by Megan Crewe
The sooner I find what Win needs, the sooner he can move on with his mission—and take the Enforcers with him.
Pulling myself together, I head in and go straight to the history section. France. Times of rebellion. I can’t remember exactly which ones I looked at for my essay. There are a few books that focus on the first, and best known, French Revolution, and several others that cover the general period. I slide out one, and then another, flipping through them.
Nothing about these strikes me. Well, there’s still the public library. I often go straight there for my research, because it has a much bigger collection.
And if I don’t find anything there either? I can already imagine Win’s face falling. He was so sure I could help. But maybe my sensitivity won’t do us, or the world, any good after all. Maybe we’ll both have to just keep standing by, waiting and hoping someone else can make it all better.
That possibility haunts me all the way to law class. It takes the puzzled look on Angela’s face when I drop into the seat beside her to tug me out of my head.
“Everything okay, Sky?” she asks. “Bree told me you missed practice this morning.”
My stomach clenches. Nothing is okay. And while Angela’s taken plenty of my oddness in stride, I suspect time-traveling aliens would cross way over the line.
I look away. The football guys are bantering in the back of the room. Jaeda is watching them, her chin tucked into the wide collar of her turtleneck and her eyebrows raised in amusement. Daniel’s sitting in his spot by the far wall, tapping the end of his pen against his lips as his neighbor points out something in the textbook.
At the sight of him, it hits me. Every wrong feeling I’ve had . . . It was a sign things had been different before. So that time, that time when he leaned in and the streetlamp freaked me out—there was another time when it didn’t? When he kissed me? And then?
Who knows what could have happened, in that other version of my life?
Of course, the other version, without any shifts, would probably have involved all of us blowing up two days ago.
But we didn’t. Nothing blew up, no one died, Daniel was never my boyfriend. This is the life I have now. And as far as anyone else knows, as far as Angela knows, it’s the only life we’ve ever had.
I meet my best friend’s eyes again. Even if I thought she’d believe me, why would I want her to feel as awful as I do, knowing what I do?
“I woke up with a headache,” I lie, hating how easy it is. “It took a while for the painkillers to kick in. But I’m fine now.”
That crease appears on her forehead. Before she can dig deeper, I grasp for a change of subject.
“So are you putting us to work again at lunch? The dance decorations are looking great so far.”
“You really think so?” she says, brightening. “We’re almost done. I want to get some amazing pictures on Friday.”
“It’s going to be awesome.”
Our conversation is cut off when Ms. Vincent strides in, but I feel Angela eyeing me all through class, like she’s checking for signs that I’m not okay after all. So I play the best perfectly fine I have in me. When all five of us gather in the art room during lunch hour, I laugh along with Lisa’s dramatic tales of her twin brothers’ latest mischief-making and Evan’s dry asides. I cheer when Bree tells me how Rob from cross-country complimented her on a good run after practice, and join Angela in insisting she ask him out already. I glue more flowers and paint lightbulbs crimson as the air fills with tangy fumes.
But no matter how hard I try to lose myself in our chatter, I’m not totally there. Part of my mind is back with Win, listening to him explain how the fabric of the world is crumbling. When I cross my ankles, I notice the faint weight of the alarm band. How long will I make it before it starts shivering again?
“Lisa and Evan and I are heading over to Michlin Street to grab some pie,” Bree tells me as we’re leaving computer science, our last class of the day. “You want to come with?”
The memory of yesterday’s frantic run flickers through my mind. “Oh,” I say. “I— I have this lab report I really need to get done. I wish I could.”
She gives me a little nudge. “You work too hard, you know. Take a break.”
“I will,” I say. “Tomorrow.” Assuming the world’s still in one piece then.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” she warns me, smiling, before turning down the hall toward her locker.
Angela’s holed up in the art room putting the finishing touches on her decorations, so I don’t have to make excuses to anyone else before I hurry out. I speed walk all the way to the local library branch. Thankfully, wherever the Enforcers are right now, their paths don’t cross mine. I dart past the library’s double doors unmolested.
Inside, I meander past the rows of wooden tables and the staircase with its worn gray carpet. A couple of day-care attendants are herding a group of murmuring elementary-age kids toward the children’s section. I scoot past them to the nonfiction area. The catalog numbers roll out across the yellowed labels as I venture into the deepening quiet between the shelves. Here’s history . . . History of Europe . . . History of France. My hand stills over the plastic-sheathed spines.
None of them looks especially familiar. I know I paged through a lot of books trying to find good sources for my essay, hoping to get a couple that weren’t too dry so I could actually enjoy reading them while I did my research. I brought a big stack of them over to one of the tables and evaluated them one by one, checking the table of contents, reading the first few pages . . .
My memory drifts back to the uneven pile of books, the quiet conversations around me, the rough cushion of the chair—and a sliver of panic jabs me. There. I was sitting there. A thin musty-smelling volume open in front of me, comfortingly old; a prick of betrayal when a string of words on a page jarred loose a chorus of wrong, wrong, wrong.
I stare at the books in front of me. There was something, then. A shift, the clue Win needs.
Which one was it? What if it’s not here?
Some part of my brain obviously hasn’t let go of that unanticipated betrayal by history, because as I step back, scanning the shelves, my gaze snags on a tall, thin spine, burgundy with white lettering. The Further Revolutions of France.
That one. I grabbed it, thinking it might be interesting to focus on the later, less-studied conflicts, on the ways the first revolution didn’t actually solve all the problems the people hoped it would. My fingers clench before reaching for it.
I’ve never deliberately provoked a wrong feeling before. It’s made a lot more sense to avoid them. Even though it’s just some words on a page, even though I now have reason to believe that the feelings don’t come from some flaw in my brain but a real perception, my skin’s gone tight. I stalk away into a secluded corner in the midst of the stacks and sit on the floor, opening the book on my lap.
I skim the table of contents and flip to the introduction. My eyes dart straight to the second paragraph.
Though France’s second and third revolutions are commonly identified as two separate events, it is clear that the July Revolution of 1830, the so-called Three Glorious Days, was in many ways a direct precursor to the . . .
The “Three” leaps out and smacks me in the gut. I blink, a ghost of my previous discomfort passing through me. It didn’t feel like a betrayal just because history is usually safe. It felt like a betrayal because three is supposed to be my number, the number that drives the wrongness away. But this time, it was wrong.
Because someone changed it.
I shake off my uneasiness and push myself to my feet. I have to show Win. Maybe this is all he needs.
I check out the book on autopilot, already counting the blocks to the Garden Inn in my head. I’m so focused on that, and on how I’ll avoid the Enforcers if they’re still patrolling, that the hand that touches my shoulder
as I head out the door catches me completely by surprise. I whirl around, the book slipping in my hands so I have to clutch it to keep it from falling. And there is Win, grinning sheepishly at me.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. His gaze dips to the book, and his expression turns serious. “Is that it? You found something?”
He’s standing right in my personal space, so close and real my lungs clench and I have to take a step back. “How did—have you been following me the whole time?”
“You said you would go to a library after your classes finished,” he says. “I waited outside to see which one, but I didn’t want to distract you. So you do have something?”
I guess he’s not completely up on regular human etiquette, like how following girls around without telling them you’re there is pretty creepy.
“I think so,” I say, suddenly hesitant. I want to hear him exclaim that I’ve done it; that I’ve provided the missing piece that will ensure Earth’s safety. But what if I haven’t? What if it’s just one more meaningless impulse? “I don’t know if it’s what you were looking for, but something’s off.”
A couple of guys bump past us coming out the door. Win motions for me to follow him. As I descend the steps, the alarm band shivers against my ankle. I stiffen.
“It’s gone off,” I say. “The alarm—”
“Just now?”
“Yes.”
“Back, then.” He grabs my wrist like he did in the coffee shop yesterday, tugging me through the library doors. A few steps over the threshold, the band’s humming cuts out.
“It’s stopped,” I say, and he nods, not looking particularly reassured.
“We might be okay,” he says, “but let’s keep moving. Let me know if it goes off again. Does this place have another exit?”
“I think there’s one on that side.” I point.
We circle the checkout desk and duck around the stairs, and then push past a smaller door that leads onto a lawn dotted with stone checkers tables. We keep walking, on down the sidewalk. The alarm band stays still.
“Good?” Win asks. I nod. “What did you find?”
I’d almost forgotten. I pull the book from where I’ve been cradling it under my arm and open it to the right page. Win veers around a corner, and I hurry along beside him. “This,” I say, tapping the sentence. “Three Glorious Days. The number feels wrong.”
Win snatches the book from my hands, coming to a halt to stare at it. “The Three Glorious Days. Beginning July 27, 1830 AD. Paris. It’s such a small detail—and not even part of the main revolutionary period—that must be why it’s taking the others so long.” He pauses, glances around, and starts walking again. “But that’s all right. I can check it out myself.”
“Can’t you tell your friends so they can help?”
“Communication through time is difficult,” he says. “And all our supplies we had to collect unofficially—inconspicuously. As I told you before, our equipment is limited. Isis set us up with devices that can signal between us, but the best those can do is drag everyone away from what they’re doing to meet up and talk properly. For all I know, Thlo’s already figured this part out and is way ahead, and I’d just be delaying them. I’m not calling them in until I have something concrete.”
I glance at the book. “And I guess— You said there are ‘official’ Travelers making changes all the time too. We can’t know that Jeanant’s the one who did this.”
“It’s extremely likely it was him,” Win says. “The regular Travelers shouldn’t be shifting things that far back. There were a couple of mistakes, early on, where one little change altered centuries of history in ways no one intended, and there’s no easy way to just set things back. So the scientists restrict the experiments to try to minimize the breadth of the impact. Nobody authorized would be making changes nearly two hundred years ago.”
“But maybe I’m noticing something that was shifted way back then,” I point out.
He shakes his head. “You should only be able to notice shifts that were made by Travelers working within your lifetime. Changes to things you already experienced once, that were then rewritten. A shift some Traveler made hundreds of years ago, it was already in place before you were born. You’d never know the difference with those. But Jeanant, he came here during your present, he’s making changes now. This is almost definitely him.”
The thought of thousands of years of shifts I haven’t noticed, on top of the little ones I have, overwhelms me. It’s a few seconds before I realize Win’s still looking at me. Studying me, with a frank appreciation that makes my cheeks warm. He closes the book and hands it back to me, his grin returning. “You’re amazing.”
His fingers graze mine with that overwhelming thereness, his eyes bright as he beams at me. My heart skips a beat.
Then he stops in his tracks, peering at the nearby houses as he swings his satchel around. The satchel that holds his time cloth.
Right. Because he’s not some normal guy I met at school; he’s an alien. An alien who’s probably only pleased with me because I’ve been useful to him.
Anything that was enjoyable about that moment is swallowed up by my embarrassment.
Win doesn’t seem to have noticed. He drums the top of the satchel, and then draws in a breath. His gaze slides back to meet mine.
“Skylar,” he says. “I want you to come with me.”
10.
I’m still a little off-balance, or I’d probably realize what Win means right away. “With you—to the hotel?” I say, and he laughs.
“To France,” he says.
To France. To Paris, July 27, 1830.
I flash back to my first trip through time: the lurching, dizzying fall, the barrage of light and sound, sand and blood. My fingers drop to my pocket, pressing the bracelet’s beads against my hip.
“I have to find the trail Jeanant left for us,” Win is saying. “If we get there quickly enough, maybe you’ll be able to sense what else he’s done.”
I’m already shaking my head. “I don’t know if I can do that again.”
“Of course you can,” Win says. “It’s really not so bad after the first time.”
“But—there’s going to be a revolution going on.” Not just spears and arrows, but guns. Bullets flying. Bayonets stabbing.
“We won’t jump right into the middle of it,” Win says. “I’m not careless. We’ll start at the beginning, before the fighting gets going, and keep away from the most dangerous areas. The cloth has all the information I’ll need for that.”
And what if Jeanant’s trail leads us right into those dangerous areas?
“You don’t really need me now, do you?” I point out. “You know where to go, you have his clues or whatever. You’re trained for all this time-traveling stuff. I’ll have no idea what I’m doing.”
Win lets out a huff of a breath. “I know,” he says. “But I’ll be there to make sure you’re okay. And I might still need you. If the others have spent the last few weeks searching and not even gotten this far—as far as you got me in just an afternoon—the rest of his trail might not be any easier to follow. I won’t know until I get there. If we get there, and the clues are obvious, I can bring you right back.”
He pauses, and points to the sky. “They wouldn’t think any Earthling could do half as much against them as you’ve already done. They think they have everyone here completely under their control. But you’ve proven them wrong. Doesn’t it feel good to . . . to know this time you’re changing things for yourself instead of letting them shove you around?”
Remembering what he said this morning about getting them to take him seriously, I wonder how much he’s talking for himself as well as me. But the thought of slipping away from those watchful eyes up there, of staging a goldfish rebellion, does give me a little thrill.
If it’s really that easy for him
to take me there and back . . . I guess from his perspective, it is. Step into the cloth, one second here, one second gone without a trace.
Like Noam.
My breath catches in my throat. If I go with Win, whisk away through time, it’ll be just like Noam. Tonight would be that night all over again. Like Win just said, his companions have been searching for Jeanant’s weapon for weeks. How long would it take us, even if my sensitivity helps? While my parents worry, and then panic, and maybe even start to mourn . . .
It’ll kill them.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I can’t. I can’t just take off and leave everyone wondering what’s happened to me.”
“They won’t even know you’ve left,” Win says, sounding amused now. “It’s time traveling. No matter how long we’re gone for, I can bring you back just a few seconds after we left when we’re done.”
Of course. I rub my temples. I’m in the habit of thinking time means something. For Win’s people, it’s nothing at all.
“It’s not just for me, and for you,” Win says. “It’s for your whole world. As soon as we find that weapon, as soon as we can destroy the generator, every Earthling will be able to make their own decisions without anyone up there messing with their lives. And . . . Look, even if it turns out I need your help in France, if you decide you’ve had enough, I’ll bring you back right away anyway. I swear it.” He touches the center of his chest, and speaks a few choppy syllables in that slightly slurred alien tongue before switching to what I assume is a translation. “By my heart, by Kemya.”
He could say anything right now. It’s not as if I could make him bring me back home once we’re across oceans and centuries; I can’t operate the time cloth myself.
But he’s right. Everyone I care about is at risk every second his scientists keep poking at us. What Win’s asking, it’s not just about an end to the wrong feelings and having a normal future for myself, it’s making sure my parents and Angela and, hell, the very fabric of the planet still have a future. Isn’t this what I’ve wanted my whole life—the answer to what was wrong, and a way to make it stop?
