by Wendy Nikel
“I’m sorry, old sport,” I say, for some reason channeling Jay Gatsby before realizing I’m decades ahead of that era still. “You ought to soak it before it stains.”
“I’m so sorry, doctor.” Juliette rises to her feet and shoots Viggo and me a scowl. “It seems we ought to be headed back.”
“Yes, yes.” Dr. Wells nods. “I understand.”
“Come on, Juliette.” Viggo brushes past me and heads to the door. She sighs and offers Dr. Wells another apology before following.
I try to follow, but as I pass his seat, Dr. Wells catches my arm. “Just a moment, young man. Tell me, now that they’re gone: When are you from?”
CHAPTER NINE
I struggle to find words to respond. “I don’t think I ought to…”
“Of course,” Dr. Wells says, looking around. “Not here. Can I meet you tomorrow? After the magic show?”
“Sure.” As soon as the word is out of my mouth, I regret it, but as Juliette and Viggo disappear through the door and out into the night, I can’t think of anything else to do but tip my head to Dr. Wells and rush out after them.
The hours leading up to our rendezvous are agonizing. My time-travel training with TUB was rudimentary, focused almost entirely on the practical aspects of how to survive and blend in within a future era. When Elise came to Retrieve me in 2112, all I cared about was staying there, protecting my own life, and making sure Dodge was cared for. I realize now, as I try to sort out what exactly I’m going to tell Dr. Wells, what a tough spot that must’ve put her in.
Surely there’s danger in telling him too much. One wrong word, and I could destroy my own timeline, making it so that Dr. Wells doesn’t start his travel agency, doesn’t hire Elise, doesn’t send her forward in time to Retrieve me. On the other hand, I sure could use an ally, particularly since Viggo seems all too willing to place Juliette in increasingly dangerous situations. One thing’s clear: I need to tread carefully.
I’m still ruminating over all this, watching the crowd gather for the final show of the day, when a pair of dirty-faced delivery boys rush up the road with an enormous crate on a dolly. I intercept them as they’re trying to haul it up a ramp to the platform backstage.
“Hey! You! What is this?”
“Delivery for the Amazing Velés,” one of the boys says, sticking out his hand for a tip. I drop a few coins into it, and the boys rush away. I circle the crate, but there are no markings on it, nothing to indicate what might be inside. Only one way to find out. I pick up a crowbar and begin to pry it open.
“Ah! My delivery’s arrived.” Viggo saunters up from offstage, already wearing his shining black suit and top hat. “Quickly, haul it over here, just behind the curtain.”
I’d nearly gotten one side of the crate open, but I set down the crowbar and—with a bit of direction from Viggo—haul it to the indicated spot.
“What is it?” I ask, crossing my arms, trying to look threatening, yet not too threatening. It’s a fine balance to strike.
“A surprise for Juliette.” Viggo grins widely, ignoring my posturing entirely. He ducks behind the stage’s curtain. “Juliette! Come here and see!”
Juliette, who from the looks of it was just mending a few broken feathers from her headdress, glances questioningly from Viggo to me. “What is it?”
“Our newest act,” Viggo says, throwing his arms out in a flourish of bravado, even though there’s only the three of us to see. He pulls the side of the crate open to reveal its contents.
“It’s a… what is it?” Juliette asks.
“It’s a water tank.” The magician circles the object, prying the rest of the crate away. “For our escape act.”
“Underwater?” Juliette asks, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, how exciting!”
Her eager expression makes my stomach drop. “Don’t you think that’s dangerous?”
“That’s the whole point.” She stands on her tiptoes to examine it.
“The old man’s lined us up some shows near Chicago later this summer,” Viggo tells her. “If we’re going to compete with the acts offered at the World’s Fair, we’ll need some more daring tricks.”
“I wish we could perform at the fair,” Juliette muses, running her fingers along the glass.
“Yes, well… if I were in charge, we would be.” Viggo tosses the crowbar aside. “That’s the problem with the old man; he wants to continue doing things the old way. Frightened to try anything new.” At this, he shoots me a disgusted glance, one that loosens my tongue.
“Dangerous isn’t always exciting. Sometimes it’s just dangerous,” I say, frowning at the tank. Each of the four sides is made of glass, held together by a metal framework. On the top, a wooden lid is held down by a series of locks.
“It’s precisely the same as the act we’ve been doing,” Viggo says, “but instead of being locked in a trunk, my lovely assistant will be locked in here.”
“And your father bought this… contraption for this act?” Juliette’s brow furrows.
“It was a gift,” Viggo says, “from an investor.”
“An investor?” I ask. My gut tells me something’s definitely not right here. “Does your show often attract investors?”
“Of course it does,” Viggo snaps. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Juliette twirls a feather between her fingers and stares up at the glass. “Does your father know?” she asks pointedly.
“Go finish getting dressed.” Viggo shakes the dust from his cloak.
“The lady asked you a question,” I say, unable to hold back my irritation any longer. I blink, and my fist is closed around his collar.
“Chandler,” Juliette scolds, stepping between us. “This is between Viggo and me. You’re not helping matters. Viggo, tell me honestly. Does your father know about this device?”
“Never mind my father.” Viggo spits and throws his cloak over his shoulder. “Or this gibface. They’re stuck in the past, both of them, and the day is coming when they won’t be able to follow us around, sticking their noses in the everyday workings of the business. It’s my job to make sure the show will continue when my father’s gone, and to do that, we need to embrace the future. No one wants to see safe little parlor tricks anymore. This is the age of electricity, of mechanical wonders. Just look at what a show Ferris is making of that giant wheel of his down in Chicago. Would people be so impressed if there weren’t an element of risk, of excitement and thrill? No, mark my words: this is an era of danger, and that is what will set the Amazing Velés apart.”
Viggo’s words echo in my skull as I watch the magician perform his act. The edge of the stage digs into my spine as I lean back, trying to get a better view of the crowd. Saginaw’s a larger city than the others we’ve been to thus far, and the crowd here is boisterous. Some have undoubtedly already been sampling the products of the city’s breweries, despite it only being early afternoon.
Just before the show began, I caught a glimpse of Dr. Wells, wandering on the edges of the crowd with a large, colorful lollipop in his hand. He caught my eye and tipped the candied sweet in greeting but didn’t approach.
Now, my mind’s torn between thoughts of Viggo, Juliette, and him. What was the old man doing in this era anyway?
Onstage, Juliette assists Viggo with a card trick—the latter barely managing to mask his disdain for the “safe little parlor trick.” Juliette, on the other hand, beams and flourishes each card with such enthusiasm that the audience doesn’t even seem to notice the bored edge in the Amazing Velés’s voice.
The next trick is supposed to be the trunk escape, but instead of dragging out the heavy trunk, Viggo stands before an empty stage, a sly smile upon his face. My hatred for him reaches a boiling point—212 degrees of pure loathing—because even before he speaks, I have a sneaking suspicion of what he’s up to. And if he tries, I swear I’ll jump right up on that stage and strangle him.
Juliette looks around him pointedly—her smile never breaking—but he doesn’
t acknowledge her. Coward.
“Our next trick is a test of daring… a dangerous escape from certain death. Only the bravest and most skilled would dare test themselves in such a way. Yet today, that is just what you will see here. I give to you… the underwater escape!”
The curtain whips open and the tank is revealed, filled with clear, crisp water.
I nearly leap to the stage right then, except that Juliette is already gliding over to Viggo and whispering something to him, her smiling lips barely moving. I take a breath. Let her try to work it out with him. He whispers something back in a tense growl, something that sounds like, “Of course I inspected it.”
She shakes her head definitively.
“Fine. Then I’ll do it.” He turns to the crowd and raises his voice. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen! I, the Amazing Velés, will escape from this underwater prison.”
I take a step back and cross my arms over my chest. Doing the trick without any practice in the tank is an idiotic idea all around, but I have no loyalty to Viggo, and as long as he doesn’t put Juliette in harm’s way, he can do whatever dunder-headed thing he wants. Besides, according to Juliette, Viggo was the one to teach her the escape tricks; he ought to be fine.
Unless… Unless there was more to this mysterious “investor” of his.
Juliette beams out at the crowd, but I’m close enough to see how her hands shake as she snaps the locks shut around Viggo’s handcuffs and see her lips move, obviously trying to talk him out of this sudden change of plans. A pang of something sharp and sour cuts through me as their hands touch, and I look away. Mr. Velés is nowhere to be seen, which I find rather suspicious. Surely he’d step in and tell his son this was a bad idea.
I glance around, trying to see if there’s anyone who appears out of place, or out of their proper time.
Bound in a set of chains, with handcuffs around each wrist, Viggo climbs a stepladder to the top of the tank, while going on and on about what a dangerous act this is and telling anyone who felt faint of heart to please excuse themselves from the audience. Then, he steps off the ladder and into the tank with barely a splash, and Juliette carefully snaps the cover into place.
I turn my back to the stage and face the crowd, more interested in watching their reactions than in the spectacle Viggo’s making. The crowd is collectively curious, tense, nervous, and amused, smiling and laughing as though watching the magician struggle against his bonds underwater is some sort of great joke. Over the floral bonnet of a plain-looking woman, a man catches my eye. His mouth is bent down in a frown, and—as I watch—he raises his arm to his face. His lips move, as if he’s speaking to someone, but no one nearby seems to acknowledge him.
Then I notice his watch.
He’s wearing a thick black wristwatch with a shining band. This, though, I know isn’t just any watch. It’s a recording device as well. I had one just like it once, given to me by none other than TUB.
“Out of the way!” I try to push my way through the crowd, fighting not to lose sight of the man, but a commotion onstage draws my attention away.
“Someone help!” a voice calls from the crowd. “He’s drowning!”
I glance over my shoulder to where Juliette stands atop the ladder, frantically trying to pry open the lid. Beneath her, Viggo floats, his arms still bound in their restraints and an expression of pure panic on his submerged face.
CHAPTER TEN
The Amazing Velés is dead.
I sit on a wooden crate outside the wagon. Juliette’s weeping rips through the thin canvas covering, puncturing my heart over and over. This is wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Dr. Wells told me that Juliette spent the summer traveling with the Amazing Velés, but now the magician is dead. What’s she going to do now? What am I going to do?
I whirl around at the sound of footsteps approaching the canvas flap. Instead of Juliette, though, it’s Mr. Velés, looking pale and worn and ten years older than this morning. He sits down heavily on a crate beside me and takes in a long drag from his pipe.
“I’m sorry.” The words cascade from my mouth. “This is my fault. I should have—”
The old man holds up a hand to stop me. “No. There’s no one to blame but Viggo himself. He acted recklessly, performing that trick on stage without properly checking all of his equipment.”
“What do you mean?” My body tenses.
“The lock stuck. The key went in but the tumbler wouldn’t turn. That’s why he couldn’t get out.” His voice cracks.
I feel ill. It was supposed to have been Juliette in there struggling to free herself from that tank. I bury my head in my hands. Knowing everything I’d known about TUB and their plans, I shouldn’t have let Viggo do the trick. I should have stopped him.
But I’d failed. TUB may not have gotten exactly what they wanted, but they’d still managed to mess everything up. What good had I done here, anyway? What had Dr. Wells expected me to do?
“Do you know where the tank came from?” I ask quietly.
Mr. Velés rises to his feet. “No, but if I ever find out where he got a box with such shoddy craftsmanship… with a faulty lock…” He looks away, letting the rest of the sentence hang in midair.
When I wake with the glare of an LED light shining in my eyes, I think I’m back in the future somehow, except for some reason my sensory deprivation bed has malfunctioned, so instead of emerging peacefully from sleep to a gradual increase in lighting, my bed is shaking and someone’s hissing, “Get up, son!”
My eyes shoot open.
I’m not in my bed. Not even close. I’m lying in a bedroll on the ground outside Juliette’s wagon with Dr. Wells crouching over me, an anachronistic flashlight in hand. Suddenly, it all comes back to me—I parked myself here partially because I didn’t want to sleep in the same wagon as Viggo’s dead body, but mostly because it was the only thing I could think of to do to protect Juliette from the TUB agent, wherever he’s lurking.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Dr. Wells says.
I roll out of my blankets, shivering against the biting wind that whips through the fairgrounds like a restless ghost. Maybe it’s Viggo, come back to haunt me. He ought to be haunting the underhanded TUB agent who provided him with the murder-in-a-box.
Once we’re out of earshot of the wagons, Dr. Wells speaks up. “Did you have anything to do with that tragedy up there on the stage today?”
Coming from anyone else, I’d have denied it immediately, but Dr. Wells is here from the future, too. There’s no use lying to a man with a time machine.
“Indirectly,” I say, wondering how to explain the twisted history of how I came to be here, in this late 19th century Midwestern town, trying to protect the great-great-grandmother of a woman I’d once spent two days with in the year 2112. How it’s my fault that TUB is trying to snuff Elise out of existence in the first place.
Dr. Wells nods. The darkness hides his expression. “Am I correct in thinking that I know you at some point in my future?”
“Yes.”
“And… did I send you here?”
“Afraid so.”
Dr. Wells falls silent, and I can tell that he, too, is trying to puzzle out how much foreknowledge he ought to have about his own future, how much information is safe for me to reveal.
“Do you mind if I ask what you’re doing here?” I ask.
“I’m looking for a way back.”
“A way back?”
“Yes, to the future. I’m on a search for the inventor of time travel.”
“You mean… you didn’t invent it?”
“No, no. I’ve been standing on the shoulders of one far greater than me,” Dr. Wells says, his voice distant and almost sad. “Using his work to shape and direct my own.”
“Well, who invented it then?”
He laughs. “I don’t know.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Dr. Wells leans against a fence railing. He looks up and sighs. “The stars really are beautiful here,
aren’t they? I never see them in the city.”
I wait, silent, for the old man to gather his thoughts.
Finally, he continues. “When I was younger, I was fascinated with the concept of time travel. Obsessed, one might say. As I grew, I studied physics and mathematics, all with the goal in mind of someday making my own time traveling device.”
I lean against the fence and stare up at the stars. One thing the old man is right about: they are beautiful here.
“I studied everything I could get my hands on—books, journals, anything that might point me in the direction of solving that mystery,” Dr. Wells continues. “Though I didn’t have any luck until one day a friend at a used book store called me up and asked if I was interested in a very old journal that seemed to be all about the particulars of time travel. Of course, I told him yes and picked it up the very next day. It was a small book, leather cover, with no indication of authorship.”
My heart skips. What are the chances that it’s the same book Juliette found? There must be some connecting thread, a line between points A and B that would lead the scientist here.
“And that’s when I found it,” Dr. Wells says. “Calculations, diagrams, figures… everything I’d need to make my dreams a reality, all on those pages. There were essentially two elements: a box that would serve as the initial boost to propel the traveler through time, and a small, handheld device that would tether him to his original era and, when he was done with his travels, pull him back to it. The problem, however, was that the final page of the journal, where the precise figures for the second device should have been written, had been torn out.”
“So, you came back here to read the journal before it was damaged?”
“Precisely.”
“But if you don’t find it, you’re stuck here.”
“Yes, well.” Dr. Wells shrugs. “After spending a decade trying to solve the riddle on my own, I figured, well, I have a time machine. Why not use it?”
I’m so taken aback, I can only stare. The Dr. Wells I met briefly in the year 2012 had been known for his rules and for sticking to them religiously. He’d never have been so reckless as this. What could have happened—what would happen in this man’s future—to change that?
