“Can I help you, young man?” A bespectacled and plump middle-aged black woman, the department secretary, smiled at Brandon as he hesitated in the open doorway.
He smiled back shyly. “Yes, ma’am, I was looking for Professor Harrower?”
The secretary frowned, and Brandon wondered nervously if he had said the wrong thing.
When she spoke again, however, her tone wasn’t angry, but worried. “We haven’t heard from her in weeks,” she said. “Professor Harrower is on sabbatical—that means she’s taken a semester off from teaching. But she usually tells me if she’s going to be out of town. I’m a little worried about her. Are you a friend of hers, honey?”
Brandon’s mouth dropped into his stomach. He looked off to the window, avoiding the secretary’s gaze. “No, ma’am. Well, kind of. I mean, I wouldn’t exactly call her a friend, but . . .”
The secretary interrupted him impatiently. “But you know her? What’s your name?”
“Brandon Clark,” he said reluctantly.
The secretary put a finger to her lips in thought, and then said, “She mentions you sometimes, Brandon. I’m Miss Arlene. Oh, and hey, I’m from Augusta, so I don’t know too many people down here, but I believe I’ve met your momma. She’s a nurse, right? And your family keeps a funeral home? You stay near there?”
Brandon nodded, and Miss Arlene smiled. “It’s nice to meet you. Look, if Dr. Harrower contacts you, sugar, would you ask her to get in touch with me? I just want to know she’s okay.”
Brandon smiled weakly. “Me too, ma’am,” he said. “Are you sure she didn’t say where she was headed?”
Miss Arlene sniffed. “No, baby. Like I said, she didn’t even say she was leaving.”
Brandon said quietly, “Are you going to call the police?”
“I’m thinking about it, to be honest with you, sweetheart,” Miss Arlene said somberly. “Now remember, the moment you hear from her, you ask her to call me. I’ll give you my number.”
As Brandon walked back across the campus, he felt like punching something. He wasn’t sure if he was upset, furious, or both. He was tired of waiting for stuff to happen to him. He wanted to make things happen, to have control over his life. The Professor had never explained how she traveled in time. She had never told him, or Alex, or Hannah why they were involved in her adventures. In fact, she dodged all their questions. She just dragged them through her weird life without their permission. Brandon was suddenly aware that he had screwed up his fists so tightly, his nails were digging into his palms.
All he could ever do, he thought angrily, was to wait for her to return and feed him a little hint about what would happen next. In frustration, he kicked a pinecone as hard as he could. Being a pinecone, it didn’t soar into the air as it should have, but rolled lamely a few feet in front of him. Brandon was too mad to laugh about it.
Verity Powell’s message was the first email Hannah saw when she opened her inbox after school.
Dear Hannah and Alex,
Thank you for your card, and for your kind words about Eric. It was a shock, of course, but he died the way he would have wanted, without a fuss. I want you to know that he so enjoyed your visit last summer . . .
Hannah had to think about that for a moment, because her entire friendship with Eric and Verity had taken place since the beginning of the past summer, when the time travel had begun. She guessed, however, that Verity was referring to her visit to England with Alex and Brandon in what she thought of as “real time,” the twenty-first century. She read on.
. . .He said it brought his life full circle to meet you again in his old age. And how delighted we were to find out that you three are time-travelers! For you, of course, it has only been a few months since you first met us. But for Eric and me, decades have passed. How wonderful it was for us to have had you rekindle those happy memories, of living with Granny (Mrs. D., as you called her) in Balesworth during the War, and of all our adventures together.
Hannah paused and blinked back tears. How she had loved Verity’s grandmother, Elizabeth Devenish. Her beloved “Mrs. D.” had fostered her, Alex, and Brandon in 1940. Hannah could just picture her now: a tall and imposing woman with gray hair, wearing an apron, and puffing on a cigarette. She smiled at the memory of those awful cigarettes. At first, she and Mrs. Devenish had battled furiously. Mrs. D. railed against Hannah’s twenty-first century American manners and attitude, while Hannah failed to recognize that the formidable but kindly ’Mrs. D.’ was stressed out by day-to-day life, juggling war work with care of her granddaughter and several evacuated children. But Hannah and Mrs. D. had come to understand and grow fond of each other. How Hannah missed her.
She snapped out of her reverie, and reminded herself what a comfort it was that Verity had grown old looking like Mrs. D., and that she was still on the planet. Hannah returned to Verity’s email.
I’ve been taking computer classes, Verity continued. All very basic compared to what you kids know, I’m sure, but as you see, I am making progress, and can now use email. The best thing about my newfound knowledge, however, is that it allows me to research my family’s history. Now, my dear, this brings me to the picture that I have attached to this email.
Hannah noticed the attachment icon. She clicked on it. It was a huge file, and while it was downloading, she continued to read.
I have discovered that, long ago, my family owned an inn on Balesworth High Street. So many pubs have closed in recent years, but this one is still alive and well, so I paid a visit. It’s a very interesting place, very large, because like many of the old pubs in Balesworth, it was once an eighteenth-century coaching inn. The current landlord is a Mr. Tarrant. His great-grandfather was the first in his family to own the pub, but the portrait in the picture I’ve attached dates back to the eighteenth century, and it hangs in Mr. Tarrant’s living room. Mr. Tarrant says that the portrait belongs to the pub, and cannot be sold, no matter who owns the building, which I thought delightful!
Take a look at the painting. Pretty staggering, isn’t it? Will it be all right for you to ring me? Hopefully, it’s not too expensive to phone from America. Don’t forget that England is five hours ahead of Georgia. My number is . . .
Hannah was confused, to say the least. But now the picture finally finished loading, and it popped up. It was far too large for the screen, and she shrank it down to see it.
“Whoa!” she exclaimed.
It was indeed a portrait: a proper painted portrait, of a man in his thirties, an old woman, and a young woman, all of them dressed like they belonged in Colonial Williamsburg. The man was wearing a white wig, just like George Washington. But what startled Hannah was that the older woman looked just like Verity and Mrs. Devenish. And the young woman—a girl, really–looked just like Hannah.
Chapter 2: ANOTHER BALESWORTH
On Saturday morning, it took Hannah several minutes of Googling to figure out how to phone England. Soon, however, she was listening to the unfamiliar double-purr of a British ringtone.
“Hello?” said a familiar English voice.
Hannah took a deep breath. “Verity? It’s me . . . Hannah. I just saw the picture. It’s wild.”
Verity laughed. “She certainly looks like you, doesn’t she, dear?”
“Verity, she is me. I’m sure of it.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. “Yes,” Verity said quietly. “I was rather afraid you would say that.” She paused. “Do you have any idea who. . .?”
“No,” said Hannah. “I have no clue who the others are. I guess it just hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it never will . . . . I don’t know.”
Verity tried to sound cheerful. “You know, I do think that we could be wrong. The girl might not be you at all. As a dear friend of mine used to say, the Good Lord only made so many molds. Lots of people look like each other, even though they aren’t related at all.”
Hannah studied the picture on her computer. “I hope you’re right,” she said uncertainly.
“You know, there is something wrong about her mouth and her eyes.”
“Well, you would know,” said Verity. “And, of course, the artist wasn’t exactly Leonardo Da Vinci, was he? It’s a terrible painting. So we can’t be sure either way.”
Hannah laughed. “No, the painting kinda sucks,” she agreed. Then a thought occurred to her. “Hey, have you found anything out about these people?”
“Not yet,” said Verity. “Lizzie, my daughter, works at the V and A. That is, she works at the Victoria and Albert Museum. She tells me it can be very difficult to identify sitters in a portrait. But she did say that the more I know of the painting’s provenance, the better.”
Hannah frowned. “The prov . . . What? What does that mean?”
“The provenance means the painting’s history,” said Verity. “Where it came from, who’s owned it in the past, all that sort of thing. Unfortunately, Mr. Tarrant at the pub doesn’t know anything about it, except that, as I told you, it’s been hanging there at least as long as his family has owned the place. Still, I’m going to burrow through the archives at the Balesworth Museum, and see if I can come up with anything. I’ll let you know if I do.”
At that instant, Hannah thought to herself, I hope you find out before I disappear. It was a weird thought, and she shivered. Why had that popped into her head? What did it mean? Then she got a grip. It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself sternly. It’s just a passing thought.
In the early evening, Brandon called Hannah, and told her the news that the Professor had vanished.
Her reaction shocked him.
“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?” she said peevishly.
Brandon scowled. Hannah was probably the most annoying person he knew.
“Look, I don’t know,” he said, “but we should look for clues.”
“This is life, not Scooby Doo,” grumped Hannah. “Anyway, she’s probably fine. She’s an adult. She can take care of herself. I don’t feel like helping her, anyway. What has she ever done for me?”
But Hannah wasn’t being entirely honest, even to herself. As soon as she hung up on Brandon, she felt remorse. In her gut, she knew that helping the Professor was exactly what she should be doing. But how?
It was then, for the very first time, that Hannah found herself needing to go back in time.
She didn’t want to. She needed to. It was such a bizarre feeling. It was physical, and it was sudden, like a hunger or a thirst. It was beyond her understanding or control, but it was real, a sensation both powerful and frightening, as though she were being dragged by her center to somewhere she didn’t want to go. For one terrifying moment, she fought for breath, and leaned on the wall for support.
After he got home from church on Sunday, Brandon called to ask if Alex and Hannah would accompany him to Snipesville State College that afternoon. Alex was enthusiastic. Hannah was not, and agreed to come only after Alex promised to buy her a Frappuccino from the college Starbucks.
Mr. Dias dropped off Hannah and her brother next to the main campus entrance. The moment he drove away, Hannah confronted Brandon. “What’s the point of coming here?” she demanded angrily. “You told us she’s disappeared. We’re not going to find her here, are we?”
Hannah had dreaded visiting the college campus: This was where the first time-travel journey had begun, and to return here seemed like tempting fate.
“I don’t know what the point is,” Brandon admitted. “But I think this is where we should be. Don’t you?”
“I do!” Alex piped up.
So do I, Hannah thought silently. But I don’t know why, and I really wish I didn’t have to be here. What she said was, “So where are we going, exactly?”
“We’re going to meet a woman about a corpse,” Brandon replied with a lopsided smile. “I made an appointment to talk to Professor Barrett, the lady who dug up the skeleton. Anyway, Hannah, don’t tell me you have anything else to do on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Uh-huh,” Hannah said in a tone that was both resigned and skeptical. She followed Brandon and Alex along a twisting dirt path through a large grove of tall pine trees. “Hey, wait,” she complained. “Why are we going this way?”
“It’s fastest to go through the forest preserve,” Brandon called back to her, stepping over a fallen tree with Alex following right behind him.
“Great,” griped Hannah, glancing at her bare legs and flipflops. “I always wanted my own pet tick.”
“Wrong time of year for ticks,” Brandon yelled back. He was getting really fed up with Hannah’s whining. Wickedly, he added, “But you still gotta watch out for snakes.”
Hannah jumped slightly, and hurried to catch up with the boys, watching her feet as she did so.
But Alex had already halted to examine a massive and lumpy brown growth on the side of a dead tree trunk. “Look at this, guys,” he said. “It’s the biggest fungus ever!”
Hannah was unimpressed. “You are such a nerd,” she said scathingly. “Come on, nobody else cares . . . Hey, which way did Brandon go?” She peered through the undergrowth, but she couldn’t see him.
“That way, I guess,” said Alex, gesturing into the woods without looking up.
“Come on, let’s go,” Hannah said impatiently, grabbing her brother’s sleeve and tugging at it.
Ignoring her, he shook her off.
“Okay,” she said, pouting. “Please yourself. Just don’t blame me if you get lost.”
“This isn’t exactly a huge forest,” Alex muttered, not looking at her. “I’ll catch you up in a bit.”
Tutting irritably to herself, Hannah carried on traipsing along the dirt pathway. She caught up with Brandon just as the path petered out, leaving them standing in a clearing in the woods.
“Where’s Alex got to now?” Hannah said, scratching her nose and turning to glance behind her. All around her were trees, although not just the usual pines. There was an oak, a maple, and a beech, all of which she recognized from her adventures. Do beeches grow in Snipesville? she wondered vaguely.
When she turned back to Brandon, he was gone. She had looked away from him for less than one second.
“Brandon? Brandon?” Hannah called frantically, as she took a few panicked steps, first one way, and then another. She stopped in her tracks, stunned by what had happened. He could not possibly have walked off so quickly. Terrified now, Hannah screamed out his name again, and then started calling for her brother.
But there was no reply from either of them. Only the birdsong broke the silence, and even the birds did not sound the same as they had just moments before. Through the rustling of the leaves in the suddenly chill breeze arose the mournful song of an English wood pigeon, so close in sound to its American cousin the mourning dove, and yet so distinctive. To Hannah, its song could mean only one thing: She was no longer in America.
She started to run. As she stumbled through the woods, she called out desperately for Brandon and Alex, again and again.
Brandon knew he was in England: The trees and the stinging nettles told him that much. Thorns and twigs tore at his legs, but the undergrowth became much sparser as he ran, so he kept pushing forward, hoping to find his way clear, and, with sick heaviness in his stomach, knowing that there was only one explanation, which was no explanation at all.
Alex couldn’t help looking in horror at his hands, crying harder all the time. Splashing knee-deep through the swamp, his bare feet sinking into the muck, he was too freaked out by what had happened to him to be afraid of alligators and snakes.
Hannah’s clothes weighed her down, and putting her hand to her head, she tore off a ruffled white cap, just as someone crashed through the bushes right in front of her. Screaming, she staggered backwards, and held up her arms to protect herself . . . .
But it was only Brandon, dressed in a white linen shirt, a black cravat, blue knee breeches, and a red vest.
Relieved, Hannah threw her arms around him. “It’s happened, hasn’t it?” she said, her vo
ice muffled by his shoulder. “Oh my God, I thought I was here by myself. Where’s Alex?” She stepped back, and looked around in panic for her brother.
“I don’t know,” Brandon said despondently. “I’ve been running around here for about an hour now, and there’s no sign of him. I’m just relieved to find you.”
Hannah was floored. “An hour? You’ve already been here an hour? But I just got here! We must have arrived at different times. Alex could be anywhere. And where are we? Is this . . . ?” She didn’t want to say it.
“England, probably,” Brandon said for her. “Eighteenth century, I’d guess, judging from the clothes. I have no idea exactly where or when, though. Weird.”
Hannah gave an exasperated sigh. “Brandon, it’s always weird.”
“No . . .” he said hesitantly. “I just mean it’s weird that we found each other so easily when we arrived an hour apart.
“This is all your fault!” Hannah cried. “I knew we should never have gone to the college. You went there on purpose, trying to make this happen.”
“Don’t get mad at me, Hannah,” said Brandon. “I’m just trying to figure it all out. Like what triggers the time travel, how it happens.”
He bit his lip. Then he said slowly, “Honestly? I don’t think it made any difference where we were. I think all the signs were there, like the skeleton and the Professor taking us for malaria pills . . . . Anyhow, there’s no sense in pointing fingers. Look, Hannah, I hate to say it, and I know you’re worried about Alex, but I think we better look after ourselves for now, you and me. It’s getting dark, so we need someplace to stay, or else we’ll be camping in the woods, and unless there’s a full moon, we won’t be able to see anything. But Alex will survive. He’ll be okay.”
Hannah looked at him doubtfully. She was desperately worried about her brother, but with a sinking feeling, she realized that Brandon was right. Daylight was fading, and if they didn’t want to spend a cold, damp night in the woods, they had to find shelter soon.
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 3
