After sniffling and rubbing away the itch with my handkerchief, my hand brushes across the locket I wear attached to a chain around my neck. I smooth a thumb across the outside of it. It is round and silver, and the size of a pocket watch. My parents gave it to me earlier in the year for my fifteenth birthday. When I press the knob at its side, the front panel springs open, causing warmth to spread across my cheeks. Mother inserted a photograph—a portrait of me—inside the back frame. I haven’t found anyone special enough whose photograph I might use to replace it yet.
Snapping the locket shut, I look up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Father walks into the room with Mother on his arm.
“Shirlyn.” Mother clucks her tongue at me. “Why are you on the floor, dear? Sit with us where it’s more comfortable. To think of all that time I spent remodeling this room with the latest fashion in furniture.”
Father winks behind his eyeglasses. “For now,” he says. “Your mother will redecorate as appropriate well before we enter the nineteen-forties.”
Mother sighs as she extends her hand, which I grudgingly accept. I look around the room as I rise, paying close attention to Mother’s improvements should she ask my opinion on the subject later. The sofas are deep-seated with rounded armrests, all covered in fabric better suited for hanging across the windows. Their matching cushions are flat and square. None of it looks comfortable.
I politely sit at the edge of one of the sofas and look up at Mother. Her blond hair is pinned up in the back and waved at the edges so it resembles a curly bob. Fur lines the collar of her dress. She smiles at me, her warm, spiced hazel eyes glowing.
I tug at my jumper and smooth out my skirt, feeling underdressed compared to Mother. Yet, even with our differences in clothing, I am her doppelganger. For me, looking at her is like looking at a mirror into the future. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Surely it’s quite strange for her to look at me as well, a living reminder of times past.
“Well now,” Father says. He swats back an untidy lock of brown hair. “I expect you’re wondering why there are no gifts for us underneath the tree.”
His words make my lips pucker. I avoid looking at the tree and try not to appear guilty. Surely I’ve returned all the packages to the right places. Father winks again and turns. Instead of heading for the Christmas tree, he stops in front of a cabinet situated to the right of the fireplace. He opens both drawers. I crane my neck as he pulls at something.
Finally, he turns back around. His lips are set in a hopeful grin, and his arms are filled with bolts of fabric that are worn and ancient. “Happy Christmas, my dears.”
My nose begins to twitch all over again. For our gifts this year, Father appears to be offering Mother and me a pile of old blankets.
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First Edition: 2016
TIME FOR THE LOST is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed are used in a fictitious manner and are the products of the author’s imaginings. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events are purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Chess Desalls
Dedication
Time for the Lost
Prologue
PART I - VALCAS HALL
1 - Confessing
2 - Searching
3 - Loving
4 - Finding
5 - Remembering
6 - Fighting
7 - Keeping
8 - Porting
9 - Reuniting
10 - Falling
11 - Backtracking
12 - Reading
13 - Suffering
14 - Fearing
15 - Grieving
16 - Saving
17 - Freeing
18 - Dealing
19 - Losing
20 - Healing
21 - Turning
22 - Burning
PART II- CALLA WINSTON
23 - The Recovery
24 - The Invitation
25 - The Gala
26 - The Rival
27 - The Switch
28 - The Betrayal
29 - The Overwrite
30 - The Tome
31 - The Twist
32 - The Secret
33 - The Experiment
34 - The Awakening
35 - The Homecoming
36 - The Call
37 - The Gift
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Copyright Notice
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