The Art of the Swap

by Kristine Asselin

  Then I realize what I’ve just asked of Jonah. “Oh man. I’m doing it again. Forget New York and helping me with the key; obviously, escaping with your mom is the only thing we should be worrying about right now. I’ll figure out the key another way. I’m sorry. Aaaah-gain.”

  Jonah looks a little dazed, but after a long minute I see the tiniest hint of a smile. “Except, I’ve always dreamed about seeing New York City. And my mother would never set foot in all that hustle and bustle.”

  I bite my lip. “Soooo? You’re saying . . .”

  “It’s risky, but I think it could work. I’m in.”

  “You are the nicest person in any time period ever. Seriously.”

  We smile at each other, and then I rush on. “Okay, so my guess is the police will be expecting you to travel under the cover of night, meaning we have to outsmart them. You should take a train tomorrow afternoon, and if you can go to the next town over to board, even better.”

  “You seem to know a lot about these matters.”

  “I’ve watched only about a zillion-and-a-half caper movies.”

  He tilts his head in confusion, but I zoom on. “Let’s work on how to sneak you out tonight. In a few hours I’ll meet back up with Maggie in the mirror like we planned and ask her if this stuff is okay to take. Which, obviously, she’d better say yes to. Maybe she even knows where we can get our hands on a little cash so you can get a train ticket with that. It will be way easier to pawn all this other stuff once you get to New York.”

  For the first time all day, the knot in my stomach loosens.

  We have a plan. Forward momentum. Too much drama for a girl’s delicate constitution?

  Pfft.

  Not this girl.

  • • •

  The afternoon feels like it takes about forty-seven years to pass, but finally it’s time for my mirror chat with Maggie. Wait until she hears our perfect plan. I leave Jonah safely hidden in my closet—daydreaming about the new life he seemed to latch on to pretty quickly once he allowed himself to imagine the possibilities—and head downstairs.

  As soon as I’m on the sideboard, I take the trinkets from Maggie’s room out of my skirt pockets and line them carefully on the mantel, so she can approve them as soon as she appears. They have to be worth more than enough to get Jonah to New York City and then off on a new adventure somewhere. Probably enough to get him to the moon and back, actually.

  The mirror shimmers.

  Before Maggie can even open her mouth, I speak. “Mags, we have the best plan ever to get to the key in New York. Wait until you—”

  But Maggie’s grin is even bigger. “You don’t need to.”

  “You broke into the room! Wow, I give you so many props, because we tried and—”

  She interrupts me. “No, I wasn’t successful with that. But I did manage to locate the key. And it will be in my hands in a matter of . . . One moment, please.”

  She looks down at MY phone in her hand and punches a few buttons like she’s a pro at it or something. “According to this tracking app Florence installed for me, delivery is scheduled for between one and four p.m. tomorrow.”

  My jaw drops. “You . . . What . . . It . . . How?”

  This is even better than I ever dreamed! Everything is falling into place!

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Maggie

  AT PRECISELY ONE O’CLOCK I stand in the servants’ entrance outside the gift shop. I still can’t believe all the books written about the heyday of the summer cottages in Newport and the reproductions of art and artifacts. There is a whole stack of postcards featuring my portrait. I feel like scooping them all together and burning them. Who would possibly want me on a postcard? I wonder what they’ll do with these when the original portrait is unveiled.

  It was Florence’s idea to have Mrs. Jones mail the package to Hannah’s attention. I still can’t believe it’s possible to get a package from Illinois to Rhode Island overnight, but in the three days I’ve been here, I’ve seen stranger things. I just hope I don’t have to wait three more hours for the delivery.

  I half expected Florence to meet me here, though I’m glad she didn’t. She’s been such a big help, but I’m afraid that if I talk to her any more, she’ll suspect that Hannah is crazy.

  A brown truck pulls into the drive and stops in front of me. I consider taking a step or two backward, but before I can act, a young man wearing all brown, from his shoes and socks to his short pants and shirt, jumps down out of the truck with a package. “You’re waiting patiently this afternoon. Is there a new Harry Potter book out or something?” He grins as he hands me a device and something that looks like a pen. “Sign, please.”

  With a flourish I sign Hannah’s name, and then, hands shaking, I grab the package. Forgetting all polite manners, I turn and walk straight through the door and back toward the coal tunnel. In my mind the ghosts of servants rush past me as I pass the kitchen and descend the metal stairs to the boiler room, then walk past the coal wagon and into the tunnel still lit by sporadically placed bulbs hung from a cord attached to the ceiling.

  As I walk, I rip the envelope open and dump the key into my hand. It has delicate gold filigree and is heavier than I imagined. Mrs. Jones was right. There is something magical about it. I’m holding the key to my past. Just as it was yesterday—and for the last hundred years—the door is sealed tight. Suddenly I’m afraid. What if the key doesn’t work? I close my eyes and imagine my aunt and uncle, and my father, and yes, even Colette. They aren’t perfect, but I do miss them.

  I miss the comfort of my books, I miss the horses and carriages that carry ladies down Bellevue Avenue to their social events, I miss the sounds and smells of my Elms. At the end of the summer I’ll return to the brownstone in New York City with Father, where I’ll get back to my studies. I can’t wait to shock Mr. Walsh, the headmaster of my school, with questions about rights for women.

  I shake my head, sweeping my thoughts aside, and fit the key into the lock. It goes in smoothly, but it takes both my hands to make it move. At first it seems like I’ve turned it the wrong way, but then the chamber clicks into place. Using the key as a knob, I throw my whole body against the door until it opens. I’m not sure what I expected, an illuminated room with a ray of sun pointed at the portrait?

  Instead I’m looking into a pitch-black void.

  For a moment I consider my options. I could go upstairs and find help. Either Florence or Hannah’s dad could probably find a candlestick or a torch or a lantern somewhere. I try to use the ambient light from Hannah’s device, but it’s no good, it’s not bright enough. I could climb into the void and feel around until I find the portrait. But the thought of bugs or rodents or something else lurking in the crypt stops me cold.

  The tunnel is dank, dim, and dusty. I haven’t come all this way to fail. I shiver, but then I see it. Just down the tunnel there’s a bulb hanging low. With my arm outstretched I can touch the ceiling anyway, so it takes only a couple of attempts to pull the wire attached to the bulb a little lower. If I angle it just right, it gives me enough light to see into the chamber.

  Nothing. What if it’s not here?

  But then I angle the light a bit to the right, and I spot it. Against the wall in the corner is a tarp covering an object suspiciously shaped like a portrait. Gritting my teeth and ignoring the thought of rodents, I crawl gingerly into the room and gently pull off the tarp.

  And looking back at me . . . is myself. But not in a mirror this time. The century-old portrait that hasn’t seen the light of day in more than a hundred years is in shockingly good shape, considering it’s been kept in this disgusting space for so long.

  The only thing left is to haul it upstairs without being seen, and then wait for the tourists to leave for the afternoon, so that Hannah and I can swap back to our rightful places.

  All I can think is, Cool.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hannah

  THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO DO here, and I know it. I�
��m also desperate to be home. So why am I swallowing around a giant lump in my throat?

  It’s okay to leave. More than okay.

  Most important, Jonah is more than okay. He snuck off before the sun came up this morning, after about a zillion hugs from me. True, at first he was slightly disappointed that he didn’t need to go to New York City. But wow did that go away fast when he told me about his decision to go all Wild, Wild West. He’ll take a new name, of course. Bye-bye, Jonah Rankin; hello, Jeremiah Duncan. It turns out Jonah/Jeremiah has always had an obsession with cowboys. He wants a whole ranch, with a big farmhouse for his mom and a zillion horses for him, a totally different future from what he thought he’d have, but one with way more possibilities for adventure. Doesn’t everyone deserve that? And, as it happens, just the one ruby in the middle of Maggie’s hairpin can actually make that happen. Thankfully, Maggie was more than eager to donate it and all the other items to such a good cause. She doesn’t even think anyone will notice she doesn’t have those things anymore. (Ah, to be filthy, stinking rich.)

  I love happy endings.

  And now it’s time for mine.

  Then why is it feeling so bittersweet? Crazy key drama aside, I always wished I could see The Elms in its prime, and not only did I get to see it, I got to live it. When I land home, I’ll be playing the hero for a while because I’ll be credited with finding the missing painting.

  So why is my stomach doing backflips, and not in the good way?

  “You ready for this?” Maggie asks quietly.

  “Yes, no, yes,” I answer.

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re weird, Hannah Jordan.” Then she smiles. “And thank God for that. I can’t imagine spending days trapped in some boring, stuffy person’s body.”

  I smile too.

  Yup. This is why my stomach is doing a world-class tumbling routine. Because it knows that as soon as Maggie pops that portrait of herself onto the wall, I won’t get to talk to her ever again. Or at least it thinks so. Neither of us are even acknowledging that this theory of ours might not work.

  It will. I can feel it.

  “I’m gonna miss you like whoa,” I say.

  “Back atcha.”

  I giggle. “Where’d you learn that one?”

  “I ascertained how to work the television remote last night. I’ve not been to sleep yet!”

  My giggle becomes a full-on laugh. She’s adorable. “I wish we had gotten more time to just chat, ya know? Like, when we didn’t have to worry about solving art heists.”

  She grins. “Or finding keys missing for decades? Or figuring out how to explain away knowledge of their existence?”

  “Exactly. I think we nailed that, by the way. One last mission for when you get back, huh?”

  “I’ve got it covered. Though, returning to your original comment,” she says, “I feel as if I probably know you better than anyone else in the world, after spending three days in your body.”

  “Ewww. There were some weirder parts to that that I’d rather not acknowledge, if you don’t mind. No offense.” I shrug, and smile.

  “None taken.” She chews on her bottom lip before saying, “Hannah? I’ve been working up the courage to tell you about some, er, incidences that took place during my time here. I’m afraid I may have—quite inadvertently and with only the best intentions, of course—taken some missteps in a few areas, and I—”

  I cut her off. “Stop! I don’t care. Unless you got a tattoo on my butt or something, I’m sure you didn’t cause any permanent damage. Besides, everyone will be so caught up in the portrait discovery that I’m sure they’ll forget all about anything weird I did or said or whatever. I don’t want to spend our last minutes together on apologies.”

  She looks so relieved that I reconsider for a second. Just exactly what did she do? But I shake it off and continue. “This is gonna sound super-cray, so just go with it, okay?”

  She nods, her nose wrinkling. I should totally skip that move in the future; it makes my face look all kinds of messed up.

  “Okay, so,” I say, “when I was a kid and, um, maybe possibly right up until this week, I used to talk to your picture all the time. Like we were friends or something. And I always thought . . . I always thought we totally would be, if we lived at the same time.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure of it!” Maggie says, and I smile.

  “Me too. More than ever. But the thing is, I don’t think I’m going to be able to anymore. I’ll know it’s not really you in there. It won’t feel the same.”

  “I understand. But perhaps you can try anyway. You do have a spare copy of the painting now. Perhaps there’s a place for it on your bedroom wall, next to the oversize picture of your friends with the instruments.”

  I burst out laughing again. “Those aren’t my friends, you nut. That’s a poster of the Five Heartbeats. Rock stars? Boy band?”

  “Boy band?”

  She looks completely confused, and I laugh harder. “You know what? Never mind.”

  She shrugs. “You also have your dad to talk to. And Florence is quite lovely. Of course, you have Tara. I’d love to have a Tara in my time.”

  I flash her a cheesy fake-innocent smile. “What? Are you saying you don’t consider Colette your BFF for life?”

  Maggie’s eye roll is even bigger this time. “I don’t know what ‘BFF’ means, but don’t even utter her name!”

  “I know, seriously. Wish I could help you there, but yeah. She’s super-ugh. So . . . what will you be doing? You know, if I want to imagine you. And please don’t say anything about debutante balls or husband-shopping.”

  Maggie shudders. “Hardly.” Her face gets this thoughtful, faraway expression on it. “I have bigger plans than that. Now that I know everything it’s possible for women to do and be in your time, I’m going to be the loudest voice there is to help the progress along in mine. After all, someone has to lay the groundwork. I know that a couple of the women in Aunt’s circle are already discussing this issue, and I plan to join their ranks and expand their vision of what’s possible for us.”

  I laugh. “So, like, rock the vote and all that?”

  I swear, Maggie’s eyes practically twinkle. “For starters. And only for starters.”

  “Awesome. Um, Maggie? I don’t know if you were able to resist looking at any records of what happens with your life, but—”

  She cuts me off. “Land sakes! I don’t want to know!”

  “Got it. Yeah, I wouldn’t want too many spoilers either. So I’ll just say that if ‘someone’ was worried about returning in time and doing something with her newfound, um, revelations that might disrupt the history books in some way, then I would probably tell that person, whoever she might be, that she shouldn’t be worried about that. At all. I’d tell her that maybe she’s on exactly her right path.”

  She gasps and covers her ears, but then she lets her hands fall away and smiles softly. “Thank you, Hannah.”

  I nod, and we share a smile before she asks, “And you? How shall I picture you?”

  I grin. “Kicking butt and taking names, of course.” But then I get more serious. “Remember when we were talking the first time and I was saying that stuff about women in my time having equal rights on paper but not necessarily always being treated that way? I was thinking that if you’re going to be working so hard here, maybe I could do some stuff on my end to keep it going. You work on the laws and I’ll work on the hearts. I can’t let all your future efforts count for nothing, right?”

  I give her an exaggerated wink, and she grins. “I like that.” Our smiles fade as we stare at each other for a second, taking mental pictures. I swipe quickly at my eyes, then take a deep breath. “I think it’s time. Are we ready to do this?”

  She nods formally. For just that second I can see what she’s probably like here, when she’s being all “young lady of the house.”

  I bite my lip and put my fingertips on the glass. She tilts her head, then smiles and fits her hand to mine.
>
  “It was nice to meet you, Margaret Dunlap,” I say.

  “Rock on with your bad self, Hannah Jordan,” she replies.

  Before I can even open my mouth to ask where she learned that expression, Maggie drops her hand and then her face becomes blocked by the back of the frame settling into place over the age spot. Then I’m falling, falling, falling.

  I wake up on the floor, my feet in flip-flops, and my hair—my hair—in a ponytail.

  I breathe in the quiet museum air.

  It worked. Oh, wow. I jump up and race to the mirror. I edge the portrait gently out of the way, and my heart falls. There’s no Maggie on the other side. Not even a shimmering behind the glass. In fact, it looks like the most ordinary mirror ever. My fingers fly to where the key-shaped age spot was—but it’s gone! Completely, as if it never was there to begin with.

  I let my hands fall to my side, and I take a few more deep breaths before slowly turning to face the empty room. I take it all in, a grin spreading across my face. Never have I been so happy to see velvet ropes or the blinking light of the security system.

  “Hannah?” my dad calls from somewhere in the house.

  “I’m here. Coming!” I call back.

  I’m home.

  I’M HOME!

  NEWPORT GAZETTE DAILY NEWS

  Century-Old Portrait Recovered, Mysteries Remain

  By Harold Mathews, City Desk

  An unsolved art heist dating back to 1905 still puzzles investigators, but the missing portrait at the center of the theft has been safely returned to its rightful hanging spot at The Elms, onetime home of Gilded Age socialites Edward Julius and Herminie Berwind, now operated as a museum by the Newport Antiquities Society.

  In fact, it appears that the long-lost portrait of the Berwinds’ niece, suffragist Margaret Dunlap, painted by famed Impressionist artist Mary Cassatt, never left the home.

  The artwork was recovered on Monday from its apparent century-long hiding space, a sealed room discovered off a tunnel that had been installed to facilitate delivery of coal into the house in The Elms’ early days of operation.