In the almost year since their arrival, her life had taken on as much a routine mundaneness as anyone’s could with abolitionist parents and revolutionaries for family friends. She had begun to think that little could shake her own composure until the disappearance of her mother about two months ago and now the appearance of her long-dead and eerily unchanged uncle.
“Yes, I can take you to him,” she replied, “but not now. It is still early enough for people to be about. And… well, I’m known, especially in these parts. The horse stable is a side business of my parents. Hugh manages it, but it’s really Toby who runs it.” She pressed her lips firmly together and nodded her head decisively before adding, “Toby is a freeman. This barn is a refuge as well as a business.”
“A refuge,” Ava repeated, understanding immediately why her presence was no surprise to the girl, “for runaway slaves?”
“Yes.”
“Like the Underground Railroad,” Odell offered.
“Except that term, if not the concept exactly, is still several years in the future,” Ava reminded him.
Listening to them, Evelyn began to shake. She knew something seriously bizarre was happening and wrapped her arms around herself to stop from trembling.
Odell’s attempt to comfort her by stepping forward with hands outstretched was met with her quick, stumbling dodge to the side. She fell to her knees, and Odell knelt down beside her, his hands resting on her shoulders.
“I know how crazy this sounds… looks. But your parents… your father will know how to explain it to you. You’ve got to trust me—us.”
Ava had also knelt down beside them, her hand resting lightly on Evelyn’s forearm. “Believe me, I know how you feel. Only a few days ago, I was enjoying a rather ordinary life. Before I fell in with your uncle here, that is. So, I know how disorienting—”
Evelyn had grasped her hand tightly and interrupted urgently, “Where are you from?”
Ava cut her eyes over to Odell and answered hesitantly, “Your fa—”
“I know you can’t be from here, or…,” Evelyn interrupted again, looking at Ava with fierce intensity, “… I don’t know. My uncle… he… well he is impossible, right? But you, you could be from an educated family somewhere, from a free country perhaps.” She was squeezing Ava’s hand as if it were a lifeline.
Ava, her eyes locked with Evelyn’s, was surprised when their gaze was broken by a gentle yet firm shake administered by an almost forgotten Odell. Evelyn turned to look at him.
“Stop it,” he demanded in a quiet, even tone. “You can’t lose focus like this. It is quite obvious from what we have witnessed here, that you and your friend are somehow involved in the rebel cause, most likely in a covert capacity. You are going to encounter many difficult situations to come. You cannot lose control. You can never lose your focus.”
She swallowed convulsively and nodded her head, the wide, distracted stare fading a little from her eyes.
Odell loosened his grip, but maintain hold of her shoulders. “Good—”
The door creaked, and they all stood up abruptly. Both Odell and Ava stepped forward to shield the girl from sight.
A figure stood with its back to the door. Odell squinted his eyes through the dim lighting. The man was tall and broad shouldered with a trim physique, although he must now be solidly in middle age. Barely detectible strands of gray hair were caught in the soft light, but otherwise would not have been noticed in the blond hair tied back by a simple black ribbon. The eyes were still a fine, clear blue, but Odell could see the outline of wrinkles and dark circles that denoted years of study and the passage of time. Darkness cast a shadow over most of his face, but the well-molded mouth lifted at the corners in a resigned and patient smile.
“Well met, brother.”
“Well met, Gabe,” Odell responded warmly, stepping forward to throw his arms around the man and hug him tightly.
Eleven
“SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT.” Charles Drake stood impatiently staring out the many-paned window onto the busy street scene of the East Village, or rather, the upper part of the lower East Side as it was known in this particular rendition of the early twenty-first century. The second story apartment was on the northwest corner of the building and had an unobstructed view of the spire of St. Nicholas Kirche. The church bells had already rung for the noon service, and many on the crowded city sidewalk were headed in that direction.
He was amused by the change in her apartment and the neighborhood in general. The hip and gentrified East Village had been replaced by this bustling and loud German borough. The apartment was still to be found in a spacious and well-designed building. Its tenants, however, were now comprised of respectable local merchants and their families, instead of the wealthy financiers and college-aged children of the well-to-do that had occupied its alternate incarnation.
She didn’t appear to mind, “appear” being the operative word. It was subtle, but he could tell by the especially rigid line of her jaw and her overly clipped, brittle speech that it bothered her quite a lot. He had learned to read her body language with the eye of a cryptographer breaking a code, as if his life depended on it; and it did. He never forgot it for a moment, nor did she let him.
“You keep repeating that, and I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,” she declared, patting her elaborately dressed hair and checking it in the hallway mirror. “It has only been a few days since her mother’s murder. One can’t expect her to behave ‘normally,’ Charlie,” she derisively trilled the nickname Ettie had given him. “I need to know where Odell has gone, and you are going to find out for me, even if you have to get somewhat forceful about it,” she pronounced sweetly, smiling archly at his back from under her lashes.
Charles turned from the window in time to catch her look. He groaned inwardly and steeled his face into an expressionless mask. She walked toward him, her lithe figure swathed in a dark maroon silk, the bodice a double breasted jacket with two rows of decorative gold buttons down the front. The wide skirt with its many petticoats stopped just below the knee. The rest of her long legs were encased in thigh-high, high-heeled black leather boots.
She stopped in front of him and ran her hand down his lapel. “Would you be so kind, Drake, as to unbutton me?”
Charles nodded and smiled automatically. She presented him her back. He drew off his gloves and proceeded to unhook the many dozens of tiny pearl buttons that spanned the length of the dress until just below the waistline.
It had been a long time since this particular activity had given him any real erotic charge or sexual pleasure. The first few months of their acquaintance had been suffused with an intense physicality. She was game for anything, and he had responded with equal enthusiasm. There had always been an edge of anger to their kinky experimentation, an abusive perversity lurking just below the surface. It wasn’t too long, however, before it became the focal point of their physical relationship.
Charles finished unbuttoning her dress and knew what was expected of him. He slipped it off her shoulders. She turned to face him, the corset pushing her breasts up with each new breath. Stepping close, she thrust her hand down his pants and began to rub his crotch. He moaned on cue, one large, shapely hand coming up to violently grab her hair, while the other squeezed her slender neck.
Her lips parted, and she gave a little gasp for air before her mouth settled into a mocking smile, eyes glittering up at him through half-closed lids. He shut his own and, hoping it would be over soon, brought his mouth down hard on hers.
She awoke with a start and ran shakily to the water basin resting in its ornate wooden stand. Leaning heavily against it, she bent down and emptied the contents of her stomach into the delicately painted white porcelain. She grabbed a cloth and wiped her mouth.
She straightened up and caught sight of her reflection in the small octagonal mirror above the basin. Much of her thick blond hair was still held in its elaborate do by several diamond hairpins, while fat strands
of curls escaped to spill over her naked shoulders. Her face was a pale oval, and her wide blue eyes stared blankly back at her. She wrapped her arms across her breasts and shivered, walking back to the bed to sit down.
For once, she was glad Drake had left—or rather, escaped, slipping out while she still slept. Her lips formed into a habitual sneer. Did he think she couldn’t tell? He wasn’t a good enough actor to hide his true feelings. She felt nothing but contempt for his weakness. She had mistakenly thought that he could be an adequate substitute, but had quickly learned that there would be no substitute, and it fueled her hate.
The full force of the dream came back to her, and this time she didn’t make it to the basin. She dropped to her hands and knees and threw up all over the rug. She rolled herself into a fetal position, emitting a low keening sound.
She had tried to poison him in her dream—the man she loved. But instead, it was she who had drunk the poison. He had forced it through her lips and down her throat. It was only a dream, but it felt as if her internal organs writhed within her. Despised tears leaked from beneath her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks.
After several minutes, she sat up and wiped at her damp face with the washcloth still clutched in her hand. The dream had been a sign, a sign of her guilt and incompetence. He must somehow know that she was unsure, that doubt had crept into her subconscious.
It was the girl’s fault, and her dolt of a father. She would rid her mind of their influence, but she still needed Ettie to lead her to Odell. The father, however, could go. Her initial plan had not included his death, but then she had envisioned a totally different scenario. She had thought to be reunited with her lover, to be given a second chance. But there would be none; there could only be revenge.
She pushed herself up off the floor and pulled the remaining pins from her hair. The heavy strands fell down her back in a curtain as she walked into the dressing room in search of an appropriate outfit.
*
Ettie stared at the phantasometer. The yellow light still shone steadily back at her. Unfortunately, the ancient device had not come with an owner’s manual, so it had taken her several shifts to understand the signal pattern. The light played across a spectrum changing in color from a deep purple to a pale yellow, purple indicating an imminent shift, and yellow signifying a stable timeline. From one extreme to the next, the spectrum displayed the colors blue, green, and red, each representing a certain amount of time until the next shift. Once the purple light shone and the timeline shifted, the light changed to yellow and stayed there until the phantasometer picked up the signal for the next shift.
Ettie noted grimly that the shifts had become less frequent. This timeline was now more dominant. Thanks to Odell’s letter and the journal, she had some grasp of the events leading up to this new temporal breach, but her understanding was tenuous. Odell’s letter was full of speculation and technical jargon, little of it was of much use to her as the present timeline solidified.
She tucked the device into her pocket and looked up from the café table where she sat just in time to see Charlie exit the building. He wore what looked to be a cream-colored vest that buttoned to the neck, covered by a loose-fitted coat of the same color. It had a bit of a Nehru jacket design and was embellished with burnished copper buttons. His legs were encased in extremely well-tailored khaki pants, and he wore on his feet what looked to be a cross between riding and combat boots. A black bowler hat and ebony walking stick finished off the ensemble.
Ettie sighed. Damn, but the man looked good in that getup. There weren’t many who could pull off Edwardian Gothic, as she had dubbed the sartorial ridiculousness that passed for fashion in this timeline. Or was it Victorian? Ettie couldn’t really decide. It was all a crazy, eclectic mix. She gave a little huff of disbelief. She liked clothes well enough, but fashion had never been her particular forte. Whatever it was, Charlie looked absurdly raffish and dangerous in those clothes, and it was making her angry.
Since the morning she had learned that her Charlie Drake, wealthy club owner, was really the Charles Drake, fake Earl of Westchester, Ettie had found various excuses to avoid physical contact with him. She knew her behavior was making him suspicious, but couldn’t help herself. It had been an emotional blow to find that a man she had finally—
She stopped herself and took a firm grip on her wayward thoughts. No, she wouldn’t think of it. And she wouldn’t think about who he had just spent the last few hours with either.
Ettie paid for the cup of coffee she had been nursing and, pulling her hat firmly down over her brow, quickly crossed the busy street to discreetly tail her quarry.
While her fashion sense may have been lacking, she had nonetheless taken great pains in choosing her outfit. Ettie had noted with interest that each new shift had introduced greater freedom in women’s dress. Corsets were still annoyingly de rigueur, but shorter skirts, albeit with substantial petticoats and stockings, were acceptable, although still a rarity. Even trousers with boots and long jackets were seen on occasion. Some women pushed the style envelope by wearing the tight pantaloons of past decades and bolero jackets, but these were not considered perfectly respectable.
Ettie used the freer strictures to assemble an outfit of ambiguous design. She needed to blend in, but couldn’t run the risk of arrest if discovered—the charge of impersonating a male being a major offense. Her suit was of a light brown tweed with the rather rough weave of the lower classes. The pants were loose fitting with cuffs that went easily over her workmen’s boots. The jacket was a bit more fitted as suited a lady, although still loose enough that a casual observer might dismiss her as the opposite gender. She had taken the precaution of braiding her hair and tucking the tail back up under, pinning it securely. A newsboy cap covered her head and hid her hair. But if it were removed, the style was feminine enough that she could not be accused of assuming a male disguise. She was gratified to find many such suits as hers on the street and felt confident that if she were careful Charlie wouldn’t even notice her.
It was easy to keep track of him while remaining at a reasonable distance. He was tall, and his obvious wealth and status created a sort of magical pathway as the majority of people made way for him. She was surprised he didn’t hail a cab. He seemed distracted and walked with a determined stride, eschewing the mincing prance or belligerent swagger that many of his class affected.
As they proceeded over several blocks, Ettie began to suspect where he was heading. She remembered following her mother in a somewhat similar fashion to the same location. The crowded sidewalks had thinned of people going about their business, and she feared her presence would be noted. But Charlie looked neither left nor right much less behind him as he turned into the alleyway from Second Avenue.
Fortunately, a group of well-to-do young ladies, city guides gripped firmly in their gloved hands, was intent on exploring the secret cemetery. They were accompanied by a well-armed guard who wore the standard earpiece for emergency communication. It was common practice for wealthy female denizens of such a crime-ridden city to be escorted by one or more guards when out on the town. Ettie’s non-threatening appearance didn’t set off any alarm bells, and she had little problem slipping in behind them as they entered through the gated wall.
Ettie was just in time to see Charlie disappear behind an ornate obelisk she was sure had not been there in the prime timeline. Ignoring a mistrustful sidelong look from the guard, Ettie requested of one of the young women an extra guide. The girl handed hers over saying with a dimpled smile, “Here, take mine. We have plenty among us.”
Ettie nodded gratefully and walked toward the obelisk, her face obscured behind the city guide. She sidled around the far end and stopped just short of revealing herself to the two people who stood not six feet away under the heavy boughs of a large oak tree.
“How could she possibly know who you are? You didn’t even know who you were until recently. Or at least, all that you were.” This statement was made by a tall, eleg
ant woman whose dark hair was elaborately done up beneath a large straw hat with several ostrich plumes.
He waved her words away impatiently. “I thought, at the very least, you would listen to me! She is suspicious, and I am sure she is aware of the time shifts.”
“Impossible,” the woman declared, lifting up her arm to display a large, watch-like device strapped to her wrist. “Only those of us with access to a chromaticon retain this knowledge.”
Charlie shook his head. “She’s different, like her brother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ask yourself this, how did Odell become aware of the time shifts? We know he did. She…” He worked hard to eliminate the distaste from his voice. “…knows he did. We know he’s made a jump. He’s done this to some purpose. We just don’t know what.”
“You don’t know to what purpose,” the woman emphasized in a hard voice. She looked up at him and seemed to relent a little saying less harshly, “And neither do I. At least you are spared from having to extract the information from the girl.”
“What do you mean?” his voice held a note of relief.
“It’s why I was to meet you here. He feels that Odell’s destination can be determined from the reverberations of… um… something about trace particles in the flux…”
He raised his eyebrows mockingly.
She sighed irritably. “Oh, all right. I don’t understand it either. But the good news is your job is no more arduous than it was before. Just keep an eye on the girl, and let us know if Odell tries to contact her.”
She moved to brush past him, but he grabbed her forearm and said through gritted teeth, “Has he told her they don’t need Ettie anymore? Because She’s sick… out of her mind… She may do something. Surely, he can control her…” Charlie leaned toward her urgently. “I feel certain she had something to do with the mother’s—”
Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II Page 11
