The Art of the Swap

by Kristine Asselin

  But then I remember the ropes and the red light on the ceiling and the emptiness of the house. And the device I found in my pocket and tossed away. I run back into the ballroom and glance under the piano; it’s still there. It’s not ladylike, but I don’t care about what my aunt would say right now; I crawl underneath to retrieve it and misjudge how much space I have. I bang my head on the exact spot of the bump. Is it possible that the new body I’m in is taller than my own?

  Tossing that thought aside, I crouch under the piano with my elbows on my knees and turn the object over in my hand. It’s about the size of a deck of cards. Where did the picture go? When I touch the glass front, it lights up again in full color. With shaking hands I stuff it back into the pocket of the trousers. Twenty-first-century technology isn’t something I can manage right now. I have a sudden need to find a person. A real, live, in-the-flesh person. As though the universe hears me, a voice booms from the foyer.

  “Hannah!”

  I freeze. The girl’s name must be Hannah. She mentioned her father. This has to be him. Do I dare pretend to be someone else? I consider my options. If this is a waking dream, what does it matter? On the other hand, if I have really traveled forward in time and look like Hannah, pretending to be her might be my only way back home.

  “Here I am.” I crawl out from under the piano just as the man enters the ballroom. He kneels down so we’re at the same level. His soft brown eyes remind me of Uncle E. J. His blouse is the same fabric as the one I’m wearing, and the words across the front exclaim, Life Is Good. He’s also wearing denim trousers.

  Do all people wear denim in the twenty-first century?

  “You all right, Bug?” he asks, a small smile lighting up his face. When I don’t answer, he continues, “You know how much I hate to punish you.”

  He leans forward, trying to make eye contact. “I just need you to promise me you’ll stay away from the tours. Even though we both know you could be a better docent than some of them. Do we have a deal? You’ll keep away from them? Promise?”

  This sounds like an apology, but I can’t make any sense of his meaning. So I don’t say anything. He’s waiting for a reply, though, so I smile back and nod my head slightly. Hopefully it will be enough.

  It seems to do the trick.

  “Tell you what!” He slaps his thigh, which makes me startle, and he jumps up, holding out his hand. “I’m commuting your sentence for the evening. We’ll do delivery. I’ll order a giant pie from Nikolas Pizza. The regular? Half cheese for you and the other half Hawaiian for me? And your favorite Greek salad, dripping with olives? We’ll settle in for the night and watch some Doctor Who.”

  He is speaking English, I know that. But I have no idea what he means by “delivery.” I do understand “pizza,” however. I had a slice last fall when Father took me to the World’s Fair in Saint Louis. I loved it.

  “That sounds delightful.” I take his offered hand and stand up, brushing myself off. “But why do we need to see a doctor?”

  Hannah’s father laughs, a deep throaty one that makes me smile despite my confusion. He tousles my hair. “Fabulous, buddy. Just wonderful. But I think you need to work on your British accent. C’mon!”

  He leads me through the foyer and down the hall toward the servants’ staircase. When I grab the smooth wood, I cringe at the memory of Mrs. O’Neil’s scolding just a short time ago.

  We continue past the butler’s pantry and still we climb, past the second floor, where my bedroom and all the other private quarters are located.

  I’ve never in a million years dared use this stairwell to go all the way to the third floor, which is strictly off-limits, so when we start climbing toward the upper floors, I have to hide my surprise. Normally at this time of day, this corridor is bustling with lady’s maids and valets going up and down from the kitchen to the living spaces to help the guests dress for dinner.

  We finally emerge in a simple hallway. I know this is the servants’ quarters, though I’ve never been this high in the house. Hannah told me the mansion is a museum in the future. The caretaker and his daughter work here.

  Oh my goodness. Am I a servant?

  Chapter Eleven

  Hannah

  FOR AS LONG AS I can remember, I’ve daydreamed about what it would be like to live at The Elms during the Gilded Age. I’ve endured endless teasing from my friends for my obsession with all things early twentieth century, and I’ve watched every movie and read every book set in this time period. I pick Theodore Roosevelt for every school project we do on presidents. Last Halloween I trick-or-treated as his wife, Edith, which was cool even if no one could figure out who I was. So, now that I’m actually here, I’m for sure going to make the most of it.

  Of course, it would be a lot more enjoyable if I were having tea on the terrace with the Berwinds, whom I at least know tons about, so I could fake it till I make it with them. Instead they’re off dressing for some musicale (this gathering at someone’s house where everyone stands around and listens to people play or sing), and I’m stuck hanging out with Maggie’s cousin Colette and our nanny. I know absolutely nothing about either of them from my research into the family. Ugh.

  My strategy is to keep as quiet as possible. Can’t bust me if I don’t speak, right? Luckily, Colette seems to want nothing to do with me. She’s annoyed about some kind of dare, but I can’t ask about it, because I’m sure Maggie would already know, and I have to be Maggie. Colette can’t be that much older than me—maybe fifteen?—but I’m getting the distinct impression that she and Maggie aren’t exactly the Taylor Swift and Selena Gomez BFF power duo of their time.

  I play copycat, though, and lift my teacup to my mouth the same way she does, with my pinky finger out all fancy-like. It feels sort of weird to just sit here and look out over the lawn, while none of us are also scrolling through Instagram on our phones. Also, tea? Let’s just say it’s no caramel Frappuccino, even with all the sugar I dump in whenever the nanny turns away.

  “Are you excited for the ball tomorrow, Miss Margaret?” the nanny asks in her formal British accent.

  Am I? I mean, I personally am beyond . . . but would Maggie be? Or is attending balls something she does every other night of the week? “Um, yeah, totally,” I mumble.

  The nanny gives Colette a weird look, and Colette just smirks back. Something tells me this woman came from New York with Colette and not with Maggie. She’s treating me like I’m mostly a stranger. Which actually works to my advantage; maybe she won’t notice how un-Maggie-like I really am.

  I swipe at my sweaty forehead with the back of my arm, and the nanny gasps.

  “Manners, miss!” she scolds.

  What? It’s mega-hot out here, and it’s not like the AC is blasting inside either. Plus, between my dress with a billion layers underneath it and its long sleeves AND the white gloves I have on, it’s a miracle I’m not melting into the stone terrace. I sigh and pretend to be realllly interested in my tea while Colette and the nanny start gossiping about some couple who tried to pass themselves off as members of the Four Hundred—which I know is the term that the “best of society” call themselves—at a horsing event and got super-busted by someone who actually was a member, and now the couple are social pariahs, whatever that means.

  Ick. But at least they’re ignoring me, so now I can spend some time thinking. The thing I can’t get out of a loop in my head is How did this happen? And not just how, but why did this happen? Am I here for a reason? Like, in the Freaky Friday movie, the mom and kid switched bodies so they could learn to appreciate the other person’s perspective and stop fighting so much. I know I might sometimes chat at Painting-Maggie, but I’ve never, ever raised my voice at her. I mean, please. Last winter Dad and I had an eighties movies day, and we watched Back to the Future, his favorite movie from when he was my age. That kid had to make sure his parents met and fell in love, to guarantee he’d eventually be born. But no one in my family tree even lived in Newport in 1905. So, what, then? Am I
just here to see what life was like, the way I wished, or is there more to it?

  I start by making a mental list of everything I know.

  It’s 1905. In the history of The Elms, this year is famous as the one when the painting of Maggie is stolen.

  I landed in not just the same year but on the same weekend as the heist. That canNOT be a coincidence.

  If it’s not a coincidence, what does it mean?

  I know when the painting is stolen, so I could stop it from happening.

  WAIT. I’m so stupid. Of course, that HAS to be it.

  That’s why I’m here! That’s what I’m supposed to do! It has to be, because it would be way too big a coincidence otherwise, and I don’t believe in coincidences. (I also didn’t believe in time travel before today, but whatevs.) I’m right—I feel it in my gut.

  “Are you planning to sit like a bump on a log all evening, or do you intend to join our conversation?”

  With Colette’s words, I snap back to reality. Or, you know, this whackadoodle version of reality I’m currently stuck in.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  She cocks her head at me. “What on earth is ‘huh’? You’re acting entirely bizarre, Margaret.” Colette practically spits my name.

  “Huh? Oh, um, yeah, sorry. I mean, uh, what? Um, excuse me?” Jeez, Hannah. Get it together. You know how people talked back then. Or would it be “back now”? Either way, you know how formal things are, including language.

  The nanny squints her eyes at me. “It’s true; you’re not acting yourself at all, dear. Shall I fetch you some cold water and some crackers?”

  “No thank you. I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I—I think it must be the heat.”

  “It is quite warm,” she says. “Perhaps you should lie down for a spell inside.”

  “Perfect idea!” I say, springing up from the table.

  Both of them shoot me a weird look.

  Whoops. Maybe that was a little too enthusiastic, but now that I’ve figured out my goal, the next day and a half is all laid out in front of me like a giant adventure. I only hope Maggie is going to be okay sticking around in the future, because I have to do this. Even if no one in my time will ever know, because to them it will be as if the painting was never stolen in the first place. It doesn’t matter. I’ll know. And it will feel amazing to not just learn about history but to take part in it, in a real way! Glory will be mine . . . just as soon as I get my inner Nancy Drew on and solve this theft.

  I wonder if I can make this a permanent gig, traveling through time to stop heists from happening. I’ve always wanted to see the Ming dynasty. We have a vase from that time period in The Elms. It’s never been stolen, that I know of, but I’ll bet something from back then was.

  This is the coolest.

  Really, it should be like stealing candy from a baby, since I already know exactly who did it. All I have to do is stop this Jonah guy from being in the same room as the painting during the ball . . . and I have a plan for that already. I’m gonna find him and stick to him like glue for the entire day. He won’t get within ten feet of the painting. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

  I ignore the little voice in my ear that whispers, But, Hannah, you never believed it was Jonah who stole the painting.

  I mean, sure, I’ve always had my doubts about that particular theory put forth in all the history books. It’s true he was the prime suspect, because he skipped town the morning after the heist and was never heard from again. Neither was the painting.

  But if you read all the eyewitness accounts—and believe me, I have—every single person interviewed who knew him said they could never imagine someone as quiet and sweet embarking on a life of crime. No one could figure out how he’d have access to enough money to disappear so completely. Or who he could have been working with.

  And then there is the kicker. Jonah was young. Not young from my perspective, because I happen to believe twelve-year-olds are capable of greatness as much as anyone else (and I’m not at all biased). But. Even I have to admit, twelve is pretty young to be the mastermind behind a huge, complicated theft and cover-up.

  But he’s the best—the only—lead I have, and I plan to investigate for myself.

  As soon as I excuse myself from the World’s Stuffiest Tea Party and am out of sight, I skip down the hall and veer right at the staircase. The room where Maggie’s staying is most likely on the second floor by the Berwinds’, but I’m not headed there. Nope. I’m going to trust that the nanny will be too busy continuing her gossiping to check on me anytime soon, so instead I point myself to the basement level, where the servants prepare meals. Where the kitchen boy works. Luckily, the coast is clear, because I’m guessing that fraternizing with the help might be frowned upon.

  Obviously, I know Maggie wouldn’t spend much time here, but in the movies the president is always sneaking into the White House kitchens for a midnight snack, and in those British upstairs-downstairs dramas I’m obsessed with, the lord and lady of the house slip down to visit the servants from time to time. So hopefully my showing up won’t be a giant big deal or anything. I’m sure Maggie must come here sometimes, because, just going by her eyes in the portrait, she doesn’t seem like someone who’d get all caught up in class differences or anything. I mean, I know it’s not her fault that she lives in this day and age, when servants are totally treated like, well, servants . . . and I can’t imagine Maggie being like that.

  “Miss Margaret!” A woman wearing a black dress with a white collar and a cardigan sweater gasps loudly when she sees me. “I thought we talked about this!”

  Um, okay, so maybe Maggie doesn’t do the whole “just popping in to say hi” thing on a regular basis.

  “Hello!” I say, nice and cheerfully. “I’m, uh, I’m just looking for . . . for . . .” Think, Hannah, think. What would Nancy Drew do? “Well, the thing is, I need someone strong to help me with . . . with . . . moving a desk in my room, and I’ve heard there’s a guy named Jonah who works down here and might be able to lend some muscle to the job.”

  The woman turns pinker than that Zombie Pigman in Minecraft. “Beg pardon, Miss Margaret, but I don’t believe it would be appropriate for Jonah to accompany a proper young lady such as yourself into your chambers.”

  Oh, ugh. Didn’t think that one through.

  “Heavens no!” I say, trying to sound positively scandalized. “When I said ‘my room,’ I really meant the hallway outside of it, of course.”

  A kid about my age steps out from behind the stove, a wrench in his hand and dirt on his face. “I’m Jonah, miss.”

  This is Jonah? I mean, I expected him to be young, but not so shy and timid. He looks like the kind of person who’d rescue spiders instead of squashing them. His hair is floppy and nearly covers his eyes, which are soft and quiet and very un-criminal-like.

  I stretch out my arm for a handshake, and he blushes about ten shades of red before wiping his dirty palms on his pant legs. He stares at my hand and hesitates, then finally ignores it and gives a little bow instead.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss.”

  He shuffles his feet and glances at the woman in the apron, who gives him a small smile and a nod. Then he exhales and begins turning the wrench over and over in his fingers, like I make him nervous or something.

  I am having a really tough time believing that the history books got this one right, but I force myself to be objective. Just because someone seems shy and very, very normal doesn’t mean they’re not hiding a devious side.

  And it’s up to me to discover it.

  Once again I ignore the little prickle on my arms and that whispery voice in my ear. The one that’s saying, But, Hannah, what if the history books got it wrong?

  Chapter Twelve

  Maggie

  A HALF HOUR LATER, AFTER a young man delivers food to the back door (Hannah’s father handed me some money and sent me back downstairs to pay the boy for the food—imagine!), we are seated on a comfortable divan in what he c
alls the living room. The twenty-first century is odd; my father would never in a million years imagine sitting with me so informally and eating without a proper place setting.

  “May I have one more piece, please?” I ask, dabbing at the corners of my mouth with my paper napkin and returning it delicately to my lap. At least I can maintain some pretense of manners.

  He furrows his brow as I fold my hands, waiting for his answer. “Well, I’m not the maid,” he says finally with a chuckle. “Help yourself.” He points to the box holding the pizza on the low table in front of us.

  I pause, but since he’s right—there are no servants in sight—I reach for another piece of the pizza. This time I feel brave enough to help myself to a slice of the other side, the one with the pineapple and cubes of ham.

  A bemused expression crosses the father’s face. “Since when do you like Hawaiian pizza?”

  When I don’t answer, he frowns. “Are you feeling okay? You’ve been awfully quiet tonight. And your manners are shockingly impressive.” The tiniest of smiles plays on his lips, but I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me or if he’s serious.

  I stop, slice of pizza poised in front of my mouth, still wondering what he means by “Hawaiian.” He can’t possibly mean this pizza comes from the new United States territory in the middle of the North Pacific.

  Blast it!

  Hannah must not eat this type of pizza. My brain scrambles for a reply. I think about something Aunt said to me on our tour of France last summer, and it seems appropriate.

  “It’s important to try something new every day.” My voice goes up at the end of the sentence, like I’m asking a question. Of course, Aunt meant it in the context of trying caviar—fish eggs—for the first time, not meat-laden pizza.