I stand motionless at its entrance, nostalgia mixing with disgust as I gaze up at the estate. This is the place where I was betrayed, duped by the falsest of friends. It makes my skin crawl to see that there is something left of Rebecca Windsor in this new century, and as the wind ripples through the trees, I think I hear the sound of her haughty laughter.
But then Rupert’s kind face fills my mind, and I feel a pang of loneliness for my friend, for all of the men and women who worked at the Windsor Mansion. They were my family. As much as the sight of the house brings back my loathing for Rebecca, it’s also oddly comforting to look upon the place I once considered home. It makes me feel like less of a stranger in this new city, as though 1888 is calling out to me, saying, “I’m still here.”
Suddenly, my eyes lock on a figure stepping out onto Rebecca’s bedroom balcony. I hold my breath, half-expecting to see my enemy. But the girl who leans over the railing, beaming as she holds a cordless telephone up to her ear, is Rebecca’s complete opposite. Her auburn hair shines in the sun, and her infectious smile tugs at my insides.
She is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And that’s when I remember my vision of the future in the Windsor Mansion secret passageway. This must be the girl I was waiting for, the girl who brought me the happiness and excitement I’d never before felt.
My conscience struggles to remind me that it’s useless, that I’ve signed contracts with the Society and promised to abide by the rules, to never stay long enough in the past or future to achieve Visibility. But it’s too late. I can’t turn away from what I know to be true—that I am meant to stay in this time and be with the girl on the balcony.
After all, I’ve already seen it.
February 13, 1991
“Excuse me? Which way is Columbus Circle?”
I continue reading my Stephen King novel while sitting on a Central Park bench, ignoring the voice in my ear. I know the lady can’t possibly be speaking to me.
“Excuse me?” the voice persists.
I look up slowly. Sure enough, the lady—a flustered tourist juggling a baby and two shopping bags—is staring straight at me. For a moment I can’t speak.
It’s finally happened. Just as the Handbook of the Time Society warned, I’ve entered Visibility after seven days in another time! Now my full form and presence have joined me in 1991, leaving 1888 behind. I know I will never be allowed into the Time Society again.
“Ah …” I clear my throat. After a week of being silent, it’s a shock to hear my own voice. “You’ll want to leave the park through Artist’s Gate, there on the right. Stay on Central Park South until you reach Eighth Avenue, and there you’ll see Columbus Circle.” As she thanks me and hurries off, I marvel at the incredible fact that I’ve just given directions to a place that doesn’t even exist in my own time!
I’ve spent the past week immersed in the 1990s, my invisibility allowing me to experience the modern world uninhibited.
I slipped into Broadway theaters and movie Cineplexes, watching in openmouthed awe as a helicopter landed on the stage right in front of me during the live musical Miss Saigon, and hardly breathing while experiencing my first motion picture, Edward Scissorhands. I rode the subway, holding on to the railing for dear life as the car sped through darkness, and visited the two museums that survived all the way from my time: the American Museum of Natural History and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The sight of these stalwart institutions filled me with joy, and I spent two long days examining their collections, learning all that I could about life in the future.
On my first evening in 1991, I came up with a rather ingenious idea of where to stay the night. I wandered into the hotel next to Windsor Mansion, the Plaza, and by listening in on the conversation at the reception desk, learned which rooms were vacant. My evenings at the hotel were like something out of a dream. The room that I invisibly occupied had an icebox filled to the brim with chocolates, snacks, and beverages, a real stand-up shower and no shortage of hot water, the most plush bed I’ve ever slept in, and television—which I’m beginning to find quite entertaining.
But now, my invisibility has run out and it’s time to find more conventional means of lodging. Since my arrival, I’ve quickly discovered that hotel rooms in Manhattan are far beyond my budget. Though I borrowed 1990s dollars from the Aura currency exchange, the entire amount would be lost in just one week if I stayed at a hotel in the city.
It’s time to take my 1990s experience to the next level: by finding a roommate.
February 14, 1991
I arrive early for my very first photography class at the Museum of Modern Art, passing unusual and eye-catching exhibition halls before reaching the Study Center. The vast space is decorated with an assortment of framed black-and-white and color photographs lining the walls, while a dozen empty desks fill the room. I glance up at the colorful day calendar adorning the teacher’s desk, opened to the date February 14, and realize with a jolt of surprise that today is Valentine’s Day.
The holiday completely slipped my mind. I’d never been able to get away from it in my old Time, from the annual homemade card exchange in the servants’ quarters of the Windsor house, to the Valentine’s dances at boarding school and Cornell. I always thought it a rather silly holiday, but it gladdens me to know that it is still celebrated an entire century later. These days, I find myself savoring any link between my time and the new.
I find a seat at one of the desks, pulling my brand-new Kodak camera out of my backpack. As I adjust the lens I watch a group of students of various ages filter into the room, chatting and exchanging Valentine’s Day greetings before settling into their seats. I feel curious eyes on me, and I smile at the group self-consciously before fixing my eyes back on the gadget in my hands.
Someone new walks in and I freeze, my face still pressed against the camera. I stare at her through the lens, feeling my breath escape me.
Auburn hair flows over her shoulders in waves, framing porcelain skin, while the sparkle in her hazel eyes makes me long to know what she is thinking. Her infectious smile gives me the same tug in my chest that I felt when looking upon the girl on the balcony of Windsor Mansion, on my first day in 1991.
It is the same girl.
I lower my camera, unable to take my eyes off of her. She walks by my chair, giving me a curious grin, and my cheeks grow warm as her radiance is directed at me.
“Hi. I’m Marion Windsor.”
Marion Windsor. She belongs to that family and yet she seems so different from them, so warm and enchanting.
I quickly take off my cap, standing to greet her. “I’m Henry Irving.”
Her smile widens and she looks at me as if she knows something I don’t. It takes all of my self-control not to reach over to touch the dimple in her cheek, to take her porcelain hand in mine. It’s then that I realize—she is the reason I was meant to time travel. And now that I’ve found her, I can’t imagine ever going back.
May 31, 1993
“Don’t go changing to try and please me …,” I croon to Marion with a grin, twirling her around on the sidewalk after the Billy Joel concert. She giggles, tucking her head into my shoulder.
“That show was beyond amazing,” she says dreamily. “ ‘And So It Goes’ is definitely one of my new favorite songs.”
We take turns goofily serenading each other with selections from Billy Joel’s set list as we make the long walk from Madison Square Garden back to Windsor Mansion. The warm late-spring night feels full of promise, and I find myself glancing down at Marion’s hand every so often, smiling at the plastic ring on her finger. We picked it out together after I proposed, cracking up as we chose among the fake diamonds for sale on Canal Street. It was Marion’s idea—I wanted to give her the best ring I could afford, but she insisted on saving the money for our life together. The plastic bauble on her finger is a constant reminder of the happiest day of my life, of our secret engagement, and of the future with her that I can’t wait to begin.
As we turn onto Fifth Avenue, I hear an unmistakable voice behind me.
“Funny seeing you here.”
The sound turns my blood cold. My body stiffens, seizing with panic. It’s a voice I haven’t heard since my former life in 1888, belonging to someone who should be long dead by now.
It can’t be her, I tell myself as I slowly turn around.
A strangled cry escapes me as I stare into the chilling, dark pools of her eyes. It’s her—Rebecca Windsor, her face ghastlier than I remembered, her tall figure menacing as it moves toward us. How could she be in the future, looking as young as the day I last saw her?
She’s a ghost, I realize with horror.
“Henry? Henry!” I snap back to attention at the sound of Marion calling my name and tugging my sleeve, her face furrowed with worry. “What’s wrong?”
“I—I thought someone was trying to mug us,” I improvise lamely, forcing a chuckle.
Marion rolls her eyes at me fondly. I wrap my arm around her protectively, glancing back one more time and shuddering at the sight of Rebecca’s ghost trailing us and smirking at my fear. I keep my eyes focused straight ahead, struggling to stay present in my conversation with Marion as my mind whirs. Why is she here? What does she want? How can I keep Marion safe now that Rebecca’s seen her?
At last we reach Windsor Mansion, Rebecca’s ominous presence still darkening the sidewalk behind us. For the first time, as I say good night to Marion I’m glad of her parents’ strict rule forbidding me from being with her past eleven p.m. I need to see her safely inside, away from Rebecca’s ghost.
Once the front doors close behind Marion, I turn to face Rebecca, my muscles trembling with fury and fear.
“What are you doing here?” I growl at her.
“That’s no way to greet the fiancée you haven’t seen in a century.” Rebecca’s eyes flash with anger as she looks up at Windsor Mansion. “I see you’ve missed me—that can be your only explanation for going after my descendant. A pathetic replacement for the original.”
“Go haunt someone else, Rebecca,” I shoot back. “I’ve wanted nothing to do with you since the day we last saw each other.”
“Haunt someone else?” Rebecca echoes, a grotesque smile spreading across her face. “Why, I’m no ghost, Irving. I’m like you. A time traveler.” She turns her head to the side, and I watch in horror as a brief flash of a gold key swings from beneath her blouse.
“What did you do?” I demand, panic coursing through me. “Whose key did you steal?”
Rebecca laughs lightly. “All that matters is what you are going to do now, old friend. You see, I won’t accept my future family being marred by the likes of you.” Her eyes narrow into slits and she takes a step closer. “If you want your little girlfriend to see her next birthday, then you’ll leave, Irving. You’ll go back to where you came from—and never return, never see her again.”
My throat is painfully dry as I stare at her.
“Fine. I’ll leave. But you have to give me a little time.”
“The longer you take, the bigger the risk.” Rebecca flashes her teeth in an ominous smile. “I’ll see you back in ’eighty-eight. Alone.”
I watch in despair as her image flickers and vanishes into the night. I can’t leave Marion, I could never hurt her like that. I don’t think I’d ever survive it myself. But I can’t stay here either, not with Rebecca at large and Marion approaching her line of fire.
I only hope Los Angeles is far enough away that I can outsmart Rebecca and keep Marion safe.
A Timekeeper can exist beyond her death only if her younger self travels forward in time, past the end of her life. Even then, death has still occurred. The deceased Timekeeper can no longer live in the Natural Timeline.
—THE HANDBOOK OF THE TIME SOCIETY
14
Present Day
Philip strode into the Osborne after school, smiling as he remembered the way Michele had looked at him that day during lunch, how right it had felt to be so close to her. It was hard to believe he’d initially been able to keep her at bay—he was already counting the hours until he’d get to see her again in the morning.
Philip had never imagined himself to be one of those New Age-y guys who believed in the paranormal … but he couldn’t seem to deny what was happening. He found himself remembering bits and pieces of his history with Michele the more time he spent with her, and with every new fragment of memory, his feelings strengthened.
Clambering up the stairs to the second-floor apartment, Philip’s mind was already ahead of him at the piano. He could feel a composition coming on, and his fingers buzzed in anticipation. Tossing his backpack on the floor, Philip dashed to the piano. But just before his hands hit the keys, he heard a sound—a scratching, clawing noise coming from the adjacent living room. Philip moved toward it, grimacing as he wondered if he was about to be met by an infestation of rats. But what he saw instead caused him to stop dead in his tracks.
The wall was moving and shuddering, letters carving into its surface by an unseen hand. The letters B and R jutted out of the wall, and Philip watched, transfixed, as an invisible phantom carved the words BROOKLYN BRIDGE 11 P.M.—in his own handwriting.
Michele returned home, lost in thought about all she’d learned at the Time Society. She felt older somehow, as if the day’s discoveries had aged her. The idea that half of her belonged in this present day and the other half in 1904 was chilling and made her feel like some kind of freak experiment. How was she going to explain this one to Philip? At a certain point, wasn’t he going to want a normal relationship—with someone who had just one Timeline and didn’t bring a bunch of supernatural elements to the table?
“You’re home!” she heard Dorothy call out with relief from the open door of the drawing room.
“Hi,” Michele responded, joining her grandparents.
“Any luck with Elizabeth?” Walter asked. She could tell he was still skeptical.
“Yeah, actually. We discovered that I have a special time-travel power … one that could be really helpful,” Michele shared. “And I think it’s time I take one last journey before Rebecca reaches her full power tomorrow.”
“Where’s that?” Walter asked worriedly.
“I have to see my dad.”
Before climbing into the passageway to make the switch to her alternate Time, Michele’s cell phone beeped with a text. A smile lit up her face as she saw Philip’s name on the screen. She clicked to open the message.
She’s going to be at the Brooklyn Bridge tomorrow at 11 p.m., it read. We need to meet her there. That’s when we’re supposed to finish this.
Michele’s eyes widened as she read the words.
How do you know? she typed back.
Philip—the old me—sent me a message. If you can believe that.
Michele’s breath caught in her throat. I believe it.
Slipping her phone into her pocket, her hands shaking with anticipation, she pushed the glass-enclosed bookcase until it swung to the side. As she jumped into the passageway, she whispered like an incantation, “Take me to my father—to my other Timeline.”
“East side, west side, all around the town
The tots sang ‘ring-around-rosie,’ ‘London Bridge is falling down.…’ ”
Michele’s head snapped up at the sound of a child’s singing coming from the library. For a moment she faltered, wondering if she’d once again inadvertently returned to her father and Rebecca’s childhood. But then she peeked through a crack in the bookcase and saw four-year-old Frances “Frankie” Windsor singing to her doll, while an eleven-year-old Violet Windsor and a sour-faced tutor hunkered over a French book.
“Quiet, Frances!” Michele heard the tutor admonish, then return to Violet. “Répétez, s’il vous plaît: Je m’appelle Violet.”
Michele hurried to the end of the tunnel, hoisting herself above the ground and onto the grass. She made her way through the back lawn toward the front of the house, breathing in the fresh
turn-of-the-century air. Please let my dad be here, she silently prayed as she slipped through the front doors and into the Grand Hall. Please.
A young maid descended the staircase holding a tray filled with discarded plates and silverware, while a footman pushed a tea cart toward the drawing room. Invisible to them both, Michele followed the footman, brimming with hopeful anticipation. But the drawing room was occupied by only the lady of the house, Henrietta Windsor, and a female guest. Michele crept out of the room, suddenly thinking of the servants’ quarters. He might be visiting Rupert!
Michele realized with consternation that she had never been to the servants’ area and had no clue how to get there. She tore through the first floor, her heart hammering in her chest as she searched for stairs leading below. In the dining room, she finally found what she was looking for: a gilded door at the back of the room that blended in with the rest of the walls but swung open to reveal a butler’s pantry. It was the size of a modest kitchen and was filled with floor-to-ceiling glass cabinets that held all the Windsor china and dinnerware. A second swinging door in the butler’s pantry led to the belowstairs section of the house.
He has to be there, Michele thought eagerly, taking the steps two at a time. She wound up in a large, dim room with a long table and chairs in the center. It looked like a staff dining or recreation room—but it was empty. She heard a cacophony of voices coming from the next room, and she quickly rounded the corner, finding herself in a vast kitchen, where a matronly cook was barking orders at a team of kitchen and scullery maids. Still Irving Henry was nowhere in sight.
Suddenly, the cook and maids stood to attention, looking through Michele at someone just behind her. She whirled around to see who it was, and her heart sank. The man behind her was clearly the butler—his black-tie uniform and the staff’s deferential demeanor toward him made that evident—but he wasn’t old enough to be Rupert, the butler Irving had known.