“Bishop, Bishop, Bishop.”
I pump my arms hard, push my legs to long strides, and hope for maximum speed. I run past the bed, out the bedroom door, past the mini kitchen and the sectional sofa. I close my eyes and pray for a miracle.
My body slams into the living room wall.
“Uggh!” I hit the floor, crushing my shoulder, knocking the wind from my chest. Above my head, the TV wobbles, unsteady. I scramble out of its path, but thankfully, it doesn’t fall.
“That’s not going to work,” I grunt.
Annoyed, I rest, thinking of alternate locations. With no conclusion, I pick myself up off the floor and walk around the school to scope out other possibilities—if there are any.
•
I begin in a place I’ve never ventured—the Academy’s attic. The elevator’s cage opens into a rough space with slanted ceilings. There’s a light switch, a large cast iron bubble anchored to the wall with two buttons. I push both at the same time. A buzzing noise shoots electricity through wires in the ceiling, breathing life into the overhead bulbs with an electric pop. Orange sparks rain down from the fixtures, and the lights flicker eerily.
I glance around, searching for the blue blinking lights that accompany the video surveillance system, otherwise known as the E.Y.E.S. Happily, there are none.
In the small room, there’s an oversized door. A crooked sign reads, “NO STUDENTS. ACADEMY PERSONNEL ONLY!” The words are handwritten and faded. The poster hangs, barely affixed with a tack. I rip the sign down and toss it to a nearby table. I wonder if they really think a sign will deter me. There must be something good in there.
I reach for the doorknob but hesitate. Even though there are no cameras, an alarm might sound. You just never know in this place.
Curiosity has the better of me at this point, and I step forward. The elevator door slams shut with a clack. I jolt at the sound and turn to see the cage dropping out of sight, droning off for another floor. I release my breath, now realizing I had been holding it all this time.
When I return my attention back to the forbidden door, it’s popped open, just an inch. No alarm. I push the door with my fingertip. It creaks, drifting halfway open. Tipping my head in, I survey the space before committing to a full entry.
Open-caged rooms wrap confusingly, making an iron maze. Deciding I’m alone, I walk to the nearest cage, grab onto the iron bars, and rest my cheeks between them to survey the contents. Boxes, clothes, and furniture stack from the floor to the ceiling, nestled in neat, tidy, shelving compartments. The lock on the gate is old, at least a hundred years. I turn it over. A name is etched into the back. Maybe these are personal effects of teachers or something, like a storage facility, but I can’t be sure.
The droning sound returns and the cage door of the elevator clacks open. Two people move about the entrance area, chatting. Worried that I’ll be caught, I run, searching for a hiding spot.
“You left the door open?” one man accuses another.
“I don’t know, man. Maybe. So what?”
“So what? If Terease saw this, we’d lose our jobs!” The man grunts with understandable annoyance. “Just watch where you’re pushing this thing!”
Two men appear from behind the door, rolling a cart full of luggage. I crouch down farther.
They stop. One man takes out a clipboard and reads it. “Each of these goes into a different locker. Looks like they go back here.”
I imagine the man pointing in the direction I’m hiding because that seems to be the direction they’re moving. As the sound closes in, I crawl on my hands and knees through the maze. Somewhere in the middle, I find a new spot. Peeking through the piles of boxes and assorted crap, I barely see them.
The man in charge takes out a clanking set of keys and unlocks several gates. He reads out numbers from the clipboard as the second man finds the correlating bag, lugs it into the proper cage, and shoves it neatly into a compartment. They repeat this about ten times before they finally leave, locking the cages and finally the main door behind them.
“Great!” Locked in. Now I really have to find a way out.
I drag myself from the floor and walk the maze, looking for the blue blinking lights of the E.Y.E.S. When I’m positive there are none, I walk the room again, seeking a long stretch of space that will allow me to run and launch myself into time, hopefully to be with Bishop.
From my view, there’s one possible exit. The long walkway against the south wall is mostly clear and definitely long enough to send me to London. There’s just the matter of moving the two oversized objects that seem very strategically placed on its path. The smaller item I manage to move with the full weight of my body leaning against it. The distance, only a few inches, makes all the difference in the world. The second, a cast iron safe the size of a dishwasher, won’t budge. On its own it weighs a ton, not including whatever resides inside.
I stand on one side of the long stretch, considering the possibilities. If I run from this direction, the safe sits at the farthest point in my run. I might be able to jump on top and launch myself into time at the last second. Maybe. If I don’t succeed, it will really hurt.
At the far end of the room, I take my position and roll my neck, jiggle my arms and legs, then crouch into a starting stance. I remove Bishop’s letter and grasp it in my hand.
“Bishop.” I say his name out loud as though he’s my religion, completely certain that my faith will take me to him.
“Bishop.” I say it again, imagining every alluring part of him.
“Bishop.” I inhale, imagining his sublime scent encompassing my body.
I clench the letter and say his name again, forgetting everything else.
“Bishop.” His name becomes the keyword in my mind that will send me to him.
I open my eyes, certain that I see him at the end of my path. I run toward the vision, arms pumping and legs stretched, running like lightning. Cages fly past, filled with forgotten boxes. I launch my body onto the large safe, toes grabbing, projecting me off the iron box, my arms reaching toward the sky.
“Bishop.”
::6::
London
Attic dust explodes. Wood floors crack, splitting into jagged shards. Metal fencing groans and bends in half. The room rolls over on itself with the force of a crashing ocean wave. The resulting current sends luggage and lost belongings flying through the air. I barely escape a gate threatening to stab my leg before a glittering wormhole swallows me whole. I bounce twice off the rubber-like walls traveling to the location where Bishop last interacted with my relic—his love letter.
A blinding light appears and spits me out of the wormhole, skidding across a sidewalk. In the chaos, I dodge several pedestrians before falling to the ground. Miniscule rocks and dirt impale my knees and hands, and pricks of blood ooze from my rash-burned skin. An older man stops to help me up. I smile, thanking him, and brush my palms on my skirt, happy that the fabric camouflages blood within its red pattern. Large cherry-colored bruises dot my legs, making me look like a schoolchild that’s fallen while playing in a park. But I’m not in a park, and I’m not even at Washington Square Academy anymore. I’m in London, the day Bishop sent this letter.
He must be close.
I tuck the letter into my jacket pocket and lift on tippy-toes to scan the noisy city street. A red postal box stands nearby. I run and jump on it, grabbing onto the decorative finial at the top in an effort to lift my short frame above the crowds. Bishop must have just dropped the letter here, in this box. He’s nearby—somewhere.
The roads, the traffic, the movement of the people all point in a single direction, maybe toward an underground rail station. The sun hides behind silvery clouds, low in the sky. It’s rush hour. These commuters are heading home or to the nearest pub for the evening.
I jump off the postal box and run in the direction of the commuters, hoping that Bishop will be among them. I visually sweep the crowd for his tousled, chocolate-colored hair.
“Bishop!” I weave through people, calling his name.
The crowd tightens, blocking my view, and I search for a new way to elevate myself. A black clock tower stands ahead. I run to it and hoist my body upon the mini version of Big Ben.
“Bishop!” I scream, entwining my fingers into an ornate iron design.
“Bishop!”
A face finally turns in response, acknowledging the name, but it isn’t Bishop. The girl’s waves of dark hair wind around her face, only revealing her blue-violet eyes.
My mouth drops open in shock.
She is me.
I lock eyes with the girl, looking for her reaction. Is she surprised to see me? Her eyes are red-rimmed and teary, but somehow she’s not shocked that I’m sharing the same space. Unconcerned, she merely turns and moves with the direction of the crowd.
Jumping down, I follow at a safe distance. Whatever that might be; I’m not sure. Am I dangerous to myself? Stupid to think so. Obviously she’s from the future, visiting the past. But how far ahead has she traveled from?
The Society of Wanderers frowns upon interacting with yourself. Maybe that’s why she ignores me and walks away, but I follow, regardless. If I really have to, I can go to Bishop’s home later since I have his address memorized. This will be a short detour, I promise myself. What can it hurt?
The girl walks determined as though on a mission, past the iron clock, through the median, and across the road. She confidently dodges several black taxis along her route.
I’m not quite as brave. I stand on the edge of the road; wind blows my hair as autos whiz past. Through wispy strands, I see her run farther in clothes I don’t recognize, past rows of idle red double-decker buses. She ducks into an elaborate window-covered building. Large black letters on its oversized awning read LONDON VICTORIA STATION.
When the traffic breaks, I dart across the walkway with several other determined commuters. The girl, my mirror image, walks far ahead of me, so I run.
By the time I reach the doors to the train station, the crowd pushes in on itself, funneling into the inadequate opening of the facade. I squeeze through, clearing the mob, and find the girl lingering on the other side. When she sees me, she darts away. Maybe she’s meeting someone? Bishop?
The train station’s ceiling soars high above, with glass walls and steel latticework. A mash of people crowd around, chatting in many different languages. The muffled sound of the overhead speaker echoes, announcing train delays and detours. In the commotion, I almost miss the girl, disappearing into a dark tunnel. I follow at a comfortable distance. She stops to buy a ticket at a fare machine and I mirror her action. Thank goodness I have my credit card. How will I explain a charge in London to Ray?
Trailing behind, I follow her down a set of stairs, an escalator, and into the underground rail station. On the platform, a streamlined train screams to a halt. The girl enters one side of the train car, I on the other. From here, I can only see her hair. She’s hidden behind a woman reading a book.
Where’s she going?
Commuters cram uncomfortably into every available nook and cranny. The train speeds forward for several minutes, making silent bobbleheads out of every person. The train stops twice, once at St. James Park and again at Westminster, but the girl stays put. The conductor announces the next stop as Embankment, and she turns to face the door.
The train stops and the door slides open. Commuters push out as many more push in. I squeeze through them and follow the girl as she races along the platform to the exit, up the stairs and escalators, and into the open air. When I arrive aboveground, the scent of the nearby river hits me.
I scan for the girl again and easily find her heading north on the river’s embankment. She walks slower now, with a cell phone scrunched between her ear and shoulder. When will I get a new cell phone?
I hang back, trying not to interact, just watching. I lose sight of her for a few moments, but when I walk past a grouping of trees, something familiar comes into view. The grand obelisk stands sixty feet high, pointing skyward—Cleopatra’s Needle. I’ve been here before with my team, on my way to find my mom with the Egyptian bracelet last semester.
The girl sits at the base of the obelisk, staring at something in her hand. It’s small and shiny. She glances in my direction but stares straight past me. Tears muddled with mascara weave rivers of black ink over her rosy cheeks. Her head falls heavy into her shivering hands.
Instantly my heart aches. Even though I have no idea why she’s crying, I run in her direction, ready to console her. I reach my arm out, ready to call her name.
“Sera!”
But when I hear the name out loud, it isn’t my voice. Rotating, I see Bishop. He stands in the path behind me, staring with a furious and confused expression.
“Bishop?”
I turn to the girl, but she’s gone.
“Sera? What are you doing here?”
I run to him, ignoring his question, and throw my arms around his waist, melting into the curve of his body. His delicious warmth radiates around me. His angry tension releases, and he finally hugs me back.
I look up; he cups my cheeks within his hands and leans down to kiss me. Lightly at first and more determined, maybe, as he realizes I’m really here.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t ever be sorry for a kiss,” he says in his velvety British accent.
“Are you mad at me for breaking my promise?”
“Terribly, I afraid.” He laughs his perfect laugh and kisses my forehead. His long arms seem to wrap around my waist twice, making me feel secure.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“When I spoke to you on the phone a few moments ago, you said you were at Cleopatra’s Needle. And here you are.”
“Hmph.” My other me, the one chatting on the cell phone, must have called him.
“Are you still mad?”
“At first, when you called. But then…”
“Then what?”
“I saw you.” He smiles brighter, if that’s even possible. A dimple punctuates his cheek, and he holds me skintight to his side and squeezes.
“I missed you so much.”
“Me too.”
I don’t mention the other me. Apparently, Bishop didn’t notice her. I gaze into his sparkling green eyes, hidden behind a fringe of thick lashes. The only thing I want to worry about is the person beside me—my Protector.
::7::
A Date
Bishop and I settle on a bench along the riverbank. Two ornate cast iron camels hold worn pieces of wood that serve as the seat.
Bishop’s eyes move back and forth as he scans the promenade. He’s always looking for danger.
“So, how did you get here?”
“Your letter.” I remove the crumpled envelope from my pocket.
“Blood?” He tenses, zeroing in the on the red drops feathered along the edge. He can’t control his Protector instincts.
“Rough landing,” I quickly say to calm him and hold up my reddened palms as proof.
He faces me, takes each one of my hands, and kisses them gently at the wrist. “I despise that you’ve hurt yourself to visit me. I feel horrid.”
“Don’t. I’d do anything to see you.”
“Yes, I recall you making a promise to stay home this summer. Why couldn’t you have waited one more day?”
That’s when the words to respond knot in my throat—the only words that will make breaking a promise worth it. It’s because I love you, I want to say. But I can’t. We haven’t shared those feelings yet. I can’t stand the thought of saying them out loud and not having him reciprocate. So those three weighted words stay in my heart—ones that I have never said to anyone. Not even to my own father.
“You know I can’t follow rules.” I make a joke instead.
“Oh yes, I’m quite aware.”
He pulls me to stand, grabs my hand, and interlaces his fingers with mine. Electricity shoots through my arm, leaving a trail of
prickly goose bumps. I lean into him, dropping my head on his arm, happy to be close after so long.
“What shall I do with you now?” he questions. “You’ve caught me off guard. Usually I have time to coordinate the perfect evening.”
“I’m sure we can think of something. We’re in London.”
He’s thoughtful, probably feeling the pressure to make everything as perfect as he always does. For some reason, I’m the one person he desperately feels the need to please.
“Just show me your favorite things to do,” I suggest.
“Hmm, I think that might be terribly boring for you.”
“Why?”
“I sit home, reading, most nights and pine over you.”
I laugh. “Whatever.” I nudge his body playfully. “I know you go out with your camera. Take me to your favorite places to photograph.”
He leans down and whispers in my ear, “As you wish, my Seraphina.”
His whispers of my name are the exact reason I’ll never allow anyone else to call me by my full name—ever again. My entire body temperature warms, radiating from my ear. If I’m not careful, I’ll melt like warm chocolate, right here in his arms.
After twenty minutes of strolling, we find ourselves inside the most exquisite restaurant. Spicy colors in saffron and deep, warm reds cover the walls. Hundreds of glass-patterned lanterns in rich turquoise and sapphire hang from wide wood beams. There are several archways of creamy marble, inlaid with intricate tile work. The aroma pulls me into the space even before the hostess greets us. I spin, inhaling the rich spices, only to open my eyes and see Bishop with his hand on his chin, smirking.
“What?”
“If I would have known I could have gotten this reaction out of you, we would have come here much sooner.” He chuckles. “You’re incredibly cute.” He pulls me close and kisses my forehead, and then drops his hand to my lower back, guiding me forward.
The hostess seats us in a cozy, octagonal room on low chairs covered with feather-filled pillows. I reach out to stroke the silk curtains, billowing around. She rests menus on the table before bowing to leave.
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