“What are you doing out at this hour?” Philip asked after a long pause.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Michele replied, trying her best to sound breezy.
He took a step closer, his face coming under the light of a streetlamp. Michele gasped at the sight of his left cheek—bruised and painfully red. “What happened to you?” she cried.
“Uncle got to me,” Philip said stoically. “Our little dance cost me a good beating.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” Without thinking, Michele rushed toward him, closing the wide space between them. “How could he do that to you? Where were your parents?”
Philip let out a bitter laugh. “My father’s brother is master of the house now. He’s been free to do whatever he likes since Father died two years ago. And my mother wouldn’t care. She can’t be bothered with anything except her social engagements.”
For a moment, Michele just looked at him. He was clearly unhappy, so unlike the carefree, smiling Philip from her dreams. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, gently reaching up to touch his wounded cheek. He winced but didn’t move her hand.
“Who are you?” he asked in a low voice. “What have you done to me?”
Michele drew back. “What do you mean, what have I done to you?”
“Why am I seeing someone no one else sees—why am I feeling things I shouldn’t feel?”
“What—what sort of things?” Michele couldn’t help asking.
Philip looked away. “I … don’t know.”
After a pause, Michele said, “I don’t think I can explain. I mean, I don’t even understand it myself.”
“Please try.” Philip looked at her pleadingly. “Answer my questions, at least.”
Michele swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“Are you a human being, or—or a phantom?”
For a moment Michele wanted to laugh out loud. That was one question she had never expected to be asked in her lifetime. “Um, I’m a human.”
“But then how can no one else see you?” Philip’s forehead creased in frustration. “You are alive, are you not?”
“I am alive … but not in the same way you are,” Michele confessed, surprising herself with her honesty. She hadn’t planned on telling him the truth, but there was something about him. She couldn’t lie to him.
“Michele.” She looked up and his eyes were suddenly warm and soft. “You can tell me.”
Michele nodded slowly as she thought of what it could be like to tell someone. Maybe they could figure this thing out together, and maybe they could discover how it was that they’d known each other before they had even met. “Okay,” she agreed. “But let’s walk.”
They began slowly walking down Fifth. Her eyes on the ground, Michele blurted out, “The truth is I’m a Windsor. My mom died and I just moved to New York to live with my grandparents at the Windsor Mansion. The only thing is I’m … I’m from the future—2010.”
Philip stopped in his tracks and stared at her. He let out an uneasy laugh. “You have quite the imagination.”
“No, it’s the truth.” Michele looked at him seriously. “Philip, why do you think other people can’t see me? It’s because I don’t exist in your time. Clara Windsor can see me, because I traveled here through her diary, and you … well, I don’t know how you can see me, but—I can’t help thinking it has to do with the fact that I’ve dreamt of you.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “All my life.”
Philip’s face was pale with dismay. “But—this can’t be. I am going mad, aren’t I?”
“No, I promise,” Michele insisted, suddenly desperate for Philip to believe her. “I’m real, flesh and blood, and I’m really here. I’m just from a different time.”
“Show me,” Philip said hoarsely. “Show me that you’re real, and not just my own madness.”
Michele nodded and took a step closer to him. She gently took his hand, and the butterflies in her stomach fluttered. She slowly reached his hand up to her face, and let his fingers brush against her cheek.
“See? Solid and real,” Michele said, with a shaky laugh. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to—to feel me.”
Philip gazed at her, his eyes deep with an emotion Michele couldn’t place, one that brought a blush to her cheeks. Suddenly he reached for her again, and began to slowly, tentatively trace the outline of her face with his hands. Michele gasped involuntarily, as she felt electricity spark through her at his touch. She closed her eyes as his hands swept across her eyelids, as he ran his fingers through her hair, and then came to rest his fingertips on her lips. Michele leaned in to him, her heartbeat quickening with anticipation as their heads moved toward each other—
But he abruptly pulled away from her, his hands dropping awkwardly to his sides.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have …” His voice trailed off.
“What?” Michele stared at Philip, her face burning with embarrassment. Had she done something wrong?
“Allow me to walk you home,” he said uncomfortably.
“Wait—what just happened?” Michele asked, trying in vain to keep her voice steady.
Philip looked at her, his expression torn. “I’m engaged. And now you enter, a girl from another time, invisible to others, and I shouldn’t feel … this.”
Michele looked at the ground, feeling sucker-punched. For a moment, she had forgotten about Violet, forgotten that Philip wasn’t hers. Why had she dreamt of him all her life, why did she now have this undeniable chemistry with him, when it turned out he was engaged to another girl?
She nodded stiffly. “Right. Okay.”
They walked back to their street in silence, Michele feeling like a deflated balloon. It felt wrong, unnatural, to walk side by side without touching. She had met him only that night, so why couldn’t her mind and body shake the feeling that she belonged with him? As Michele glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye, she caught him watching her. They both quickly looked away.
“Here you are, then,” Philip said. Michele looked up and saw that they were in front of the Windsor Mansion gates.
“I, um—I don’t have the key,” Michele realized.
“Then what’s this?” Philip gently reached for the skeleton key around Michele’s neck, and his fingers brushed against her collarbone. Michele felt another shiver at his touch.
“Oh … well, that’s not the house key but it’s definitely done bigger things than unlock a gate,” Michele said wryly. “I guess it’s worth a shot.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Philip wrinkled his brow in confusion.
“It’s a long story.” Michele grasped the key and pressed it to the lock on the gate. She felt a force pulling her into the gate with such speed she cried out in shock. She looked down and saw that the ground underneath her was shaking, moving, changing. Michele whipped her head around to face Philip, and saw him watching in astonishment as she floated away from him. For a moment their eyes met, and in his expression, Michele saw a flash of regret.
I’m back.
Michele looked around her in amazement. She was standing in the front garden, just behind the gate where she had left Philip. It was a starless, chilly night, and from the stillness around her, she knew that it was just as late as it had been in 1910. She instinctively turned to the site of the Walker Mansion, and when she saw the modern apartment complex in its place, she felt her heart clench. He’s gone now, she thought. He doesn’t exist anymore. But how could that be when her face still tingled from his touch, her stomach still felt queasy from his subsequent rejection?
The front doors flew open. Annaleigh rushed outside, her usually polished hair undone and her eyes frantic. “There you are!” she gasped. “Where have you been? We’ve all been terrified! Come inside.”
Michele nervously followed Annaleigh into the house. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, racking her brain for a good explanation … one that didn’t involve time travel. “I left a note in my room. I was at a—a study group and we
all hung out afterwards, and I guess I just lost track of the time. I had no idea how late it was.”
“Well, you’d better get ready to explain everything to your grandparents,” Annaleigh said grimly. “They’ve been sitting up all night waiting, and they instructed me to buzz them as soon as you got home.”
“Oh no,” Michele muttered. The last thing she felt like doing was being interrogated by Walter and Dorothy, especially after her last unsettling encounter with them.
“I’m going to go call their room. Stay right here,” Annaleigh instructed.
Michele sank onto one of the settees in the Grand Hall. What in the world was she going to say to them? The memory of Walter’s angry face from the other night flashed in her mind, and she shuddered. She leaned back, and as she closed her eyes wearily, the image in her mind changed to Philip’s intense gaze.…
“Michele.”
She winced at her grandfather’s voice, tight with fury, and reluctantly opened her eyes to face him and Dorothy. They looked similar to the way they had the other night, both of them in their long cashmere robes, hair undone and faces aged considerably without the makeup and other solutions of daytime. Michele felt a twinge of guilt as she noticed Dorothy’s red, swollen eyes.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Walter demanded. “Where have you been until four-thirty in the morning?”
“I—I’m so … so sorry,” Michele said anxiously, tripping over her words. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I never meant to worry you.”
“Where have you been?” Walter repeated. “Who were you with?”
At those words, Dorothy looked as though she was bracing for the worst. As Michele saw the fear in her grandparents’ eyes, she had the feeling that her absence had triggered something in them, that there was more to their anxiety than worry about a wayward granddaughter staying out too late.
“I was just with … Caissie Hart. And her other friends,” she blurted out, the lie coming faster than she could process it.
“Caissie?” Dorothy’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s impossible. Inez was here this afternoon and she would have told me.”
“Well, Caissie lives with her dad, so she probably just didn’t mention it to her mom. We were … at her friend Aaron’s,” Michele said, improvising. “We had a study group, and afterwards some of us stayed at Aaron’s to order pizza and watch a movie. It got so late that I fell asleep during the movie. I’m really, really sorry.”
Her grandparents studied her as though unsure whether to believe her story—but it was clear that they wanted to believe it.
“All right, then,” Walter said quietly. “Here are the house rules from now on. Your curfew is ten-thirty p.m. on weeknights and midnight on weekends. If you plan to spend the night anywhere, it has to be girls only and you must call to let us know first. Break any of those rules and you’ll be grounded. Do you understand?”
Michele gaped at them. “But—I’ve never in my life had a curfew or been grounded. Mom always trusted me.”
“Your mother was still a child when she had you,” Dorothy said dismissively. “She didn’t know what was best—”
Michele leaped to her feet. “Don’t ever talk about my mom like that,” she snapped. “She was ten times the mother you were.”
Dorothy drew back as if she had been slapped.
“That’s enough,” Walter said tersely. “Those are the rules. End of discussion.”
Without a word, Michele turned on her heel and left the room, thinking that these episodes with her grandparents were sure making her appreciate her freedom in 1910.
Michele walked into her first-period U.S. history class the next morning in a fog. The ride to school had felt surreal, the modern cars and skyscrapers all wrong, as she found herself yearning for the sound of horse hooves, the rumble of the elevated train, and mostly, the warm sound of Philip’s voice. She tried to focus during class, but her mind was years away.
When the bell rang, Michele caught Caissie’s eye and remembered that she had to ask Caissie to cover for her. Michele nervously approached her desk, wondering how on earth she would explain this one.
“Hey,” she greeted Caissie, giving her a smile.
“Hi.” Caissie smiled back, looking a little surprised.
“Listen, I have a huge favor to ask—and it’s kind of weird,” Michele began awkwardly.
Caissie raised an eyebrow. “Um, okay. Shoot.”
“So, um … I sort of stayed out until after four in the morning and my grandparents flipped. I couldn’t tell them where I really was and I was put on the spot, and I just—well, I blurted out that I was with you at your friend Aaron’s. I don’t know why I did it and I feel really embarrassed telling you,” Michele confessed. “I’m sorry to have to ask, but would you be willing to tell your mom that’s what happened? Just ’cause I know my grandmother’s going to check my story with her.”
Caissie gave her a strange look but shrugged. “Okay. I mean, why not, I guess. Where were you that you can’t tell them?”
Michele bit her lip. “I can’t really say,” she admitted.
“Oh. Okay,” Caissie said stiffly.
“I wish I could,” Michele said hurriedly. “It’s just—”
“I get it,” Caissie interrupted. “Consider the favor done.”
“Thanks,” Michele said gratefully.
Caissie swung her backpack over her shoulders. “Well, see you around.”
“See you.” Michele watched her leave, feeling unsettled. She could tell that she had offended Caissie by asking her to lie for her and then not trusting her with the truth. Still, how was she supposed to tell anyone what had really taken place the previous night? I should have just made up some story to tell her, Michele thought regretfully.
As she set off down the hall for her next class, Michele thought of what it would be like to have someone to confide in about this unbelievable turn of events. It would be a relief in a way. But there was no one to tell. Amanda and Kristen would never in a million years believe it. There was only one person who would take this seriously, and that person was gone.
After school, Michele arrived at the Windsor Mansion just as her grandparents were leaving.
“Hello, Michele,” Dorothy greeted her quietly as they passed in the Grand Hall. Walter gave her a polite nod, but his face still looked tense.
“Hi,” Michele replied. She watched them walk out the door, dressed in upscale finery. They were probably headed to yet another gala for one of the many boards they served on. It seemed to Michele that her grandparents did nothing meaningful, just constantly attended board dinners and events. What kind of life is that? she wondered as she headed up the stairs to her room. She heard her cell phone beep with a text message, and she pulled it out of her pocket. The message was from Kristen, asking where in the world Michele was. Michele guiltily remembered that she hadn’t returned her friends’ calls for the past few days, ever since her first trip to 1910. As much as she missed them, she didn’t feel quite ready to call them back yet. They knew her well enough that they’d immediately sense she was different—and she had no idea how she would explain that.
Not in the mood to start on homework, Michele headed into her sitting room to find something to read. As she opened the glass-enclosed library cabinet, she saw a small burgundy porcelain music box that she hadn’t noticed before. Michele opened the lid, and strains of Chopin’s haunting Nocturne no. 19 in E Minor began to play. The music box was clearly ancient, and the song played in fits and starts, the sound low and tinny. Yet the melody was still so beautiful Michele wished she could hear it played properly.
Suddenly, a sound from downstairs caused her to jump, and she nearly dropped the porcelain box in her shock. Just as she had been wishing to hear the song in all its glory, there it was: she could hear it now being played below by someone who sounded like a virtuoso.
Stunned, Michele turned to examine her room. Her TV and entertainment console were gone, replaced wi
th a delicate white tea table, and gas lamps had taken the place of electric. I’m back in 1910, she realized with amazement. Somehow, Time had sent her back instantaneously. But all Michele could focus on was the music. Who in the world could be playing like this? she wondered. She had always thought Lily was the only Windsor with any musical talent, but she would have been just a baby in 1910.
She hurried downstairs, following the sound to the ballroom. Michele stood in the doorway and found the Windsor women seated admiringly around a young man playing the piano, whose back was to Michele. Henrietta sat with a little girl on her knee. Michele guessed that she was the youngest daughter, Frances. The two of them listened solemnly, while Violet perched beside them with a satisfied smile on her face. Where’s Clara? Michele wondered.
Michele looked closer at the young man playing the piano—and she froze. There was no mistaking that thick dark hair, those hands, that proud posture. It was Philip.
She watched in awe as his fingers danced across the keys. Philip’s eyes were closed in concentration, his body moving fluidly with the music, as he played with the passion of someone giving every bit of his soul over to the song. Michele felt a stab of longing as she watched him.
When he finished, the Windsor women politely applauded. Philip turned to face them and then stopped short, drawing a sharp intake of breath, at the sight of Michele. For a moment she worried that he was unhappy to see her, but then his face broke into a beautiful smile that sent a warm glow through her body.
“Philip? What in the dickens are you looking at?” Violet asked.
“N-nothing,” he answered, collecting himself.
“What are you playing next?” Frances piped up.
Philip paused, and though he spoke to the others, the quick glance that he first gave Michele made her feel that he was addressing her. “This is actually something I composed myself,” he said.
He turned back to the piano and began to play a song that couldn’t have been more different from Chopin’s Nocturne. This music had a syncopated, swinging rhythm, making Michele think of New Orleans jazz, only sped up. Philip’s fingers flew across the keys, his hands looking like they were in competition with each other. The song was intoxicating and catchy, and Michele couldn’t resist moving to the rhythm. Although Violet’s presence was a painful reminder that Philip was taken, Michele felt even more under his spell now, after seeing his talent.