“It’s not that I’m incurious,” Sarah answers, “but I suppose I’m the opposite of my brother: I don’t want to ruin the mystery.”
She undoes our stretching work on the chair by plumping up one end of it against the wall before plopping down into it. I sit on the floor next to her and lean against her bed. Red readjusts himself to curl up between us.
“Let me tell you a story,” Sarah says. She pulls a blanket off the edge of her bed and covers all three of us with it. She hands me a pillow to sit on. This almost feels like a slumber party. Sarah is in her ice blue pajamas, I’m wearing my Princess dreams of adventure sleep shirt and Halli’s sweatpants—all we need now to go with the story is a bowl of popcorn and some hot chocolate.
“When I was a little girl,” Sarah begins, “six or seven years old, I had a teacher named Mrs. Lamb. I adored her. I thought she was the cleverest, prettiest woman in the entire world, second only to my mum, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Every morning when Mrs. Lamb arrived at school she smelled of lilacs and springtime. She always dressed impeccably in lovely floral skirts and pastel sweaters. She was the very essence of elegance. Her hair was perfect, her cheeks were rosy, her smile was like sunshine warming your face, her voice was like a song—can you picture such a woman?”
“I can.” How could I not? Sarah really does have a way with words.
“Good. Then you’ll understand. One weekend I was at the market with my mum, when we saw this disheveled, harassed-looking woman with a red-faced, squalling child. The woman wore sloppy, food-stained clothes, her hair was a rat’s nest, she looked as if she hadn’t slept in an age.
“And she paused in the midst of trying to discipline this hellion of a child to say, ‘Oh, hello, Sarah and Mrs. Everett. How are you?’
“I honestly didn’t recognize her. It wasn’t until Mum called her Mrs. Lamb that I knew. And I was horrified. Little girl that I was, I’d just seen a monster personified. What had this creature done to my beloved teacher?
“I couldn’t speak. I stood there mute while my mum and Mrs. Lamb exchanged a few pleasantries. Then Mum and I went on while Mrs. Lamb continued down the aisle with that horrid screeching beast-child in tow.
“I don’t know if you can understand,” Sarah says, “but that day nearly broke my heart. I was never happy going to school the entire remainder of the year. I had seen the truth, and the truth spoiled everything—even though the very next time I saw her, she was once again impeccably dressed and smelling of springtime. Ruined. Utterly ruined.”
“I get it,” I say. “Totally.”
“Do you?” She clutches my hand. “I’m so glad. To this day, Mum accuses me of overreacting. She viewed me as an overly dramatic child, whereas I prefer to see myself as a romantic.”
“No, I know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I stopped going to movies with my grandmother because every time I screamed at a scary part or cried over something sad, she’d lean over and say, ‘Remember, it isn’t real.’ Completely ruined it. She didn’t get that I wanted to be scared and I wanted to cry. I wanted to be caught up in the fantasy. Why would you watch a movie if you couldn’t get involved?”
Sarah looks confused. “Sorry, but what do you mean, it wasn’t real?”
“You know, maybe it was a cartoon or something with talking animals.”
Sarah laughs. “Talking animals! Can they do that where you come from?”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “No, it’s … you know, just a movie.”
But then I understand. It’s the same problem Halli had trying to enjoy my mom’s and my favorite sitcom.
“You don’t have movies like that here, do you?” I ask. “Stories about magic, or animation, or, I don’t know, stupid comedies.”
“No, although I would love a story about magic,” Sarah says. “What my parents film in their studio is probably the closest anyone gets. And there are numerous critics who find their programming to be far from realistic.”
Now I also understand something else. “The last time I was here, I went out to a café with you and a few friends of yours from your school.”
“Did you? When? This is now the second time you’ve referred to being here before, and I have absolutely no memory of it. So I’m afraid you’ll have to explain.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “I don’t want to ruin the mystery.”
Sarah waves me on. “I’ll stop you before you say too much. I’m highly attuned to the ruinous. But now I must hear the story.”
I pause for a moment. Try to think of the best, most efficient way of filling her in. I’ve already told this whole story to Dr. Venn and Daniel today. I’m too tired to go through it all again.
“You heard me say something to Daniel about parallel universes,” I start. Sarah nods. “Well, just take my word for it that this is one, I came from another, and there are at least two more that I know of.”
“Truly? How exciting!”
“In this one and another one, I’ve been Halli both times—her body, me inside. Do you follow that so far?”
“Absolutely.”
“So the last time I was Halli, I came to London and saw you and Daniel.” I’ve already decided I’ll never tell her how that life ended. So I have to be careful here. “And one day we went out to a café with some friends of yours—”
“Which ones?” Sarah asks. “Do you know?”
“I assume it’s the same ones you invited yesterday.”
“Oh! Is that how it works?”
“I think so. Anyway,” I say, “we were having this conversation, and one of your friends said you should go into theater. And you said something about how you were tired of always playing Marie Curie discovering radium. Is that what your movies and theater are like? They’re all historical reenactments?”
“Oh, yes. Loads of interesting material from every possible era. Plus all the recent stuff. No one will ever run out of subject matter and have to make anything up.” Sarah frowns. “Pity. I would love to see one of your programs about a talking animal.”
Sarah bites her lip and seems to be considering something. “All right, I do have a question to ask. But please don’t answer if you think it will disappoint me.”
“Okay.”
“You mentioned your grandmother. Am I to assume she is not Virginia Markham?”
“No. They look the same, but they’re completely different.”
“And you, Audie, are one person, and Halli Markham is a different person who looks just like you.”
“A little taller, more athletic-looking, but yes.”
“So is there …” Sarah pauses. But I can guess what she wants to ask.
“Are you sure you want to know?” I ask.
Sarah bites her lip again and nods.
“Yes,” I tell her. “There is another version of you in my universe.”
Sarah’s eyes go wide. “Do I … am I …?” She shakes her head. “No, don’t tell me. Not if you think I won’t like the answer.”
That’s a tough call. But I think I know how to finesse it.
“Her name is Gemma, and she’s awful,” I say. “She’s absolutely nothing like you—at all. In fact, she’s the complete opposite of you. You’re wonderful. She’s horrible. You’d hate her if you met her for even five minutes—”
“Oh, stop,” Sarah says, slapping her hands over her ears. “No more. Ruin.”
Now I feel guilty. “Okay, maybe she’s not that bad,” I admit, and Sarah uncovers her ears again. “It’s not like she’s a criminal or anything. It’s just that she’s so … unpleasant. She’s snotty and conceited and basically not a nice person. Like I said: not like you at all.” I almost leave it at that, but decide I should tell her the whole truth. It’s only fair. “Plus she got to date this guy I was secretly in love with for years, so that didn’t exactly make me like her.”
“Oh,” Sarah says, raising an eyebrow. “Now I see.”
“No, it’s not jus
t because I was jealous,” I hurry to say. “She really is awful. Take my word for it.”
But Sarah doesn’t look convinced. “And who is this other bloke? The one my evil twin has usurped from you. Is he here in this parallel universe, too? Should I warn my brother he might face a rival?”
“He’s not a rival,” I assure her. “But yes, he is here.”
“Who is he?” Sarah asks excitedly. “Do I know him?”
“I’m not going to say.” I agree with Sarah’s description of herself as a romantic. I think she’d rather find out for herself that she likes Jake, without me telling her she’s dating the Will version of him in my world. If they’re still dating after what happened at the ball. I won’t be telling Sarah about that, either.
Sarah gives me a suspicious look. But then she shrugs. “You may keep your secret. I trust your judgment. Oh, speaking of which …” Sarah climbs out of the chair and stands on her tiptoes to reach something hidden on a shelf above it. She pulls out the wad of cash. “I accepted this on principle because my brother was being so stubborn about it, but I want you to know that I have no designs on it if you’d rather I gave it back.”
“No,” I tell her. “Not at all. But it is for all of you, so I hope you’ll figure out a way to share it. I plan to give you a lot more, so be thinking. I really want to do something nice for your family.”
“You’re very generous. Thank you.” Sarah hides the money again, then sits back down under the blanket with Red and me.
Then she looks at me with that kind of open, vulnerable expression I’m used to from her. “But tell me,” she says, “please don’t say you were joking about me being your apprentice. I really hope you will accept me for the position.”
“Sarah … I’m not Halli.”
“I know who you are,” she says, “and I am at your service. Now, last week, always. Please allow me to help you. It would truly be my honor.”
I nod, a little choked up, and Sarah points at my sleep shirt. “I do dream of adventure,” she says. “And there is no question you are having one, Audie-Halli, or however I should address you in private. I hope you’ll include me from now forward. I might be of great help to you.”
“You might,” I agree.
“Splendid,” she says. “Then I’m sure you’ll agree I should come with you tomorrow, whatever you’re doing.”
“I’m going back to Oxford, but I don’t think—”
“Please,” she says. “I’m quite serious about this. I want to be involved.”
I’m not sure whether having her along would be an asset or a hindrance. But I also hate to tell her no. So I try a different angle.
“Remember, your parents wouldn’t let you take off from school today to go with me.”
“Only because they don’t know the truth about who you are. But once we tell them—”
And I surprise myself by how immediately and firmly I answer, “No.”
25
I never thought I’d willingly admit this, but it really does all come down to math.
Or at least an equation, in my case. Decision X plus a series of decision Ys equaled death.
Circumstance and choices.
So far I’ve kept to my plan and not done anything the same.
Daniel knows who I am now, but not because I told him.
Sarah knows, but she didn’t know last time.
But her parents? They knew. And as helpful as they meant to be, nothing went right after that.
“You can’t tell your parents. Please, Sarah. It’s very, very important.”
“But … they’d understand,” she says. “They know people who might be able to help you.”
“No. Please.” Even the memory of all that pain I felt when Olga and her daughter “helped me” is enough to make me wince. “Look, Sarah, I think your parents are wonderful. I love spending time with them. I like them as much as my own mother—my real mother,” I clarify, since Sarah doesn’t approve of Halli’s mother any more than I do. “But I have to be really careful about not letting anyone know. It was an accident that you and Daniel found out. But it really has to stop with you two.”
“May I ask why?”
“It’s dangerous. That’s all I can tell you. Some things happened last time—bad things. You just have to trust me on this.”
“Of course I trust you.”
“So I’m sorry you won’t be able to come with me tomorrow, but I do have another job for you.”
“Yes, please,” she says. “Whatever it is.”
It’s the kind of thing I’d do myself if I had time and knew how to work the technology. And even though I could ask Daniel, he’s going to be busy enough with Professor Lacksmith.
Sarah is my logical choice.
“There’s a professor at Oxford I’ll be visiting tomorrow,” I tell her. “His name is Edgar Venn. He’s very old—a hundred and three—”
“Gracious.”
“He was actually one of your father’s professors at some point, so please don’t let him know what you’re doing. Anyway, Daniel found some film of Dr. Venn from about twenty years ago, but I’d like to go back even further. He said there are dozens of other interviews, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. I don’t, either, but I do know I want to see everything I can about Dr. Venn. So you think you could do that research for me?”
“Absolutely. I would love to.”
“Good. Thank you. You can show me tomorrow night.”
“Audie-Halli …” Sarah makes a face. “I don’t know what to call you anymore.”
“‘Halli’ will be fine.”
“But you’re not,” she insists. “You’re an amalgam. A blend.”
A new creature.
“I’m Audie Three.” I feel a little self-conscious saying it out loud, but I know Sarah won’t make fun of me. “You can’t tell that to anyone else, though. It’s just for you and me and Daniel to know. So keep calling me Halli.”
“Will you … stay this way?” Sarah asks. “Or will the real Halli ever come back? And then will you return to how you were?”
Those are the right questions, even though Sarah has no idea about any of the science behind them.
I do have an idea of the science, but I still don’t know the answers.
“I’m sure it will all work out somehow.”
You’re sure, huh? Liar.
What I won’t tell Sarah is that those questions of hers are really Step 2 of my whole situation.
Step 1 is just trying to stay alive for longer than this week.
26
“Our friends are here,” Sam says when I come downstairs for breakfast. He’s reading another thick book, or maybe it’s the same one from last night, and sipping a cup of tea. I can smell coffee in a pot on the counter. Sarah said they bought some for me at the market the other night since they know that’s what we drink in the States.
Good. I could use some. Even though I was so exhausted last night by the time Sarah and I finally stopped talking, it still took me forever to fall asleep. I had way too much on my mind.
Sam points out the window. I part the curtains to see rain drizzling down on a group of people out huddled at the end of the walkway in front of the Everett-Wheeler house.
Reporters.
I mutter something I probably shouldn’t say, but I can’t help it. I’d just like a calm day for once.
“It’s pretty miserable, what they’re doing,” Sam says.
“I know! Why can’t they just leave me alone?”
Sam laughs. “No, I meant having to stand out there in weather like this and wait for their quarry to emerge. I certainly put in my time just like they are. I don’t envy them.”
I knew Sam was a history reporter before he became a producer and then started his own history studio with Francie, but I never pictured him hounding people the way Bryan Stewart and the other reporters have been doing. I don’t quite know what to say.
“Did you take them some tea?” Francie asks a
s she joins us in the kitchen. She’s dressed in thick slacks and a cherry red wool sweater. I’m wearing one of Daniel’s sweaters. It’s the color of oatmeal and it’s too big for me and I love it.
“Tea and muffins,” Sam tells his wife. “They inhaled them like no one has fed them for weeks. Another liability of the job,” he tells me. “You’re always, always famished.”
“And cold. And wet,” Francie adds. “Or hot and sweltering. And always in a rush. Except when you’re standing around like right now and waiting for hours and hours.”
“Are you saying I should feel sorry for them?” I ask. “It’s awfully hard when they feel like mosquitos buzzing around my face.”
“Mosquitos with bills to pay and husbands and wives and children to support,” Sam says. “But no, you shouldn’t feel sorry for them. They generally like what they do. I did. Although I prefer what I’m doing now much more. For one thing, I’m inside right now.”
“So, Halli,” Francie says, “what’s on your agenda for today?” She pours herself a cup of coffee and brings me one, too.
“Thanks,” I tell her. I should have gotten it myself. I hate for people to think I expect them to serve me. Halli never acts that way. “I’m going back to Oxford as soon as the car gets here.”
“Seeing Venn again?” Sam asks me.
I nod. “He gets really tired. We couldn’t go for very long yesterday.”
“What’s he like?” Francie asks. “Still mentally sharp?”
“Very,” I say.
“How old is he now?” she asks.
“A hundred and three.”
Sam whistles.
“Nice man?” Francie asks. “Decent?”
“Very.”
Sam scoffs at that.
“He was to me,” I tell him. “I really enjoyed talking to him. He’s got a lot of amazing stories.”
“Does he now?” Francie says. She taps her finger against her cup. “Do you think he would ever do a program for us?”
Sam tugs at his earlobe. “Sorry, I thought I just heard you ask if you could go into that cage over there and pet that lovely tiger. ‘Oh, but his fur looks so soft.’”
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