by Wendy Nikel
As we gather for dinner the evening of that first day, I’m distracted by thoughts of how nice it’d be to collapse into my bunk and sleep solidly until the morning.
Juliette, however, is a bit of a night owl.
The four of us dine together on some sort of vegetable stew that’s somehow both too hot and too cold at the same time, with barely a word exchanged between us. Afterward, Juliette sneaks out of sight and into the darkness. Before I can follow, Viggo throws an arm around my shoulder and holds out his bowl.
“Where do you think you’re off to? Don’t you know the rules? The newcomer’s in charge of washing up.”
I look to Mr. Velés for confirmation, but he’s already leaning back with his feet propped up on a wooden crate. His hands are crossed over his chest and his eyes are closed.
The next day, I get a jump on him. As soon as the bowls are empty, I swoop in with an elegant bow, gather them up while everyone else is still seated, and rush them to the washbasin which I’ve already filled with boiled water prior to sitting down to eat.
“Nice to see someone take initiative around here,” Mr. Velés says as he lights his pipe. Over the wisps of smoke, Viggo glares at me.
Me, I’m still scrubbing as fast as I can so that, by the time Juliette stands, clears her throat, and excuses herself, all I have to do is wipe my hands on my towel, leave the heavy iron pot soaking, and sneak away after her.
Out past the supply wagons, I lose sight of her. If we were in the 22nd century, I’d head for the nearest data port, hack into the GPS of her personal vision device, and track her that way, but things are more complicated here. Without data ports or personal vision devices, I’m left to stand there, looking lost like an idiot.
“Are you following me?” She steps out from behind a shed.
“Yes?” I try to smile, but I know how this looks. I look obsessed. “Just wondering if you’d like company.”
I don’t know what I’ll do if she says no. I care about her safety because it’s my job. It’s what I’ve come here for. But I’ve found that I also care what she thinks of me, and I don’t want her to think I’m a stalker.
She stares at me, her hands on her hips, obviously trying to decide whether she can trust me. Whether I’m a stalker.
“I’m not a stalker.”
“Stalker?” She raises her brows at what must be an anachronistic slip-up.
“Harasser. Prowler. Creep.” I shake my head; that sounds too modern, too. “Look, I’m your bodyguard, right? So it’s my job to make sure you’re safe—onstage and off.”
She slowly nods. “All right.”
And that’s how our evening outings begin.
As the weeks pass, our walks along the shores of Saginaw Bay quickly become my favorite time of day. Each evening after dinner, Juliette bundles up against the lake’s chill and together we walk the beach as she recounts her idyllic childhood in rural Ohio, her decision to join up with her childhood friend and his father on their tour of the country, and the latest adventures of her day—and there are always adventures.
“Today during rehearsals, I accidentally set Viggo’s silk scarf on fire,” she says with a laugh that bursts from her like sunshine. She readjusts her own scarf over her head as a gust of wind threatens to yank it free. “You should’ve seen his face. He couldn’t decide whether to be frightened or angry.”
“I suspect he feels that way rather often,” I mutter.
“He’s really not that bad once you get to know him,” she insists.
“Right,” I say, then fall silent, hoping she’ll fill in the gaps, give me some clue about the extent of their relationship. His interest is obvious, at least to me, but Juliette’s feelings toward him are harder to read. Not that it’s any of my business, I suppose. It’s not like I have a shot with her; we’re from different eras, and eventually, I’m going to have to return to mine and leave her here. I kick a stone toward the lake.
“He just takes this show so seriously,” she says. “He’s always had lofty ambitions, and he works so hard toward them that you can’t help but to admire his gumption.”
I can, though I didn’t say so.
“At any rate,” she continues, “he sent me to the storage wagon to fetch him a new scarf, and I found this.”
She holds out a book and I take it in my hands, squinting to see its contents in the moonlight. It’s handwritten, and at first, I assume it’s a journal, but as I page through, I see that it is, in fact, an instruction booklet of some sort, with all sorts of equations and diagrams and sketches that seem too technologically advanced for this era.
“I picked it up thinking that it was a record of magic tricks. Mr. Velés’s, perhaps. Or his father’s before him; I heard he was a magician as well.” Juliette leans in toward the journal, and I catch a whiff of her lavender scent. “I was hoping to find some new trick to use for the finale—”
“Instead of the bullet catch?” I ask in surprise.
I haven’t told her, but in the process of deconstructing the stage between towns, I’d discovered a bullet hole through the center of the bull’s eye target where she’d been standing for the trick. Viggo had scoffed and accused me of planting the “evidence” myself, and even Mr. Velés couldn’t say for sure that the hole hadn’t been there for weeks, months, or years.
“We can’t discontinue the trick without something just as impressive to replace it,” Mr. Velés had told me, firmly putting an end to the conversation.
Since then, I’ve personally inspected the ivory-handled pistol the Amazing Velés uses for the finale before each show, ensuring that the chambers are clean and that only blanks are stored with it. The “Amazing” Velés probably won’t be pleased if he finds out I’ve been poking around his props, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is just the sort of opportunity TUB would take advantage of.
Juliette shrugs and stares out at the waves. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. The trick does seem rather dangerous, particularly if someone was trying to cause trouble.”
“You think someone might be trying to cause trouble?”
“Oh, don’t make a fuss.” She laughs and waves me off, but I can tell by the set of her shoulders that she’s not entirely at ease. “Since you mentioned it the other day, I’ve been paying close attention. Yesterday, I discovered someone—a stranger—backstage before our first show, looking at the trick box that Viggo uses to cut me in half.”
Someone backstage? TUB? Or just an admirer hoping for a closer look?
“What did they look like?” I ask. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“He ran off before I could get a good look. I didn’t even think about it until later, during the show. There’s a little mechanism that pushes the false feet through the bottom of the box that I have to kick out before pulling myself up into the upper two portions of the box. But the mechanism stuck. I couldn’t get the false feet to pop out. I barely got out of the way before Viggo cut through with that first saw.” She hesitates, sneaking glances at me and obviously trying to gauge my reaction.
Being sawed in half would be an awful way to go, and the thought of someone doing that to Juliette makes me want to punch something. Or someone.
“I think you’re right,” she says. “I think someone is trying to ruin the Amazing Velés’ show.”
“Ruin his show?” I turn to face her. “Don’t you see? Someone’s trying to harm you.”
Juliette waves the notion away. “Who would try to harm me? I don’t know anyone here. I don’t know anyone at all who’d have any reason to hold a grudge. Whereas Viggo… Well, he’s not the most personable man. No, he’s gotten on someone’s bad side, and now they’re trying to destroy his reputation. I just know it. Another magician, perhaps. In fact, no, I’m certain of it. It’s the only logical explanation.”
My molars grind against one another. I’ve been too lax, too afraid of being found out or staying in Juliette’s good graces when what I really ought to have been worried
about was her physical well-being. I’ve forgotten my real purpose here. After all, if Juliette dies now, there’s no Elise, and without Elise, my past is messed up in the most paradoxical manner possible.
But what can I do? Juliette won’t quit the show; that much is clear. Ever since her parents passed away, she’s been determined to learn the business so that she can someday fly on the trapeze. Besides, what would that do to history? Dr. Wells didn’t tell me a thing about Juliette’s life after this summer except the implication that she’ll go on to become Elise’s great-great-grandmother somehow. What if she needs to follow the Amazing Velés’s show to meet Elise’s great-great-grandfather, whoever the lucky guy will be?
A horrible thought crosses my mind. It better not be Viggo. The two may have been childhood friends, but I can’t bear the thought of Juliette marrying that creep. Why hadn’t I thought to look at the surnames on those genealogy pages Dr. Wells had waved around? I guess it hadn’t seemed important at the time, back when Juliette was just someone who’d lived long ago. Before I knew her.
“But look.” Juliette reaches over to the book, which I’d forgotten I was still holding. She flips quickly through it until finally, she lands on a page near the back. “Here. I’ve read a bit, and I don’t think the journal is about magic at all. It’s about traveling through time! Can you even imagine? Time travel! It’s not real, of course… It can’t be, but what if it were? Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
I lean in closer, certain that what I’m was seeing in the dim moonlight must be my imagination. There, sketched out in bold lines, with a cutout on one page and all the important inner parts labeled, is a spitting image of the Wormhole Device that’s tucked away in my pocket.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It’s only a short wagon ride to the show’s next stop. Even in these few weeks, I’ve grown to resent the days of setting up and taking down the stage with its hidden panels and trap doors, not because of the work itself—which, admittedly, has rubbed my palms raw—but because it involves spending time away from Juliette. If that wasn’t bad enough, I also have to be in the company of Viggo, whose father insists he help with the manual labor.
“You boys are getting faster at this,” Juliette says, balancing a lunch tray on her hip. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
“Those rye sandwiches and lemonade are plenty help,” I say with a smile. It’d been a long time since I had anything but Punch-In back home; I’d nearly forgotten how good made-from-scratch food could be. “Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you.” Viggo grabs a sandwich and winks at Juliette. “I always enjoy something sweet with my lunch.”
Juliette rolls her eyes, but not before a smile reaches her lips. “The lemonade was a gift from the farmer three stalls down; I’ll be sure to tell him how much you appreciate it.” She turns to me. “I’m afraid I’ve bent my last mending needle. Would you mind walking into town with me this afternoon to purchase a new one?”
“Of course,” Viggo interrupts, his mouth still full. He sets aside his sandwich and takes her arm. “Why don’t we go now?”
“I…” Juliette looks up in what appears to be genuine confusion.
“I believe the lady was speaking to me,” I say.
“Nonsense. You have far too much to do here in setting up this stage.”
“Juliette?” I ask. As much as I don’t want her to spend the afternoon with Viggo—how am I supposed to keep her safe then?—I won’t force my company on her.
“I assumed you’d want to spend the afternoon practicing the show,” she tells him.
“Nah.” He straightens his hat. “I can take one afternoon off to walk you into town.”
She looks at me apologetically and shrugs. “It looks like Viggo will walk me to town.”
I bite my tongue and try to smile. “Don’t stay out too late, you two.”
“We’ll be back in time for dinner,” she promises, and I know she heard my underlying request: I’d still like to have our evening walk.
As the two start down the dirt road, Juliette’s laughter—high and light—takes a long time to fade into the distance, and even then, I keep looking up from time to time, thinking I’ve heard her return.
Without Viggo’s help, construction takes longer than usual, and with each passing hour, I’m more and more convinced that I was an idiot to let them up and leave like that. It’s like sending a jackal to protect a sheep from the wolves. Though, no, that analogy doesn’t work because Juliette’s no sheep. Still, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just shirk my duties.
By the time I finish constructing the stage, I’m hot and sore and tired and irritable. It’s nearly time for dinner, and I ought to wash up, but I haven’t seen Viggo or Juliette return. When the sun dips low on the flat horizon, I pace outside the wagons, my gaze constantly flicking back to the fence opening that serves as the fairgrounds’ entrance. They’ve got to be returning any moment. Darkness falls with no sign of them, and finally, I can’t hold still any longer. I pat my pocket to ensure that the Wormhole Device is still safely tucked away and set off in the darkness toward town.
I wish I had my personal vision device with its night vision settings. At this point, I’d even settle for a good old-fashioned flashlight. The road’s uneven and I shuffle along slowly to ensure I don’t trip over a rock or a log or a sleeping grizzly. Do they have grizzlies here? I don’t even know. Now’s probably not the best time to start thinking along those lines.
In the distance, coyotes howl and other nighttime creatures wake from their warm daytime slumber. Crickets, owls… I can’t remember the last time I heard the night so full of life. And the stars! They remind me of the flight of the Continuum’s escape pod, with the galaxy whizzing past, looking almost near enough to touch.
I don’t pass any grizzlies or anything else on the road, and when I arrive on the downtown streets, bright lantern light points to the few establishments open this late. I choose the first one—a tavern of some sort—and duck inside.
The establishment is small and noisy, filled with chatter and upbeat music played on a pipe organ. I scan the crowd, craning my neck to spot Juliette’s coiffed hairdo or Viggo’s slick black top hat.
I find them sitting in a corner booth with a man whose back is to me. Juliette leans in, her face bright with excitement, while Viggo fiddles with the empty glass before him, running his finger along the rim and looking utterly bored.
“Chandler!” Juliette waves, gesturing me to join them at the table. “You absolutely must meet this man. He’s a scientist, and we’ve been discussing time travel, and he has the most fascinating ideas! Dr. Wells, this is Chandler. Chandler, I’d like you to meet Dr. Wells.”
I can’t stop staring. I mindlessly swig one glass of whiskey, then another. I’m so engrossed in studying the man across the table that I barely even taste the sharp liquor.
Dr. Wells is younger than I’ve ever seen him—with salt-and-pepper hair and fewer pounds on him—and shows no indication of recognizing me at all. That shouldn’t come as a surprise. After all, this Dr. Wells obviously predates the one I met in 2012 when I worked for TUB. But by how much? How much younger is this doctor? He must’ve discovered time travel already for him to be here, but has he established his time travel agency yet? Has he hired Elise? And more importantly, does he know that it’s Elise’s great-great-grandmother who’s currently sitting across from him, asking question after question about the time-space continuum and paradoxes and scientific theories which at this point in history have no name?
“What about you, Chandler?” Juliette asks, pulling me out of my musings. “Would you rather travel to the past or to the future?”
“Hypothetically, of course,” Dr. Wells adds.
“Right. Hypothetically.” I eye Dr. Wells, searching for some flicker of acknowledgment, some hint that he knows—somehow—who I am, but the older man is inscrutable. “Hypothetically, I think I’d like to travel to the future.”
“Really? Why?” Jul
iette asks.
I run my finger along the grain of the table. How can I possibly explain to her what a beautiful place the future is, without giving away what I know about it? “It’s… still full of possibilities.”
“So is the present,” Juliette insists, gesturing around to the dim tavern, to all the people around us. “Everyone sitting here is full of potential.”
“I suppose,” I say, then try again. “In the future, anything could happen. Anything could be invented, discovered, explored. And the technology! We can’t even imagine today what things might be possible a hundred or two hundred years from now. Space travel. Communications. Computers.”
“Computers?” Dr. Wells looks up from his ale, startled.
Juliette glances from me to him, and I can almost see the questions forming in her mind. I bite back a curse at the booze that’s loosened my tongue and muddled my brain. Dr. Wells ought to add another Rule to his list: “Don’t drink and time travel.”
I smile at my own joke, and it’s only when Juliette asks me to repeat myself that I realize I’ve spoken aloud.
“Where are you from again?” Dr. Wells asks, his brow furrowing.
“Chicago,” I say, which is mostly true. It’s where I grew up, though I haven’t set foot there in a decade, outside the occasional layover.
“Fascinating…” Dr. Wells says. “I’m from New York myself. Tell me… how old were you at the time of the fire?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. This is 1893, but what year was the fire? Sometime in the 1870s? Recalling historical dates has never been one of my strengths, even when I haven’t been drinking. What am I supposed to do now?
Thinking fast, I spin to face Juliette, allowing my elbow to knock against my half-empty glass. Viggo lets out a shout of dismay and leaps up as the whiskey cascades into his lap.
“You clumsy fool!” Viggo, who’d been dulled to a silent stupor during our conversation, dabs at his shirt with a napkin.
