by Suzanne Weyn
“What’s she doing out there?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Blythe answered. “But it’s freezing outside!”
Moving Blythe aside, I raised the window sash and leaned out. Amelie was indeed out there, barefoot on the icy roof. The moonlight poured down on her. With the winter wind blowing her hair and nightgown, she made an eerily ghostly figure, but of course, she was no ghost.
What could she be doing? Had she gone crazy?
Instinctively I looked for Mimi to take charge and then remembered that she wasn’t there. I was the oldest now. It was up to me.
“Go get Mother,” I instructed Blythe as I began crawling out the window.
Amelie was perilously close to the end of the roof. She didn’t seem to know it, though. As I drew closer, I realized that she was in some sort of trance. I would have to pull her back without startling her and causing her to tumble off. And I had to act quickly—she might fall at any moment.
With my arms wide for balance, I inched slowly toward our sister. “Amelie, stop,” I said softly, needing to keep my voice calm. “Come back toward me.”
Amelie walked along the edge of the roof with the sureness of a cat. “Amelie, look at me!” I commanded her.
But Amelie didn’t acknowledge me. She didn’t even seem aware of my presence.
And then, suddenly, she tottered, arms windmilling crazily.
Frantic, I clutched her nightgown, then lunged forward and gripped her wrist tightly with my other hand.
For a horrible second, I was sure she would go off the roof and pull me over with her. Bending my knees, I threw my weight backward as hard as I could.
Both of us fell back hard onto the roof, hitting with such force that we rolled to the very edge. If I hadn’t been able to keep hold of her and jam my heel in the wooden gutter to stop our slide, I’m sure we would have sailed right out into the night.
Looking to the house, I saw Mother at our open bedroom window with Blythe hopping about anxiously behind her. Mother’s expression was shocked and confused. “Come in here this minute!” she scolded. “What are you girls doing?”
Amelie blinked hard and recognition returned to her face. She shook her head, seeming as bewildered that she was out on the roof on a winter’s night dressed in her nightgown as we were to find her there.
“Follow me,” I instructed her, crawling back up the cold roof on my hands and knees. Amelie obeyed, and soon Mother was pulling us inside. “What were you doing out here?” Blythe asked her, but Amelie just blinked with confusion. Clearly, she didn’t know.
Once inside and wrapped in blankets, I explained to Mother what had happened. She sat beside Amelie on Blythe’s bed and stroked her tangled, windblown hair. “I’m afraid you were sleepwalking, my love,” she said.
“You mean she was asleep out there?” Blythe cried. “She could have walked right off the roof!”
Emma appeared in the doorway. “What’s happening?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“We’ll tell you in the morning, dear,” Mother said. “Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t,” Emma said. “I just had the strangest dream. I dreamed I was walking around somewhere that was very high up and the stars were all around me—stars everywhere as far as I could see. I was flying into the starry night when I suddenly woke up.”
Blythe and I stared at each other, wide-eyed. Had my sisters been dreaming the same dream?
Mother held Amelie closer to her side.
That was the first night that Amelie began sleepwalking—but it would not be her last.
I passed the remainder of that winter with my head buried in my Christmas gift from Mother, a collected volume of Sherlock Holmes stories starting from the very first, as well as a single installment of the most recently published addition, “The Terror of Blue John Gap.”
It was the end of February, on a particularly frigid morning, when the whistle of icy winds down from Canada reminded me to stoke the wood-burning stove, that Mother received a letter from W. T. Stead. “Girls,” she announced after she’d read it, her face lit with excitement, “Mr. Stead is gathering all the greatest spiritualists for an international convention in London in April, and we’ve been invited to attend.”
“All of us?” I said hopefully.
“There are five tickets for a transatlantic crossing on an ocean liner in this envelope,” Mother said, taking out the tickets and holding them for us to see. “I have a cousin outside London in Brighton. I will contact Agatha immediately to see if she is willing to have us stay at her house.”
“It’s too wonderful! We’ll meet all the great spiritualists,” said Emma. She looked to Amelie, whose face was as illuminated with anticipation as her own.
“We leave in a little over a month,” Mother told us. She held Mr. Stead’s letter over her heart and closed her eyes, smiling beatifically. “Isn’t he the most generous man alive?”
“We’re going to London!” Blythe shouted, twirling around the room with her arms spread wide, nearly delirious with joy.
Chapter 16
LONDON, APRIL 3, 1912
The voyage across the Atlantic was uneventful, but I adored every minute of it just the same. Much of the time I hung at the sides, gazing out over the ocean, mesmerized by its rolling waves. I had never seen the ocean before, and now I wondered how I had ever lived without it.
Nothing had ever imparted such a keen sense of how small a part of a larger universe I was. At night, the feeling was amplified by the addition of stars more immense and seemingly closer to Earth than I had ever seen. Standing there with the sea breeze in my hair, the black, glittering fields of both ocean and heavens before me, I felt lifted from my own body and happy. I had to assume it was an experience akin to being in a state of grace.
Blythe shared my fascination with the ocean, but for different reasons. To her it was sea of possibility. One afternoon she joined me at the ship’s side. “Think of all the places we might go on this ship,” she said. “Imagine all the things Mimi is seeing right now.”
“Well, hopefully we’ll find a better way to travel than as the maid of some rich man’s mistress,” I remarked sourly.
“She’s a companion,” Blythe corrected.
“What’s the difference?” I quibbled.
“It’s probably easier and more fun,” she conjectured in the straightforward manner that was more and more becoming a hallmark of her personality. “Besides, she’s not doing anything wrong. What Ninette Aubart does is on her conscience. It’s not up to Mimi—or you, for that matter—to judge her.”
Judge not that ye may not be judged. Blythe’s comments made me think of Thad. Just about everything made me think of him. It was so odd that a person I had known so briefly could get so stuck in my head. I had done a similar thing with Tesla, but it didn’t feel the same. When I thought of Thad, I recalled the fresh smell of his jacket, his white scar, the brightness in his vivid blue eyes. The power of my longing was so great that I could almost conjure an image of him standing right beside me.
Sometimes I talked to Thad in my mind, upbraiding him for being so foolish about the few years between us, telling him how much I wished to see him again, begging him to get on a train and come to Spirit Vale. I would insist that he felt as much for me as I did for him. Why else would he have run down to the train station to see me off on the train? These mental conversations became so animated that I sometimes listened for a reply—and half thought I heard distant words. But it was all wishful thinking.
A strong wave slapped the ship, rousing me from my reverie. It apparently did the same for Blythe, who had wandered off on a path of thought of her own. “Do you think Mimi is really in love, as Emma predicted?” she asked.
“Who knows?” I replied. “Blythe, do you think it’s Emma or Amelie who does the predicting?”
“What’s the difference? They’re one person.”
“No, they’re not,” I disagreed. “There are differences. Amelie is off in her o
wn world but Emma is very much with us.”
“Maybe,” she conceded with a shrug. “They’re both in our cabin bathroom being violently seasick right now,” she pointed out.
“This ship does rock a bit,” I allowed. “I feel my stomach lurch sometimes.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if we could be on one of the new White Star Line luxury liners?” Blythe suggested. “At dinner all the people were talking about the Olympic and the Titanic. The Olympic was launched last year and everyone raves about it. It’s the biggest ship in the world and it’s number one in luxury and speed. The Titanic hasn’t even gone out yet. They say it’s even better.”
“Tickets must cost a fortune,” I said.
“The other passengers are saying second class on the Titanic is better than first class on other ships,” she replied. “How I would love to see it!”
It didn’t matter to me. Any ship that would bring me out onto these rolling waves would suit. I think it was on this voyage that the word vast became my favorite word.
I had packed The Time Machine by H. G. Wells and finally felt ready to tackle it again. In it a scientist known only as the Time Traveller creates a machine that carries him far into the future. He tells his friends that time is a fourth dimension to which one can travel.
Sitting there on a deck chair with a blanket tucked around me, I often put the strange tale down on my lap and let my thoughts drift back to Tesla. Like the Time Traveller, he was such a genius and said so much that I simply didn’t understand. Was time travel really possible?
I continued reading, immersing myself in the adventure of the story and accepting—for at least as long as I was reading the story—that time travel could be achieved. Once I suspended my doubts about that, I found the story very engaging.
Finally, we arrived at port in Southampton, England. From there we took a horse-drawn cab to Waterloo Station in London. As soon as we stepped outside the station, we were greeted by a woman with blazing carrot hair in a sporty red motorcar with no roof. “Darlings!” she gushed, getting out of her car and greeting us with open arms. “What richness to have you all here with me!”
Horse-drawn carriage drivers shouted at her to move her automobile, which she’d abandoned in the road, but she serenely ignored them. Agatha’s family resemblance to Mother was easy to see. She was much heavier and her orange hair was brighter—I suspected an artificial tint—but she had the same delicate nose and sparkling blue eyes.
Needless to say, we all loved her instantly, even though we wished she had a bigger automobile. Mother sat in front alongside Agatha while the rest of us crushed together in the small backseat, clutching what bags wouldn’t fit in the back storage compartment.
Cousin Agatha’s adorable little house was in Brighton, just over an hour south of London. It was one block from the Atlantic Ocean. The moment Agatha parked the motorcar, Blythe was out and running toward the water.
I was eager to see the beach, too. It was another first for me. “Come on,” I said to Emma and Amelie as I climbed out, about to follow Blythe.
“We’ll stay here,” Emma declined. I noticed Amelie had covered her face with her hand as though the very thought of going to the ocean was disturbing her greatly.
“All right, then,” I said turning away from them. I caught up with Blythe on the boardwalk. A chilly, wet April wind blew a moist, salty spray around us. At home, there was not yet any sign of a thaw, but here the first notes of spring played in the air.
“Let’s go down to the water,” Blythe suggested. Without waiting for my reply, she hurried across the rocky beach to the water’s edge. Down by the shoreline, the wind was stronger and whipped her blond curls around her face. “Oh, isn’t it wonderful!?” she cried exultantly.
“It is,” I agreed. “I wonder why Emma and Amelie don’t want to see it. They’re frightened of the ocean.”
“They’re probably afraid there are spirits floating in the sea,” Blythe said flippantly. “On the way over it probably wasn’t seasickness at all. It was sheer terror. They didn’t even want to look at the ocean once.”
Her remark made me think about all the shipwrecks throughout time. Were Emma and Amelie seeing something there that the rest of us could not?
After we walked along the shore, we returned to the boardwalk and then to Cousin Agatha’s house, straightening our wind-tossed hair as we went.
Inside, in the front parlor, Mother was telling her cousin about the reason for our visit. “The subject of the conference is nothing less than the fate of the world,” said Mother, sitting at a cloth-covered table as Agatha brought in a tray laden with a porcelain teapot and cups. “Stead has been invited by President Taft to attend a world peace conference in America this April.”
“A world peace conference?” Agatha asked. “Whatever for? Don’t we have peace already?”
“Taft feels that world peace is in a precarious state at the moment and that a world war could erupt at any time,” Mother said, relaying what Stead had told her in his last letter.
“A world war?” Agatha questioned skeptically. “There has never been such a thing, and it seems less likely to occur now than ever. Queen Victoria’s granddaughter Alexandra is the czarina of Russia and her husband, Nicholas, is a cousin. Our George the Fifth is the first cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm. Victoria’s granddaughter Ena is queen of Spain. Marie is queen of Romania. Victoria’s daughter-in-law is the daughter of the Danish royal couple. She had nine children and forty-two grandchildren and most of them married into royal families. They rule the world.”
“You certainly know your royals,” I remarked.
“Oh, we English love the royalty,” Agatha replied. “And I could go on from there. Everyone is related to everyone. My point is that the world is one big, happy family affair these days.”
“Families quarrel,” Mother pointed out. “Stead says they’ve been playing a political chess game that’s about to explode into a violent fight. As it is, things have not been entirely peaceful. Last year Italy declared war on Turkey, and this year war broke out in the Balkans.”
“Wherever that is,” Agatha said.
“Stead says that conflict’s not over, even though there’s been a truce,” Mother said. “You’ll be hearing more about the Balkans, maybe even this year. A world war could very easily happen.”
Agatha’s bright expression darkened as she poured the tea. “Oh, well, I do sincerely hope not.”
“So does President Taft. Such a conflict would surely affect America one way or another,” Mother said.
“England is our ally,” I added. “We’d have to get involved.”
“This is terrible!” Blythe cried. “I don’t want a war.”
“No one does,” said Mother. “That’s why Stead has called together the best spiritualists. He wants to be armed with whatever the spirit world can tell us by way of predictions.”
“Can the dead see the future?” Agatha inquired.
“Sometimes,” Mother answered, sipping her tea. “There will be psychics in attendance who make predictions. Stead himself is a psychic.”
“Then why doesn’t he simply tell your president what he knows?”
“It’s not that simple,” Mother said. “Psychic predictions come in flashes and are subject to interpretation.” She used the example of Stead thinking he would die by ice. “But will he slip on ice? Will he freeze to death? No one knows for certain.”
“I should move to a sunnier clime altogether, were I he,” Agatha suggested.
“Perhaps so. Nonetheless, he is as brilliant a psychic as he is a journalist.”
“I don’t know about all this,” Agatha said uneasily, “but I wish you all success. Heaven knows that the last thing any of us wants is a war.”
That evening, Mother shared the guest room with Amelie and Emma. Blythe and I settled in on the couches in the living room. From our improvised beds, we could hear the ocean waves crashing against the shore.
“I love it here,”
Blythe whispered to me.
“Mmm,” I murmured in agreement, half asleep.
“I don’t think our lives will ever be the same after this trip,” she said.
“Why’s that?” I mumbled.
“I don’t know,” Blythe replied. “It’s just a feeling.”
Chapter 17
In the morning, Agatha drove us back into London even though we offered to take the train. “I wouldn’t hear of it,” she said. “I have many friends in London whom I might visit.” She used a map of the city to guide her and in little over an hour we pulled up in front of an elegant town house in the heart of the city. Clearly, we had arrived at the right place, for a steady stream of men and women were entering.
“Good-bye, darlings. I will return for you at about five,” Agatha said as we climbed out of her motorcar. Suddenly she went pale and pointed. “What is it, Agatha?” I asked, concerned, for she was trembling with excitement.
She pointed at a short man with a white mustache and beard. He wore a black suit and black stovepipe hat. “That’s the great playwright George Bernard Shaw who just walked out of the building you’re about to enter,” she said in a voice filled with awe.
“How do you know it’s him?” Blythe asked.
“I follow the theater avidly, darling,” she explained. “I see his picture in the paper after every opening. Either he’s written the play or he’s accompanying some famed thespian.”
“Yes, he’s a good friend of Mr. Stead’s,” Mother said.
“Really?! And look whom he has stopped to speak to,” she said with a gasp.
I looked in the direction she was pointing and saw that on his way out of the house, Shaw had, indeed, paused to speak to two men walking toward the house. One was a portly but dignified-looking gentleman with an impressive mustache but thinning hair on his head whom I guessed to be in his early fifties.
The other man was short and clean-shaven, with curly black hair. He was much younger, probably in his early thirties. He looked somehow familiar to me, but I couldn’t think of why that should be.
