The Time Traveler's Guide to Modern Romance

by Madeline J. Reynolds

  Tyler pointed to the pocket watch in Eli’s hand. “How do I know you won’t use that to leave just as easily as you did before?”

  “Easy? You think that was easy?” Eli asked. “Making the decision to leave before was one of the hardest I’ve ever made. The reason I did it was because of you. Because I…well…because I love you.”

  Tyler felt like the air had been knocked out of him but not in a way that was painful. In a way that made it feel like nothing or no one else was real in that moment. “You what?”

  “I love you,” Eli said. “You make me feel like no one else in this world or any other has ever felt before. I love you so much that I went through countless failed attempts to try to get back here. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I ended up while trying—I was in Germany, Morocco, Russia…it was surreal—and a bit harrowing. But it was worth it. Even though I had no way of being sure if I would ever get it right. It was worth it for the possibility of getting to see you again. And I know that I made a terrible mistake, but if you just give me another chance, I prom—”

  “I love you, too.”

  Eli paused for a moment, taking in what Tyler said. “You do?” Then he laughed. The sound was sweet as it filtered through Tyler’s ears. Tyler reached out, grasping a tuft of Eli’s hair, and pulled him in for a kiss that felt like he’d been waiting an eternity for. All the moments of missing Eli, agonizing over the idea of never seeing him again, all the pain—it suddenly melted away. The kiss was warm, his lips soft, and there was a wanting that Tyler happily reciprocated.

  As they pulled away from each other, Tyler looked around and noted that all of the books were still neatly in place on their shelves. “What? No grand entrance this time?”

  “There was,” Eli explained, “but it was in your room, and there was no one there to receive me. I was a little worried about the timing of everything. I was just focused on you when I travelled this time around. I know it was a risk, especially since you are still here at BGA and that I could get you in a lot of trouble just by being here, but I had to find you. I had to see you. I am sure that video of me has caused you nothing but trouble.”

  Tyler smiled. “Actually, no one’s even talking about the video anymore. We were able to convince people that it was fake, like an illusion with editing techniques. No one knows your secret or who you really are. But even if the video was still a big deal…I don’t care about the risk anymore. I’m just so glad you’re here. We can figure the rest out as we go.”

  Tyler paused. “But wait…what did you tell your family?”

  “Only what I felt they needed to know,” Eli explained. “I told them that I would be moving to America, which is the truth, after all. I just decided to leave out the part about it being over a century in the future.”

  “And they were okay with you leaving?”

  Eli shrugged. “They were not necessarily in love with the idea. But I assured them that I would be visiting as frequently as I could.” Elias pulled the familiar bronze pocket watch from his coat pocket and swung it from side to side on its chain. “And with this little trinket I can do just that, now that I’m finally starting to get the hang of controlled travel. This way, I can still check in on them and get to see my sister, but most of the time I can be here, where I truly belong.”

  Tyler grinned. “You’re becoming a real pro with that thing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s short for professional,” Tyler explained.

  “Ah yes, that’s me. The professional time traveler! I could even bring you with me when I go back one of these times, if you would like.”

  Tyler smiled. “I would love that.”

  “Just think of all the other things we can do and see!” Eli’s excitement shone through those crystalline eyes. “This little watch is our ticket to the world, and we can see it all. There’s no place we won’t be able to go.”

  Tyler leaned in and planted a kiss on Eli’s cheek. “Well, right now, there is only one place I want to go.”

  They walked arm in arm back to the dorm and, when Tyler opened the door to the room they had previously been sharing he announced, “Welcome home, Elias Caldwell.”

  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Illusions by Madeline J. Reynolds!

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  The following is a collection of diary entries, public documents, and articles detailing the curious relationship between Thomas Pendleton and Saverio Moretti, apprentices to two of Europe’s most renowned stage magicians. The excerpts featuring the diary entries of Mr. Moretti are not the original pages but rather transcripts featuring English translations. We’ve done our best to compile said documents in a way that conveys each boy’s account of events in chronological order. This collection is for historical research and official use only.

  —The London Metropolitan Archives

  Courtesy of the National Archives

  Thomas

  October 03, 1898

  Twelve days. Twelve. Less than two weeks’ time and Neville Wighton the Great will premiere his grand illusion for the city of London. It is his chance to cement his legacy. All he needs is for me to wait in the wings as I do my part.

  October 04, 1898

  Neville and I had our first proper rehearsal today.

  It went about as miserably as I assumed it would.

  The wild-eyed magician kept nagging and complaining, saying that I looked foolish—which I am certain I did—and suggesting I was unfit for the stage. Ha! I could have told him that. In fact, I am certain that I have, at various points throughout this “apprenticeship.” I never had any desire to work for an illusionist.

  Where I should be is at Cambridge, studying literature and writing my poems. But my parents have insisted. Given my particular gifts talents, they feel it is the safest route.

  As it is, it seems the only writing I will get to do is in here. Hence I have started keeping this journal. I have attempted to write some new poems between rehearsals, but the grueling schedule of a magician is not conducive to creativity—nor is consistently being insulted by one’s mentor.

  We are allowed access to the West London Theatre’s auditorium only after normal service hours due to a performance of Twelfth Night that is currently running up until the weekend prior to our opening.

  Having never performed on a proper stage, I kept bumping into Neville and standing in the wrong place—how was I to know which direction was meant by “upstage” or “downstage”? When he would call out “stage right!” I was never quite sure if he meant my right or his own. Needless to say, I had the same troubles with “stage left.”

  But all these other blunders were rather trivial. The real atrocity was the final act: the headlining trick sure to astound our crowds.

  Before making any attempt at it, he at least did me the courtesy of running through the mechanics of it all, step by step. He told me how he wanted it to look, where in the theatre he should appear once it was complete, even how I was to pose and smile during the moment of revelation.

  I used this discussion as one last attempt at convincing him that a properly trained assistant should really be the one to share the stage with him. Not only would such an assistant be much more appealing to the eye than my scrawny frame, but it would also keep the greatly unwanted attention off myself.

  He is convinced I need to be right by his side, seeing everything as he sees it, for the trick to go smoothly.

  And then he did it. He leaped from the stage and out over the rows of chairs where the audience would soon be sitting.

  I made an honest effort. But concentration was difficult at best, and my reaction was far too slow, causing Neville to fall onto the row of chairs below. His limbs were draped into awkward, unnatural positions, as though he were a marionette doll rather than a living, breathing man made up of bones
and muscles and flesh.

  As I stood watching him groan in agony, I was certain that he had broken at least some of those bones. But after pulling himself up, he claimed to still be in one piece.

  When his eyes found me, he screamed insults and profanities, reminding me he’d seen me perform an identical feat just yesterday in his studio.

  “Sir,” I said. “Performing this trick on a small vase and performing it on a human being are two vastly different—”

  He glared at me. “If you tarnish my good name by letting such a mistake happen on opening night, I will tarnish your reputation. You will never receive work again. Not as a magician’s apprentice. Not as a street sweeper.”

  He was focused on the mistake, but what he truly did not like was my defying him.

  I hope my reaction did not betray how unaffected I was by this threat of his.

  I feel dreadful for what I am about to write, but being that this journal is meant for no eyes but my own…I shall confess, part of me wished that his bones truly had broken after his fall. It is terrible for me to wish injury upon the man, truly. But my dread in anticipation of this performance far outweighs any guilt plaguing my dark thoughts.

  Mother and Father have retired to their bedroom for the night, so I shall get in some more practice. I was contemplating using a vase as my subject once again, but with the risk of having it fall to the floor and shatter, it would be best to use a small candle.

  There are two scenarios:

  One, I fail like I did in rehearsal today and make a fool of Neville.

  Or two, even worse…I succeed.

  I have to at least try to get this down. There is no reasoning with the man, and surely, if my secret does not kill me, he will.

  Saverio

  October 05, 1898

  West London, would that you were as inviting to me as you are to everyone else. Yet here I am. Uprooted once again to a new city, with new streets to explore, new theatres to perform in, and a sea of new faces.

  It comes with the territory. From growing up in the brothel, to doing menial labor as a stagehand, to being named apprentice to Paolo il Magnifico, I take one grueling step after another to finally improve my station.

  Paolo thinks I am merely his assistant. He says I should be grateful for the opportunity. One day, he says, he will show me his tricks. His secrets. And then I, too, can be a magician. If I just wait.

  But I am tired of waiting. All my life I’ve been waiting. I might only be nineteen, but I am meant for great things. I know it.

  Until then, I follow Paolo, acting as his shadow, learning and doing all that I can. The constant travel means I am always alone, which is probably for the best. It’s simple: no friends means not having to say goodbye once it is time to make our way to the next theatre in the next city.

  I suppose I consider Isabella a friend of sorts. As Paolo’s assistant, she is the only other familiar face I see on a consistent basis. But knowing Paolo, that likely won’t last much longer. He has achieved the amount of fame that he has by being strategic, not generous. His sharp eyes are always looking for a younger, prettier face—much like my own. Ah, but all jokes aside, it really is a shame. Isabella and I were just starting to get along.

  It is for the best. A true magician can open up to no one. But I won’t always be alone, will I? Not truly. Just like Paolo, once I am a magician, the crowd will sustain me. Their amazement, their adoration. For the time being, I find my companionship with different bedfellows.

  I offer a kiss, my bed, my body. And then, for my own trick, I disappear.

  …

  As our carriage rolled along the cobblestone streets of London town, I scanned the crowds for prospects to contain my loneliness. Things did not look too promising, though. London’s inhabitants seem about as chipper as the gray skies that hang over the city. And for some reason, they cover themselves from head to toe. No worry. I always do enjoy a challenge.

  But as we continued onward, Paolo abruptly ordered our driver to stop. We came to West London for a reason, and it seemed he’d found it.

  He exited the carriage, and Isabella gave me a knowing look—a wordless request to follow, so I did.

  We had stopped in front of some square. A large column was plastered with local advertisements and notifications from businesses looking for laborers. And there was Paolo, staring at a poster. And from his glare, I could tell he wanted to rip the paper away and let it fall to the mud-caked street below.

  LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!

  COME ONE, COME ALL TO THE ROYAL

  WEST END THEATRE IN WESTMINSTER

  TO WITNESS A FEAT UNLIKE ANY PERFORMED

  ON THIS BLUE EARTH.

  NEVILLE WIGHTON THE GREAT PROMISES TO

  MYSTIFY, ENGAGE & ENTICE!!!

  ALL AGES WELCOME

  Neville Wighton the Great. The whole reason we came here. We were originally supposed to perform in Munich, but while we were renting an apartment in Prague, I’d discovered a flyer for this “Neville Wighton the Great,” making the same claims as that very poster. I had moved to throw the flyer away, but Paolo had ripped it from my hands and screamed, “Don’t touch it!”

  What is odd is I’d heard scarce little of Wighton before coming across the flyer. Any professionally working illusionist makes near-identical claims about their own performances.

  A trick never before seen!

  The greatest illusion on this earth!

  Magic that will make you believe!

  Paolo is never really one to notice or care, especially when it comes to performers who are so far beneath him. Yet this one commands every ounce of his being.

  I was finally able to pry him away and usher him back into our carriage. Now we are settling comfortably into our rooms.

  Why was my mentor in such a state? The advertisements make it seem that it will be a performance like most others. All I really know of the man is that he is older, so, as a veteran of the stage, he likely will not stoop to anything so simple as mere card tricks. Through the use of mirrors, cabinets with secret compartments, trapdoors leading underneath the stage, and a young woman with tantalizing good looks and a provocative, most likely sequined, costume (much like our Isabella), the man will entertain, confound, and possibly even amaze the simple folk who hand over their money in the hopes of seeing something that they cannot explain.

  Still, this is not unlike many other illusionists performing all around the world. There is a man over in the States who refers to himself as The Alchemist who has his assistant collect simple copper pennies from volunteers in his audience and he then appears to turn the coins into gold before returning them to the delighted audience members.

  There will always be competition, there will always be new illusions being tested and even perfected, there will always be some new (or in this case, old) face that captures an audience’s eyes and hearts. I see no reason to spy on a performance that undoubtedly employs many of the same tricks or elements that Paolo currently utilizes himself.

  I tried convincing my mentor of this to calm him.

  “I have to see his trick,” was all he said back to me.

  He did not say he needed to see the performance as a whole but his trick. One singular trick. It is only now that I am remembering how the notice had advertised that Mr. Wighton will be performing a feat unlike any seen before.

  I attempted to feed his ego various lines about how any tricks that the Englishman would perform could never hold a candle to Paolo’s powers of prestidigitation. But once again, my mentor only had one response.

  “I have to see his trick. For months now that stale old fopdoddle has been hinting at how this will be the performance to change his career and thus his fortune. A little late in life for that…”

  My eyebrow shot up as I looked to my mumbling mentor. He was staring at the ground, talking more to himself than me, and only when our eyes connected did he seem to remember that I was even in the room.

  He did not speak on the subject fo
r the rest of the night, and I was left to wonder. Months? I had not realized Neville Wighton was someone Paolo had even cared to follow, let alone that he has apparently been corresponding with the man.

  Paolo has been anything but an open book, a fact I accepted long ago. But it seems there are far more unread chapters in his story than I had originally suspected, and more characters who are integral to the plot.

  …

  Click here to discover more about Illusions!

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you so much to Eddie, the love of my life. You are so supportive, loving, and my dreams coming true are even more satisfying because I have you by my side to share it all with.

  Thank you to Roz, Stef, Zoe, Daniel, and Lee. This book was not easy for me, and you all know what I went through. You were each so supportive and helped get me through my slumps and the moments when I wanted to give up entirely. You guys believing in me and your thoughtful feedback and critiques have made me into the writer I am today. I certainly would not be here without each and every one of you.

  Thank you to Padre, Momma, Abbers, Guk, and Louie. I love you all so much and feel so lucky to have you cheering me on.

  Thank you to my best friends in the world, Destini, Kate, and Katlin. You are my favorite ladies, and I am so endlessly lucky to have you in my life.

  Thank you to my brilliant editor, Lydia. You were not only an insightful editor with great suggestions and fixes to help make this book better and bring it to life, but you also made the book possible by being so understanding and supportive when I ran into roadblocks. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and both of my books with Entangled Teen.

  Thank you to Stephen. This whole premise was your idea, and I appreciate you entrusting me with the task of bringing the story to life.

  Thank you to everyone at StoryStudio for providing me with such a wonderful writing community where I was able to learn, grow, fail, succeed, and do what I love most: write.