Étienne remarks, facing the right and points at one of the buildings at random. “It’s this one.”

  He hurries forward without looking twice. I give the alley a thorough sweep and follow him.

  “Étienne! Wait,” I whisper-shout.

  Stopping in front of the door, he rubs his chin thoughtfully. “They more than likely have different locks.”

  “More than likely,” I agree. “What did you have when you owned the place?”

  “There was a simple bolt lock that required a skeleton key. Only me and Asa had a copy.”

  The new owners could go down the cliché route and place the extra key underneath the doormat, doorframe, or the nearest rock. Yet it’d take too long to search.

  “Are there any other points of entry?” I ask.

  Étienne thinks for a moment before he points at the window to our right. “That window leads to a room directly beside my office that was used for storage. My office faces the side street, and the window was always incredibly hard to open.”

  “Then let’s try getting into the storage room.”

  “And if an alarm goes off?”

  “Then we run like hell.”

  Étienne laughs before he walks up to the window. For anyone else, it’d be impossible to reach and would take many jumps to grip the windowsill. As for Étienne, with his arms up and over his head, they touch the top of the window latch.

  His shirt lifts as he attempts to push the lower portion of the windowpane up. After a few grunts and shoves, he says, “It’s locked.”

  “Sometimes in old buildings, these windows can be painted shut, so maybe both?”

  “I’m goin’ to break the glass, and if an alarm goes off, we’re goin’ to run like hell as you eloquently put it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  My blood courses through my veins, and my heart pounds in antici
pation. For me, Belgrave and the Lacroix House were our only opportunities of going back. I never gave Étienne’s business any thought. I should’ve, though, considering losing his business greatly bothered him and was something we had yet to unravel.

  Étienne takes his jacket off, wraps one of the sleeves around his knuckles a few times until he’s created a good barrier. He doesn’t give breaking this window another thought. Technically, we’re breaking the law, but my God … what a view. I watch as shards of glass scatter around him. Dropping his coat onto the ground, he reaches through the broken window and toys with the latch. After a few seconds, he removes his hand and pulls the window up. It creaks in protest, and shards fall to the side, but it works.

  Étienne brushes away the rest of the broken glass as best as possible and walks over to me. “I’m going inside to unlock the back door for you. Wait here.”

  “Oh, no. I was going to scale the side of the wall and jump onto the roof,” I say dryly.

  Étienne shakes slowly shakes his head and kisses my forehead.

  With ease, he lifts himself onto the windowsill, narrowly avoiding the broken glass. Watching a hulking man such as Étienne shimmy through a narrow window gives me a bit of comedic relief. I fight the laughter bubbling in my throat as he slowly disappears inside the building.

  I stand outside in the alley by myself for no more than a minute before the back door creaks open. Even though I know it’s Étienne, I still hold my breath because there was a small chance an alarm was set on the back door. The silence and Étienne’s extended hand push me forward.

  Étienne clutches my hand in a tight grip as I walk up the steps. Once inside, he closes the door as softly as possible. Exhaling, I look around even though I know it’s futile; the lit exit sign above the door is the only light in the hallway. Slowly, we make our way down the narrow space.

  “The front room should be steps ahead,” Étienne says, breaking the silence.

  “All right.”

  True to his word, the narrow hall breaks into the front room that once used to be a large open space. Not anymore. There’s barely room to walk around, but a light hangs directly above a large cutting table. Scissors are strewn across the counter, and cut-up pieces of fabrics are pushed to the sides as though the employees glanced at the time and realized their shift was over. On the opposite side of the store is a cash wrap counter with storage for large bolts of fabrics to be displayed. This place is bursting at the seams with fabric; it’d be an act of God if we found something from the past.

  “I can’t even hazard a guess and suggest where to start,” I say, defeat creeping into my words.

  Étienne looks around the fabric store. He’s not happy about seeing his former office replaced with another business. That much is clear by the fierce scowl on his face. We don’t have enough time to let emotions get in the way and that includes me. I have to think positive.

  “Let’s search for the photo you originally found,” he says, though it comes out as a suggestion.

  “Étienne, you were the one to time travel, not me. Right now, we’re standing in your former business. I think if anyone is going to find anything tonight, it will be you,” I say gently.

  He goes quiet for a moment before he nods. “I think you’re right. Search for any items that appear to belong in the 19th century.”

  “That’s a start.”

  I didn’t know if it would give us any leads. This place is maxed to the hilt with fabric and every accessory you could need. Shelves climb the wall, and small stools are here and there for anyone who spots what they want. I can picture an employee grabbing one bolt of fabric and the rest tumbling like an elaborate domino design.

  For the next few minutes, the only sound that can be heard is Étienne and me moving items around. I do my best and try to stay away from the front window and door in case somebody happens to walk by.

  Étienne and I use our flashlights from earlier this evening. Étienne takes the opposite side of the store, near the cash register, while I remain near the aisles of fabrics and an assortment of sewing accessories. Every so often, I’ll shine my light in Étienne’s direction. He’s far more enthusiastic with his pursuit to find any belongings from the 19th century. He tips over bolts of fabric, not bothering to pick them up. The trash can clangs loudly to the ground, and trash spills across the floor. He walks behind the register and sifts through any paperwork he comes across.

  I move from aisle to aisle but don’t find anything. I thought it’d be impossible to spot a vintage item in such a cramped store, but it’s turning out to be far easier than I anticipated, considering most stocked items are freshly packaged.

  Étienne and I continue to search until we gradually meet in the middle of the room by the cutting table.

  I turn off my flashlight and sigh. “That was incredibly underwhelming.”

  “It was highly improbable we’d find somethin’,” Étienne replies.

  He’s right. Étienne’s been right almost every time, but this one time, I was hoping he was wrong. “We can go back to the hotel.”

  One of Étienne’s large hand’s curls around my shoulder. He draws me close to him. “We’re both tired. We need to rest. Especially you.” He begins to guide us toward the hallway when he stops short and shines his flashlight toward the right where there’s only fabric, fabric, and some more fabric. You wouldn’t think that judging by his tense body.

  My heart races a mile a minute because I’m convinced he’s spotted someone in the store. “What?” I whisper.

  “Where’s Asa’s office?” Étienne asks seconds later.

  Frowning, I look to the left and right, trying to remember the original floor plan of the building. I don’t remember where Asa’s office was at.

  “It was right there,” Étienne says, his voice rising with each word. He stabs a finger in the air, draws a circle, and makes a line until his finger reaches the second closed door on the right. Slowly, he lowers his head. “And mine was there.”

  “Did we even check your office?” I ask in a hushed tone.

  Étienne shakes his head, and together we look in that direction.

  He takes the first step toward his former office, but I’m not far behind him. Étienne reaches out and turns the knob. The door creaks open. We stand in the middle of the doorway and take in the room. My nose itches at the overwhelming dust, and I fight the urge to sneeze. The irony is this room is the only space not used. Why I don’t know. But it’s a good thing the present-day owner(s) haven’t begun to use this room; we can thoroughly look over the space.

  Standing in the middle of Étienne’s former office, I make a slow circle. Vividly, I can remember the last time I was in here. Étienne could barely stand the sight of me. He was still coming to terms with the fact I wasn’t Old Serene. I just happened to look identical to her in every way. He sat behind his desk, large and imposing as ever, attempting to work while I asked questions to better understand the man who claimed to be my husband.

  At that time, I didn’t know he was bound to be the love of my life.

  The pictures that once hung on the walls are long gone and so are the bookshelves. The only familiar presence is Étienne and the sound of the floorboards creaking as I walk around the room.

  Étienne shines his light in the direction of two three-tiered filing cabinets where his bookshelves once were. He stares at the spot carefully before he walks over with a confident stride.

  “Shine the flashlight toward the cabinets,” Étienne says. It’s a demand, not a question.

  I’m so curious to know what he’s doing that I accept the flashlight and watch with an open mouth as Étienne pushes the cabinets away from the walls. They groan with protest. If no one knew of our presence in the store before, they do now. Once the cabinets are pushed away from the wall, he takes the flashlight back and angles it above his head while his other hand slides across the wall as if he’s feeling for something.

  “What are you doing?”

&
nbsp; “Tryin’ to find the hollow space in the wall.”

  After a moment, he locates a spot near the baseboard. He knocks on the wall a few times, and a wicked grin spreads across his face. For the second time tonight, Étienne forms a fist and promptly punches a hole in the wall.

  “Well, so much for leaving this place without damaging anything,” I murmur.

  Étienne doesn’t hear me; he’s too focused on flicking pieces of drywall away. I bend down next to him and hold the phone up for more light. Muttering a thanks, he dives in with both hands with renewed vigor. Once there’s a hole wide enough for both of his fists, he places his hand in, elbow deep.

  Would I stick my hand inside that wall? Hell no. God only knows what’s inside there. I have visions of a rat scurrying about and shudder at the thought. Étienne is bound and determined to keep searching, though.

  After a few seconds of grunting, he says, “I’m touchin’ somethin’.”

  “Is it rat feces?”

  Looking over his shoulder, Étienne glares at me before he concentrates on slowly removing his hand. When he does, Étienne sits back, his shoulders touching the wall. “I’ll be damned,” he says.

  “What is that?”

  I shine my flashlight at the leather document folder with embossed leaves on the front. Étienne opens it up, where contents of now yellowed papers are stacked, and swears under his breath. Even with my flashlight, I can’t get a clear look at any sentences or signatures.

  “This holds anything of great importance to me, and documents my lawyer had drawn up days before I came to this time.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nods. “I thought it was a long shot to search, but it’s still here.”

  “And where exactly is here?”

  Étienne lowers the papers and gestures to the wall. “I stored my power of attorney in the wall.”

  For a long second, I stare at him. “You realize there are better places to store important documents, right?”

  “I am well aware of that, but due to experiences of betrayal with certain people, I wanted to be sure