Timeless

  Michele hit the floor with a thud. The scream she heard when she landed was not her own.

  Standing right in front of Michele was a waif of a girl with pale skin, red hair tied back in a braid, and green eyes. She looked just like the painting of Clara Windsor hanging in Michele’s room, but unlike the aristocrat in a sumptuous ball gown, this pale-faced girl wore a ratty, ill-fitting black dress and looked entirely out of place in the elegant bedroom. Michele scrambled to her feet in terror, but she fell to the carpeted floor again, dizzy and weak.

  Clara stared down at Michele, her eyes wild.

  “What—who—who are you?” she gasped. “Wherever did you come from?!”

  “I—what are you—” Michele could barely speak as she gaped at Clara. She looked frantically around the room. Every trace of modern life was gone. Michele’s desk, laptop, and iPod were all missing, and her toiletries on the vanity table had been replaced with funny-looking powders and thick hairbrushes. Instead of cars whizzing by outside the window, Michele could have sworn she heard the clip-clop of horses trotting up Fifth Avenue. What was this?

  Suddenly, a young woman burst into the room, her expression alarmed. She wore a maid’s uniform of a plain black dress with a starched white apron.

  “Miss Clara! What is it? What’s the matter?”

  Clara shakily pointed at Michele. “She—she appeared in my bedroom like an apparition! How did she get in here?”

  The maid frowned. “I don’t understand what you speak of, miss.”

  “Why her! The girl in the abominable clothing, right there!” Clara’s voice was hysterical.

  “Miss … nobody is there,” the maid said after a pause. She eyed Clara with concern. “Now, you’ve had a very strange and exciting day, and it’s to be expected that your imagination would run away with you after all that. It’s late. You must lie down and get some sleep before you have a fainting spell.”

  “You don’t … you don’t see her?” Clara asked, her voice rising higher in panic.

  “No, Miss Clara. There is nobody there,” the maid answered patiently. “Would you like me to bring you up some tea or warm milk to help you calm yourself? Perhaps some smelling salts?”

  “No … No, that’s quite all right, thank you,” Clara said, attempting to collect herself. “I’ll just be off to bed, then. You’re right. I must be feeling faint.”

  The maid gave her a reassuring smile. “Good night, miss. Ring the bell if you need anything. Rest well, and do feel better.”

  After the maid had shut the door behind her, Clara fixed her attention back on Michele, looking fearful. “Why could she not see you? Are you a ghost? Have I gone mad?”

  Michele pinched herself again, and the pain followed on cue. As she stared at the crystal clear scene in front of her, she felt her stomach drop further in alarm. Was it possible that she wasn’t hallucinating all this? But in what alternate universe could this be real?

  “What year is it?” she asked, though she was afraid she already knew what Clara’s answer would be.

  “Why, 1910, of course,” Clara replied, giving Michele an aggrieved look. “But please, what are you? What do you want with me?”

  Michele stared back at Clara, her mind whirring. How could she possibly have traveled back in time one hundred years? Why in the world had she been sent here? And how was she going to answer her terrified great-great-aunt? She couldn’t very well say, “Actually, I’m one of your relatives from the future. A hundred years in the future, to be exact.” So Michele said the first thing that popped into her head: “Yeah, I am, um, a ghost. My name is Michele.” After all, I’m not technically alive yet, she thought grimly.

  Clara let out a frightened moan.

  “No, I’m a good ghost. More like a spirit,” Michele hurriedly added. “You know, like Casper.”

  Clara looked blankly at her, and Michele realized that Casper the Friendly Ghost probably hadn’t been created yet.

  “What I mean is … I’m here to help you.” Michele thought this was possibly the dumbest thing she could have come up with, but to her surprise, the fear seemed to leave Clara’s eyes at these words, and she looked at Michele eagerly.

  “Did my mother send you?” Clara whispered, her face brimming with hope.

  “What? I—I don’t know,” Michele stammered.

  “I was just now praying for her to help me—or to send help for me,” Clara said.

  “Wait … so your mom died too?” Michele asked. This could not be eerier or more unbelievable. “What did you want help for?”

  Clara took a deep breath and then told Michele her story. As Clara spoke, Michele could see the words in her mind, written in Clara’s handwriting. She remembered that these were the words on the pages of the October 10, 1910, diary entry that she had been reading when she’d been sent back in time.

  “Tonight you see me surrounded by gilt and glamour … but until now, all I’ve ever known is the grime and grit of the streets,” Clara began. “While other girls my age were experiencing their first kisses and first automobile rides, I spent my days at the local orphanage—my home since my parents died when I was little. All I’ve ever had is cleverness. I tutored the other orphans to earn my room and board, and I taught myself through books at the library … my one safe haven.

  “Today began just like any other day, but it quickly turned into much the opposite when the butler from the famous Windsor family made a surprise appearance at the orphanage. It happened that the family patriarch, George Windsor, had somehow learned of my existence and insisted on taking me in, as a foster daughter. I cannot understand it, and from what I am told, it sounds as if I am being given a trial family. But who would take in a teenager, and a stranger at that? What do they want with me?

  “I wasn’t permitted to object or question it. I was simply ordered to pack my bags and leave the only home I’ve ever known. I arrived and my new family was waiting for me in the Grand Hall. Now I have a railroad-president father, a socialite mother, an eighteen-year-old brother, and two sisters: seventeen-year-old Violet and ten-year-old Frances. But none of these people besides Mr. Windsor seems to want me here. I do believe the others want me out. So then, what is going to happen to me? Why am I here?”

  Clara clasped Michele’s hand and looked at her pleadingly. “Will you help me? Help me learn the truth about why I was brought to live with the Windsors? That is why you came here, isn’t it?”

  Michele had no idea what she could do to help—but she was struck by the similarities between Clara’s plight and her own. Both of them, though a hundred years removed, had been inexplicably sent to live in this new world with the Windsors, and both of them sought the answer why.

  “I’ll do whatever I can,” Michele promised.

  “Michele!”

  She jerked her head up, and in one instant, the world returned to normal. She was back in her bedroom in 2010. Clara’s belongings were gone, except for the diary in Michele’s hands. And Annaleigh was calling Michele through the intercom, asking if she was ready for her dinner to be brought up.

  For a moment, Michele was too stunned to reply to Annaleigh. She stared down at the diary, wondering if that exchange with Clara had actually happened … or had it all been in her head? Was she certifiably crazy? And how come the trip back in time had been such a nightmare, while returning to the present was instantaneous? One thing was for sure: Michele had no appetite that night. She slowly made her way to the intercom.

  “Annaleigh? I’m actually not feeling well. I think I’ll skip dinner.”

  “Are you sure? Should I have medicine sent up for you?” Annaleigh offered.

  “No, that’s okay,” Michele replied. “I think I just need to rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Michele pulled the skeleton key out of her pocket and stared at it in wonder. Did this mean … that her father was a time traveler? Had Alfred Woolsey somehow guessed? Was that why he’d given Marion the key? If only there was someone to explain … But
Michele was on her own.

  The next morning Michele woke up at the crack of dawn, her stomach churning with nerves. She had been up nearly all night, unable to stop wondering about the key and her unbelievable trip back in time. Had it all actually happened? But now she had her first day of school to face.

  She had never been the new girl in school before, and starting in the middle of the year made it extra brutal. With a sigh, she pulled her cell phone from her bedside table to check her messages. The first text was from Kristen’s phone: WE LOVE YOU, GIRL! Good luck tomorrow, we’re thinking of you and hoping it goes okay. Call us after! Xoxoxoxoxo, K & A. Michele read the text a second time, overcome with a fierce longing for her friends. It was going to be so weird being in school without them.

  Unable to sleep any longer, Michele decided to use her extra time for getting ready. The strict Berkshire dress code meant that most of her own clothes were out, but her grandparents had instructed Annaleigh to buy her a first-day outfit: a white button-down shirt paired with a knee-length plaid skirt. Bare legs weren’t allowed, so Michele found a pair of nude nylons to wear with her black ballet flats. She couldn’t help cringing as she looked in the mirror. This überpreppy look was not her.

  Michele blow-dried her hair, put on some light makeup, and then headed downstairs to the morning room. As usual, Annaleigh was at the table, sipping green tea while she looked over her to-do list. Classical music played lightly from the nearby radio. Annaleigh had offered to have breakfast brought up to Michele’s room in the mornings, but it made Michele feel even lonelier to eat alone in her room, so she preferred to join Annaleigh.

  “Good morning,” Michele greeted her, plopping into an empty chair.

  Annaleigh looked at her approvingly. “Good morning, dear. You look great. How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty nervous,” Michele admitted as the kitchen maid, Lucie, placed a glass of orange juice and a plate of sizzling bacon and eggs in front of her. She gave Lucie an awkward smile of thanks, still uncomfortable with the whole concept of being served like this.

  “Don’t worry. I can’t imagine that you’ll have any trouble making friends,” Annaleigh assured her. “I bet everyone’s excited to have a Windsor back at Berkshire. And besides, you already know Caissie.”

  Michele nodded politely, thinking that Annaleigh clearly underestimated the Exclusive-with-a-capital-E high school clique system, which rarely admitted intruders.

  The two of them fell silent, and as the symphony playing on the radio faded out, a new one began—and Michele nearly spilled her juice in shock. She knew that music. It stirred something in her, an aching for something that she couldn’t quite remember. She had heard this symphony before, somewhere important. She knew she had. But where?

  Suddenly, those mesmerizing blue eyes filled her mind. This was the song that he was whistling in the hall of mirrors from her recurring dream—the handsome stranger.

  “Michele, what in the world is the matter?” Annaleigh asked, clearly alarmed by Michele’s sudden frozen state.

  “This song—I’ve heard it before,” she said shakily.

  Annaleigh looked at Michele quizzically. “Well, yes, I would imagine that you have. It’s one of Schubert’s most notable compositions.”

  Michele nodded, but she knew that she had never heard it before, aside from in her dream. As the song ended, the deejay announced, “You’re listening to 96.3 FM, New York’s premier classical music station. You just heard Phoenix Warren and the New York Philharmonic with Schubert’s Serenade.”

  “Phoenix Warren,” Michele said with a small smile. “My mom named me after his composition Michele. That’s why my name is spelled with only one L.”

  “Really? I love that piece. It’s so beautiful.” Annaleigh began humming it under her breath. Just then, her phone beeped with a text message. “Oh, Fritz just arrived. You’d better get going. You can’t be late for the first day of school!”

  Michele nodded nervously, pushing back her chair and heaving her bag over her shoulder.

  “Good luck!” Annaleigh called.

  “Thanks,” she replied, forcing a smile. “I’ll need it!”

  Michele stared at the scene in front of her as she reached Berkshire High School. The white stone Upper East Side school looked a little like the Windsor Mansion, with its Roman-inspired facade, Corinthian columns flanking the front doors, and wrought-iron gates surrounding the building. The front entrance seemed to be a makeshift runway, as glamour girls strutted up the steps one at a time, each managing to turn the dress code into a fashion statement. A willowy blonde with voluminous hair wore a flouncy, pleated black and red plaid skirt with an embroidered short black blazer, platform pumps, and a black leather designer satchel moonlighting as a backpack. Next up was a gorgeous African American girl wearing a stylish red trench coat over her green plaid jumper, with a large Chanel quilted handbag slung over her shoulder. The guys looked equally polished, with their perfectly coiffed hair, dark blazers over white button-down shirts and colorful ties, and gray or khaki belted pants. Feeling infinitely less glamorous than her classmates, Michele followed them up the stairs, her eyes on the ground.

  With the help of her school map, Michele eventually found her first-period class, U.S. history. As the students filtered in, Michele approached the teacher.

  “Mr. Lewis? I’m the new girl, Michele Windsor.”

  Mr. Lewis beamed and gave her a hearty handshake. “Welcome to Berkshire, Michele! We’re so happy to have you here.”

  “Thanks. Where should I sit?”

  “Oh, just wait here with me. I want to introduce you to the class!” he said, grinning at her as if Michele really ought to be excited about this. She stood awkwardly at the front of the classroom as the students looked at her curiously. Caissie Hart was among the last of the small group of students to arrive, and she gave Michele a tiny smile before getting into her seat.

  As soon as the bell rang and everyone else was seated, Mr. Lewis announced, “Class, this is our new transfer student. Meet Michele Windsor, of the very Windsor family some of you studied in the New York history elective last year. She’s the first Windsor we’ve had here at school in almost twenty years, so let’s be sure to make her feel welcome!”

  Michele smiled tentatively and quickly slid into the only empty seat. She could feel her classmates eyeing her up and down, surveying her appearance, and her face burned with embarrassment. She couldn’t help wondering how she measured up to their expectations of the newest Windsor princess.

  The boy sitting next to Michele turned to her and gave her a friendly smile. He had a very all-American, Abercrombie look: dark blond hair, brown eyes, and a boyish grin. Michele smiled back shyly.

  As she was leaving at the end of class, Michele heard Caissie call her name. “Hey, wait up!”

  Michele turned around, but she soon realized that Caissie wasn’t talking to her. She watched as Caissie caught up with the other Michelle in class and the two of them sauntered out of the room together. With a sigh, Michele followed them out the door, hoping they hadn’t noticed her stop. But a quiet chuckle over her shoulder told her that someone had witnessed her embarrassing move.

  “Hey.” It was the guy she’d sat next to. “I’m Ben, by the way. Ben Archer.”

  “Hi. I’m—” Michele stopped short, feeling her face flush. “Well, you obviously know who I am, after that whole introduction.”

  “Yeah.” Ben laughed. “Actually, the teachers told us last week that you’d be coming here. There’s been a lot of buzz going around about what you’d be like.”

  “Oh.” To her mortification, Michele felt her face grow even redder. “I’m not really used to being the center of attention. Not at all, actually.”

  “Yeah. You’re really normal for a Windsor,” Ben commented. “In a good way.” He grinned at her.

  “Oh, well … thanks.” Michele looked at him with faint curiosity, wondering if he was flirting with her. The thought would have thrille
d her in the past, but now it barely registered.

  “Well, I have to go to the science hall now, so …” Michele’s voice trailed off and she glanced down at the school map in her hands.

  “Oh, I’m going in the opposite direction. I’ll see you around?” Ben said hopefully.

  Michele nodded. “See you around.”

  A few hours later, Michele was suffering an acute case of New Girl Self-Consciousness Syndrome, compounded by the effort it took to keep up in her classes. Ms. Richards had clearly forgotten to give her the memo about how academically advanced New York private schools were, and Michele had a feeling she’d have to fight to hold on to her A average here.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when the bell rang for lunch—but then had the painful realization that she had no one to lunch with. She lingered at her desk in the English classroom, wondering where she should go and what she should do, as everyone else took off for the school’s dining room. Suddenly, a hand gripped her elbow. “Windsor, you’re eating with us,” someone said in a high-pitched voice.

  Michele turned around to face a girl who looked like a designer version of a 1950s housewife. She wore a pale pink cashmere sweater with a tweed skirt and black Mary Janes. The outfit was topped off with a pink plaid headband and a string of pearls that looked suspiciously real.

  “Hi. Sorry, I don’t think I got your name,” Michele said as the Prepster dragged her toward the door.

  “Olivia Livingston. Of the Livingston family, of course,” the girl answered with a proud smile.

  Michele had never heard of the Livingstons, but she had the instinct not to admit it. “Well, thanks for the lunch invite,” she said instead.

  “Oh, it’s not just an invite; it’s a duty,” Olivia said, giving Michele a dead-serious look. “We old families have to stick together. It’s up to us to lead the new generation of society.”

  “Um—what?”

  But before Olivia could answer, they had arrived at her table in the posh Berkshire dining room, where three other girls, all of whom looked like they shared Olivia’s sense of style, were seated.