by Cate Martin
So Sophie was helping Brianna in her research. Apparently, she was not so confused by the plethora of languages as I was. That was just great.
I continued on to the kitchen and poured myself a mug of coffee then carried it to the solarium.
The morning paper was there, ready for anyone who wanted to read it, just as the day before. For some reason that took the edge off my grumpiness.
Perhaps it just felt churlish, nursing bad feelings when even Mr. Trevor, who had more reason to feel bad than I, still went about his job like it was any other day.
"Good morning," Mr. Trevor said as he appeared in the solarium doorway, coffee in hand. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and I gave a little nod. As if he needed permission to join me.
Although, if I understood what had happened the night before, which I wasn't sure I did, I was now part owner of the house. Me, Brianna, and Sophie.
Somehow, that felt really unfair to Mr. Trevor.
"I see the others are at work already," he said, and I realized that Sophie and Brianna were in the backyard now, standing among the trees in the little orchard. They must have gone out the front; the back porch and several feet around it were still cordoned off with police tape.
"Did you help Miss Zenobia with her magic?" I asked.
"Not even a little bit," Mr. Trevor said. In contrast to me, his mood seemed downright sunny. "I tend to the house and garden and made sure she ate at least one meal a day, more when I could manage it. I suppose that sort of thing could be considered helping her with her magic. But it would probably be more accurate to say I freed her up to devote all of her time to it."
"What about Cynthia?" I asked.
"No, not her either," Mr. Trevor said.
"But she's from the other time," I said, waving a hand vaguely to where Sophie was now dancing between the trees, her arms making long, sweeping movements that felt very intentional.
"Miss Zenobia felt like Cynthia's mind could be put to better use here than in 1877," Mr. Trevor said.
"1877? That's what time it is?" I asked, confused. I didn't think the kind of jazz I kept hearing dated back that far.
"It was 1877 when they met," Mr. Trevor amended. "Cynthia was fifteen. She was eighteen when Miss Zenobia brought her forward in time to start college in 1971."
"And you worked for her then?" I asked.
"My father did," Mr. Trevor said. "I took over for my father in 1980. But I knew Miss Zenobia in 1971, yes."
"This is kind of confusing," I said, rubbing at my head.
"It can be," Mr. Trevor said. "I don't know how Cynthia did it. She spent her days here, but her nights in the past with her husband and the rest of their families. I would find that so disorienting, but she never slipped up. Not once."
"Oh," I said, finally putting some obvious points together. "When she told me she was going home for the night, she meant her home back in…" I couldn't do that math.
"1927," Mr. Trevor supplied. "Yes."
"So," I said slowly, fidgeting with the edges of the pristine newspaper. "It's possible that she was there, in the past, when she died."
"No," Mr. Trevor said, but not as confidently as I would have liked. "No, I don't think so. She had an amulet, you see. She wasn't a witch with power to cross the portal on her own, but Miss Zenobia had created an amulet that let her pass from one side to the other. And when you found her body, you were very sure she didn't have it."
"Yes," I said, remembering every detail of that scene. "She didn't have it. I'm still absolutely sure about that."
I closed my eyes, recreating everything in my imagination. I guess it was a zen thing because I couldn't try to do it. If I tried to, say, imagine the dress I was afraid my mind would just conjure something up that would suit. But it wouldn't be correct; it would only seem correct.
No, I had to sort of let go. To not try. Like when you have a word on the tip of your tongue. The only way to remember it is to stop trying, to think of something else, and then it just appears.
Of course, for me, that usually happens hours later when I'm completely alone, and the word is no longer needed. But the concept still applies.
I heard Mr. Trevor sipping softly at his coffee and sensed he was giving me time to do whatever it was I was doing. Like he was respecting my process, even though he didn't understand it.
I could see why Miss Zenobia had kept him around.
"Her hand," I said, as something finally clicked. "She was holding her hand kind of closed, but kind of open. And it was up like she was reaching with it towards the house."
I demonstrated, straining out with one arm.
Mr. Trevor frowned. "You think she was holding it in her hand?”
"Maybe the clasp broke," I guessed. "But whatever the reason, after she was hit, her murderer took it from her." I took a gulp of my nowcold coffee. "Do you think it was why they killed her? To get her timetraveling amulet?"
"No," Mr. Trevor said with complete certainty. "No one knew that piece of jewelry had power. Cynthia was far too careful for that."
"So I guess she was just hit over the head and robbed?" I said but then shook my head. "No, I thought her clothes were odd before, but it makes sense now. She was in 1927 when she was hit on the head. And the murderer moved her body to the back porch here, in 2018."
"But that's not possible," Mr. Trevor said.
Only this time, he didn't sound sure.
"What if it did happen?" I said. "Do you know what that means?"
"What does what mean?" Sophie asked as she and Brianna came into the solarium with coffees of their own.
"What were you doing out there?" I asked, waving my hand towards the windows.
"Checking the integrity of the spell that maintains the time portal," Brianna said as if she were describing me at the diner checking that the restrooms had enough toilet paper.
"Brianna can see it," Sophie said.
"Sort of," Brianna interjected.
"And I can interact with it," Sophie went on. "I can feel it and sort of flow through it."
"And when she does that dancing flow thing, I can see things swirl around her," Brianna said. "We found some places where the magic is fraying.”
”That sounds bad," I said.
"It's good that we found them," Sophie said.
"I suppose that's true," I said. "Now what?"
"Yeah, I'm working on that," Brianna said, gulping down half her coffee at once. It was far too hot for such things if the tears springing in the corners of her eyes were any indication.
"But what were you saying when we came in?" Sophie asked me.
"Oh," I said, glancing at Mr. Trevor.
"Amanda is trying to solve Cynthia's murder case," he said.
"I was only raising some questions," I said.
"Like what?" Sophie asked, finding another chair in the depths of some ferns and turning it around to sit between me and Mr. Trevor.
"Well, the police said this was clearly a secondary crime scene," I said. "And if they can't find the primary crime scene, they don't have a very good chance of solving her murder."
"Yeah," Sophie said slowly.
"Oh," Brianna said. "Her dress."
"Exactly," I said. "It's the perfect crime, isn't it? The police here have the body but nothing else. The police in 1927 have no body, so no crime to investigate even though they have all of the other evidence."
"Including the murderer," Sophie said.
"And the murderer has the amulet," I said.
"Amulet?" Sophie asked.
"The thing that let Cynthia travel between times even though she has no magic herself," I said.
"Was it spelled just for her, or could anyone use it?" Brianna asked.
"You can make something like that that only works for one person?" I asked.
"It's tricky, but well within Miss Zenobia's powers," Brianna said.
I looked to Mr. Trevor. He shrugged. "I never knew anyone but Cynthia to use it. But I don't know if she was the only one who could."
"I think we have to assume anyone could use it," Sophie said grimly. "We can have something like that on the loose. That's specifically what we're here to guard against."
"If we find that amulet, we'll find Cynthia's murderer," I said.
"Then what?" Sophie asked. "Like you just pointed out, the police force on either side of the time portal can't do anything about it."
"I don't know," I said. "We can figure that out after we've caught the killer. But we have to do something."
What I really meant was that I had to do something. I couldn't just sit around, watching Sophie and Brianna do all the work. And I couldn't displace Mr. Trevor just because our skill sets overlapped.
"A murderer and a time-traveling amulet," Brianna said. "Two things we can't leave on the loose. I agree."
"The crime is already a day old," I said. "I know that time is important in these things. Can we back to 1927 plus a day more?"
"No," Mr. Trevor said although I had been looking to Brianna for the answer to that one. "Miss Zenobia used a huge amount of her power to make this portal stable. Both ends travel through time at the same rate. If you try to mess with that, you'll undo all that she did. No, you'll just have to start with a lost day. I'm sorry."
I nodded, then looked to Brianna again. "Can we jump back to 1927?"
"Yes," Brianna said. "I just need to check a few things in the library, but I'm sure that we can." She broke into a wide grin. "We can jump back and solve this murder. For Cynthia."
"For Cynthia," Sophie and I said together.
Chapter 15
It didn't take long for Brianna to find what she wanted in the library. She scribbled a few notes in a tattered and worn little book she took from her pocket. Then she put the book back in her pocket, gave Sophie and I both a nod, and we all headed back down the stairs.
Mr. Trevor was waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. "Don't you think you're forgetting something?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
"I don't think so," Brianna said, pulling the book back out and mumbling to herself while she read over her notes. "No, I'm sure this will work."
Mr. Trevor looked at Sophie than at me, but we both just shrugged.
"Come with me," he said, leading the way back up the stairs, past the library, past our rooms, to the attic.
The attic was long and narrow, only running down half the width of the house, with low, dim windows close to the dusty floorboards. Mr. Trevor flicked on a light switch, but the widely spaced bare bulbs didn't add much to the illumination.
"Cynthia knew you were coming, of course," Mr. Trevor said as he crossed to the back wall. If there had been windows here, they would have been overlooking the back garden. But there were no windows, just a line of cupboards built into the wall, the ones on the end shorter than those in the middle as the roof sloped down steeply from its central peak. "She made a guess to your sizes and brought back clothing for each of you. Those cabinets are for Brianna, these middle ones are for Sophie, and those two for Amanda. Take a look."
He had opened every door across the row, and we could see each was fairly stuffed with clothes from the fanciest of party garments to everyday work clothes for servants, even undergarments to match.
"These are like disguises," I said, touching the sleeve of what looked like a maid's uniform. "Did she expect we'd be spying?"
"She just wanted you to be prepared for anything," Mr. Trevor said.
"How do we know what to pick?" Brianna asked. "What time of year is it? What time of day?"
"It's mid-September there, same time of day," Mr. Trevor said. "Although September 1927 was unseasonably warm."
"Still a Sunday?" I asked.
"Yes," Mr. Trevor said with a nod.
"Church clothes?" I guessed.
"But we're not going to church," Sophie said. "We're going to be visiting people to ask questions."
"But maybe we should look like we've just left church," I said, pulling out a peacock blue dress. The color was eye-catching, but the cut was conservative. Or at least I hoped it was. I know some girls in the 20s wore some things that were considered pretty risque but would be considered tame now. But surely a hem that fell to mid-calf wouldn't send the wrong message.
Brianna found something similar in her closets in a lovely shade of pine green, and we both dug out shoes to match.
But Sophie put on something far shorter in the hem, plunging deeper in the neckline, with hardly any sleeves. The rosy material had a sheen to it and when she moved it moved with her. Not in a clingy way, more like she had found the ideal dance partner in the form of clothing, and that partner was letting her lead.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"I'm a dancer," Sophie said firmly. "This is what a dancer would wear."
"Mr. Trevor?" Brianna called. He had retreated to the top of the stairs, out of sight but in earshot. He poked his head back in.
"You all look lovely," he said.
"You don't think Sophie is inviting a lot of attention?" I asked.
Sophie held up her arms then took a turn in a way only years of ballet could craft.
"Of course she is," he said approvingly. "Nothing she can't handle."
"Really?" I said skeptically. Brianna said nothing, but the little worried crease between her eyebrows said she shared my concern.
"Miss Zenobia's Charm School is well known in the neighborhood," Mr. Trevor told us. "A lot of little eccentricities can be explained just by telling people you are students there."
"That's all it takes?" I persisted.
"Well, people are going to think what people are going to think," he said, "but they aren't going to say what they're thinking unless they're willing to cross Miss Zenobia. Few are willing to cross Miss Zenobia."
Sophie arched an eyebrow at Brianna, and I gave up.
"If that's what you want to wear," I said, throwing up my hands.
It was kind of hypnotic, the way that skirt swished around her hips when she walked. A little voice inside me was regretting my choice, but I figured I would have an opportunity to try out some of the fancier things later when we weren't investigating a murder.
That, and I was pretty sure nothing in the universe was going to look as good on me as that dress looked on Sophie.
We went out the front door and followed the stepping stones to the back garden, giving the yellow police tape a wide berth. Sophie slipped off her shoes and handed them to me then began a dance around the orchard. Her arms moved as she jumped and spun as if catching invisible ribbons to braid together in something far more complex than a maypole.
Brianna adjusted the glasses on her nose as her eyes stared into nothingness, her gaze unfixed.
"You see something?" I asked in a whisper. Which was silly; interrupting her was interrupting her.
"Yes," Brianna said. "It's like a tunnel, but it arches up that way like a bridge? Only it spirals back around too."
"Like a pedestrian overpass?" I guessed, but she didn't answer.
Sophie came dancing back to where we stood then danced around us, her arms making little tossing gestures. Brianna flinched at one of them, then gave a little shimmy like Sophie had just tossed a ring over her head, and she was settling it down over her hips.
"Should I be doing something?" I asked.
"You're fine," Brianna said, eyes still unfixed.
"We've got you," Sophie said, and slid her hand into mine. "Spell time."
Brianna nodded and opened her little book. She began to speak in a deep voice in words I couldn't understand. I couldn't even guess at the language. Sophie's hand clutched mine tightly, and I could feel her pulse quickening.
But I couldn't see or hear anything happening at all.
Then I blinked, just one blink, and all of the trees in the orchard got several feet shorter. The wall behind the trees was darker, sooty like from a coal fire, but less chipped and worn than I was used to.
And the sounds of traffic down Summit Avenue that I had been
tuning out without realizing it changed, the smooth running engines now sputtering and coughing as they lurched along.
"We did it!" Brianna said with a wide grin.
"You two did it," I said. "I was just along for the ride."
"Brianna did it," Sophie said, and Brianna's grin widened even more, although her eyes were looking down at her own toes. "Let's go in the house first. I'm curious who's there. Maybe we could meet Miss Zenobia."
"I think there are rules," Brianna said.
"Rules are for breaking," Sophie said, taking her shoes from me and sliding them on her feet before dancing up the steps to the solarium door.
"Not the rules of physics," Brianna said, but Sophie had already gone inside.
Brianna and I followed her in, past the kitchen and dining room to the front parlor. There were lots of little changes. The appliances in the kitchen were either gone or replaced by more rudimentary versions of the same. The furnishings were different, although equally fine.
But no one seemed to be home.
"I think there are patterns," Brianna said, turning pages in her little book. "I need to do more research."
"But we went so far back in time, it's not like we'd ever meet ourselves or anything dangerous like that," I said.
"We could meet our great-grandparents," Sophie said.
"I think it's more complicated than that," Brianna said.
"So we can't change things in the past?" I asked.
"Well," Brianna said. "We can, but only because we already did, because we're part of the past now."
I rubbed at my forehead and pondered whether I even understood that.
"It doesn't matter," Sophie said. "We'll figure out what's impossible when we try to do it. In the meantime, we need to find Cynthia's husband. Statistically, he's the most likely suspect."
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "If it was a domestic thing, why move the body and steal the amulet?"
"It's the logical place to start," Sophie insisted.
"I suppose so," I said. "He might be innocent, but talking to him and seeing Cynthia's home will give us leads on where to go next."
"I should have found a directory to 1927 St. Paul in the library before we came," Brianna said. "I didn't even think to look. I'm sure she must have had one."
