by M. S. Parker
Halfway up, I heard the study door open and close. I couldn't resist peeking over the banister to watch Gracen storm down the hall and out of my sight.
17
I dreamed that night.
I was standing in a run-down house of sorts with Gracen by my side. I couldn't make out enough of the interior to tell where we were or even when we were. We were dressed differently, and the air was cold against my skin despite the fact we were inside and I was wearing a coat.
In front of us were a man and a woman standing behind a counter, and I knew instinctively that they were the owners of the establishment. The looks on their faces were disturbing, even a little threatening, especially the scowl that the man had directed at me. Now I didn’t know if the chill under my skin was from the look or the cold, but I was extremely uncomfortable.
The woman was talking to Gracen in broken English with what I figured out was a French accent. They were arguing about something I couldn’t quite make out, but that was probably because I couldn't take my eyes off the man who was scowling at me. I felt like I should know him from somewhere, but no matter how hard I tried, I wasn't able to place him.
Suddenly, the woman started yelling in French, waving us away. I looked at Gracen, and for the first time, I realized how worn he appeared, a man who had seen and been through more in one lifetime than anyone should. With his hair tied back and dyed, he looked very different from the Gracen I knew, barely recognizable.
Still, I knew him, and I knew then that I'd recognize him anywhere. It had little to do with how he looked and everything to do with the way I felt. In that moment, a small burst of inspiration made me wonder if it might have been Gracen who pulled me through time, if this inexplicable connection we had, whatever this was, had been so strong, so powerful, that it broke through space and time itself.
Then the woman's voice rose, joined by the gruff voice of the man next to her, both bellowing in incomprehensible French, and the moment was gone. Despite the tension filling the air, Gracen kept his cool. His eyes briefly shifted to me, as if making sure I was still there, before returning to the couple in front of us.
After another minute, he started talking, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t say a word. Now, it was as if I was watching the whole thing through the eyes of a stranger, unable to take part in what was happening. I clenched my fists, fought against my inability to speak, but none of it did any good.
As the shouting faded away, Gracen grabbed my arm, pulling me away as we walked toward the establishment’s door. I could see the snow through the windows now, the quick shapes of pedestrians outside as they fought through the cold on their way to their destinations. Wherever and whenever we were, it was winter.
The man shouted something else behind us, and then Gracen's hand was gone. I turned to see him running back toward the man. Before I could understand what he was planning to do, his fist connected with the man's jaw. I tried to scream as Gracen followed the man to the ground, throwing punch after punch, but no sound came out. I tried to run to where they were, but my legs were like lead, my movement forced as if I were trudging through quicksand. All I could do was watch...
I woke with a start, sweat pouring off me, my breath coming in gasps. The room was dark, the night moonless. Instinctively, I reached to the left where my lamp should be, but nothing was there. Mind still muddled with sleep, I reached up to touch the underside of the top bunk. Again, nothing was there.
It came rushing back all at once. The car wreck. Waking up in the past with a stranger watching me.
Gracen.
I closed my eyes again and tried to focus on slowing my breathing. Gradually, my heart resumed its normal rhythm even as quick and sporadic images of my dream flashed through my mind. My entire body shuddered, and as I closed my eyes, I prayed for a dreamless sleep. Just a few hours of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep. That's all I wanted.
“Clara! My dear!” Roston's voice boomed through the house as he greeted his future daughter-in-law. “How wonderful to see you again.”
I'd been sent to fetch water, but lingered near the door instead. I'd never considered myself a masochist until now. I knew, despite my daydreaming, that nothing would happen between Gracen and I. I'd given in to my weakness and stayed, but now, knowing that Gracen's beautiful – and appropriate – fiancée was one room over, I had to admit to myself that our kiss was a mistake.
No matter how much it hurt.
“Mr. Lightwood, I thank you so much for inviting me over.”
I hadn't heard Clara speak until now, and the sound of it grated on my nerves. I told myself that my dislike was unfounded, that it was the result of jealousy, not of any real reasoning. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that, should she wish it, Clara could succeed where Roston had failed. And I couldn't let that happen.
Even as Clara and Roston continued their small talk, I forced myself out into the scorching summer heat to do as I'd been told. If I wanted to keep Gracen on the right side of this war, I needed to stay, and to do that, I couldn't shirk my duties.
A small voice in the back of my mind asked when I was going to start worrying about getting home, but I reminded myself that I didn't have any control over what happened. Technically, I didn't even know what had happened. It wasn't like the time travel stories I'd read or watched where there was a specific place or person or technology that could be pinpointed as the method of travel, even if it wasn't understood. I'd been in a car accident on a highway outside of Boston. I highly doubted I was the first person to fit that criteria.
I was still thinking about statistics and probabilities when I came back into the kitchen with my water.
“Careful, Honor. Titus, he’s got his eyes on you,” Dye said as I set the buckets of water in a corner. “You best be keepin’ to yourself today.”
“He’d best be staying out of my way,” I replied, surprising myself with how sharp my words were.
Dye raised an eyebrow and shook her head. I caught a hint of a smile on her face as she leaned closer to me.
“I knows where your loyalty is,” she whispered. “It'd be best for you if you found yourself a place with the rebels.”
“Believe me, they don’t need me,” I answered, keeping my voice low.
“I seen you outside the Master’s study last night,” she continued.
Shit.
She knew I was, at the very least, a sympathizer, and now she knew I'd been eavesdropping. If she put those two together, Roston could have me arrested as a spy.
Hell, there was no could about it. If Roston had the slightest idea that I wasn't who I said I was, he'd have me turned over to the British in a heartbeat.
“I was waiting for them to finish so I could clean the study,” I explained, slowly turning to look at her. The expression on her face said she didn’t believe a word I said.
“You be careful,” she said, acting like she had heard nothing of the nonsensical explanation I’d just given her. “Titus be a snake of a man. He think you spyin' on folks, he make your life hell.”
I smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She gave me a sideways look and shook her head. “You do that. Now, you supposed to ask if Master Gracen and his lady friend want somethin' to drink.”
I frowned at the assignment but didn't argue. Dye already suspected that I wasn't who I said I was. If she figured out that I had feelings for Gracen, I knew she wouldn't approve.
I found Gracen and Clara outside on the porch that overlooked the garden. Clara sat on the flowered bench, looking like a porcelain doll in her filmy blue dress, while Gracen stood at the railing, looking out across the carefully manicured paths and blooming flowers.
I paused in the doorway, making myself see the scene objectively, to see Clara as she was and not as I wanted her to be. She was a little older than I knew most unmarried women were, though not quite my age. I was pretty sure that I rated close to being an old maid in the eyes of eighteenth-century society.
S
he was watching him, and I saw it clearly then, that she wanted him. I couldn't tell if it was love for him, or for his position, but it didn't matter. He'd made her a promise, and when he kissed me, he violated that promise. I violated that promise. I didn't know if it was because I hadn't had more than a quick glance at her, or if I was just that awful of a person, but I hadn't truly thought about the hurt that kiss would cause.
I was a horrible person.
I knew how much it'd hurt me in the past when Bruce had been with other women, even though it was before things were official between us. I suspected he hadn't been faithful afterward either. Now, I was that other woman, and even if all Gracen and I had shared was a kiss, it was wrong.
Guilt washed over me, and I turned around to leave the two of them undisturbed.
“He doesn’t understand, Clara.” Gracen's words stopped me before I'd gone more than a few steps.
“You have to see it from his point of view, my love,” Clara replied, her soft voice sugar-sweet. “He sees the larger picture, and wants to guard you against anything that could hurt your future.”
“I understand that,” Gracen admitted, “but I would feel better if he could see things from my perspective as well.”
Perhaps I'd given Clara the benefit of the doubt too quickly. I hadn't heard much of the conversation between Clara and Roston, but now I suspected she was doing the elder Lightwood's bidding.
“You know that he wants what is best for you,” she continued.
“You mean he wants what's best for the family name,” Gracen countered. “He cares nothing for how I feel or what I want. It's all about reputation.”
“You are your name,” she said, “your reputation. It’s a part of who you are and who we will be. Your father wants you to honor that.”
“You sound like him,” Gracen said, frustration clear in his voice.
I heard feet shuffling and repositioned myself behind the door so that I could see what was happening. Clara was now standing in front of Gracen, looking up at him as she held his hands. The expression on her face was one of adoration.
“You know I would never side against you,” Clara said earnestly. “Whatever you decide, I will support it fully.”
“We're to be married,” he said, smiling. “How could I choose a war over that?”
Gracen kissed her hands. I wondered if he would feel the same about her words, her wide eyes, if he'd known that she'd spend several minutes talking to his father before meeting with him. Something about this whole conversation made me suspicious.
Clara gave him a smile that made my stomach turn. Maybe it wasn't only jealousy on my part. Maybe I had a legitimate reason not to like this woman.
“This is hardly a war,” she said dismissively. “If you were to choose to join the army, I doubt you would see much battle. Everyone says it will all be over in a matter of weeks, especially after the loss the rebels suffered recently.”
If only that were true, I thought to myself. In my time, it was said that inciting the United States to join a war they'd kept out of had been like waking a sleeping giant. History would show that the Battle of Bunker Hill had a similar effect. The loss had fueled the cause, prompting the rebels to continue to fight. We were only a year from the colonies officially declaring themselves separate from England.
“I would have expected you to care more about the wedding than these so-called skirmishes.” There was humor in Gracen's voice.
“I care about you,” Clara said firmly, “and our way of life. Those rebels are trying to disturb that, and it would do me great honor if my husband were one of the men who put an end to this rebellion.”
That little bitch.
Okay, maybe I was being a tad overly harsh. She didn't know what I knew, but I was more certain than ever that Roston had put her up to this. He probably even played the whole prestige card, telling her that if Gracen didn't enlist, once the war was over, he'd be looked down on for his lack of patriotism. If he listened to her, there was a good chance she would get Gracen killed, and all for a way of life that wouldn't last much longer.
At that moment, I hated that I knew the future. Whoever had said that ignorance was bliss knew what they were talking about. Knowing that the British were going to lose this war only made things worse because men died on both sides of the fight. Even if I managed to convince Gracen to switch sides, that wasn't a guarantee that he'd survive the war. My knowledge could only keep him safe if he lived to see the British sent back to England.
No good could ever come out of this.
I turned away from the couple, my mind racing with how to convince Gracen to forget about all this nonsense, to assure him that his neutrality was the best thing for him. If he didn't fight on either side, he wouldn't die in battle, and at the end, his allegiance could be made to America without appearing to be a turncoat.
“You have a way with words, Clara,” Gracen said.
I closed my eyes as I heard the concession in his voice.
“I’m not trying to sway you from your beliefs, my love,” Clara said. “I just want you to consider your father’s proposition.”
I opened my eyes and risked another look. My heart sank at the expression on Gracen's face. I didn't need to hear him say it. In that moment, I knew, unless I convinced him otherwise, he'd enlist in the British Army, and some dark foreboding told me that he most likely wouldn't survive.
18
Gracen was in the study, alone. He stood at the window, looking out at the setting sun. The skies had already turned a deep red and was now slowly darkening to a shade of purple. The glow coming through the window cast the room in strange shadows, giving the entire room a strange, surreal look.
I wasn't worried about us being interrupted. I'd been cleaning the second-floor windows when I'd seen Roston and Clara walking to the carriage. He'd gotten in, and the carriage had pulled away. I could've assumed that he was merely being polite and seeing her safely home. She planned to marry his son, it only made sense that he'd be concerned for her safety.
Except my gut told me that Roston was more concerned with finding out whether or not she'd managed to talk Gracen into enlisting.
And I couldn't let that happen.
“Don’t do it.”
Gracen turned around but didn't seem surprised to see me. He didn't look angry or even frustrated. In fact, if I had to describe his expression, it would be one of resignation, and that frightened me.
“Excuse me?” His voice was raspy, and he coughed to clear his throat.
“Don’t join the British Army.” I closed the door behind me. While Roston and Clara were gone, the house was still full of servants, including Titus, and the last thing I needed them to overhear was me trying to convince Gracen to go against his father.
Gracen's eyes narrowed. “How did you know about that?”
“None of you are particularly quiet with your discussions,” I offered.
He eyed me for a second, frowning, and then his features softened, and he sighed. “You're right. We're not.”
I walked over to where he was standing but made sure to keep a respectable distance between the two of us. The last thing we needed was another kiss...no matter how much I wanted it. “Don’t do it.”
He looked bemused. “Honor, I'm quite surprised by your concern for me, but I assure you, there’s little to worry about.”
“I doubt that,” I muttered.
“I haven’t yet decided on my course of action,” he said.
“You look like a man who has already made up his mind.”
He shook his head as he turned to gaze back out of the window, and relief flooded through me.
“The situation is...complicated, and one I am quite uncomfortable with, despite what everyone says.” His voice was quiet, soft. “I truly do not know where I stand, but what I am quite sure of is that this will soon become more than just skirmishes.”
I felt relief that he wasn't just buying into all of this, but it wasn't enough. I
needed to hear him say that he wasn't going to do it. Part of me wanted to tell him how right he was, how the British might have a couple wins before it was all over, but that, in the end, the British would lose.
I just didn't have a way to explain how I knew that without sounding completely insane.
“Maybe you could join me,” Gracen teased. “You seem to be quite adept handling yourself, and we both know you can pass as–”
“This isn’t a joking matter,” I interrupted.
His eyes searched mine for a moment, and I knew he was looking for any sign of amusement. When he found none, he sighed and looked down.
“Very well, Honor Daviot. What would you have me do?”
My mouth opened and then closed again, my mind suddenly blank. I’d been focused on convincing him not to go, wanting him to see that it was in his best interest. Now, however, I didn't think that would be enough for him.
I didn't know why I ever thought otherwise. When I first met him, I thought his not wanting to get involved was because he was hedging his bets or that fighting was beneath him. What I could see now, what I'd seen over the past few days, was that Gracen was actually a man of great principle. He wouldn't support something simply because other people told him he should. He thought things through, considered the weight of his choices.
He wouldn’t sit back and do nothing. He just needed to know what he was fighting for. I could see the toll his father and Clara’s words were having on him. It was obvious that he was tired of the back and forth, and that he didn't necessarily believe that joining the British Army was important to upholding his family honor.
“Conflicting loyalties, my father calls it,” Gracen continued when I didn't answer him. “It isn’t that at all, not the way my father means it. I’m not a coward, Honor.”
“I know that,” I replied, keeping my voice quiet but firm. “I know you're not.”
“Then tell me why I won’t take up arms and fight the rebels as my father, my fiancée, and our friends seem to think I should?” he asked, his tone matter-of-fact. “If my father was young enough, he would have enlisted at the first sign of trouble.” He paused and then added, “I am supposed to be my father’s son.”
