by Kate Norris
“All the way back, right?” Winnie pressed. “Back to Scott. Back to before the accident.”
Scott nodded. “Yes. But you have to trust me. Scott wouldn’t have done anything that could get you hurt. I won’t either.”
Winnie looked at him.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
It was the last place she ever thought she would go, but if Scott really thought it was safe, and if this might be her only chance to get back and save her world’s Scott . . . she supposed she would be paying a visit to Hawthorn’s lab.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was broad daylight, and Winnie was headed to the subway that would take her to the 116th Street stop—straight to Hawthorn’s lab at Columbia.
Every step she took felt like she was moving through molasses. If she had trusted this world’s Scott just a little less—or if she had been just an ounce less desperate to save her own Scott—she wouldn’t have been able to do something so against her own instincts.
Yes, this was Scott’s idea, and he swore it was safe, but it still felt like a very bad idea. Even if Hawthorn wouldn’t be in his office.
There was a departmental meeting that afternoon, and Hawthorn was chairing it. Scott had assured her Hawthorn would absolutely be in attendance for the full two hours—and in fact, such things always ran long. All the other professors involved with Nightingale would be there too, including Professor Schulde, as well as most of the other physics department staff, because skipping a meeting would put them in danger of getting on Hawthorn’s bad side.
No one wanted to be on Hawthorn’s bad side.
And even if—by some crazy chance—someone did see them in Hawthorn’s lab, it would be unusual, but not unheard of. Hawthorn’s personal laboratory was separate from the one for the project’s common use, but they did occasionally share equipment, and if anyone asked about Winnie, well, Scott would just say they were going out to lunch, but he needed to finish some work first.
The safety of this plan relied on its brazenness. The least suspicious thing for her to do was waltz into the last place on earth she wanted to be and act like she had nothing to hide.
It seemed fairly safe, as far as completely insane plans went.
Still, Winnie very much wished her afternoon involved pretty much anything else.
* * *
• • •
Scott met her on the quad as planned and walked with her to Pupin Hall, where the physics department and all related projects were housed. Winnie had been on campus with Father a handful of times over the years, but not often enough to have any real familiarity with the place. There was something extravagant about the expanses of tidy green lawn occupying so much space right in the middle of a metropolis. It was an intellectual oasis, and it reminded Winnie of how much she wanted a place like that of her own.
Of course, Columbia would never be that place for her. Students glanced at her as they passed by—not rudely, simply curious—but Winnie knew that if she weren’t there with Scott, they would have stopped to ask her, ever so helpfully, if she were lost.
“Oh—I asked Winnie about the splinters,” Scott said suddenly as they neared the physics building. “She doesn’t see them.”
Winnie almost stopped in her tracks. “She must. Maybe I didn’t explain them properly. It isn’t some trick I learned. I know we aren’t identical now, but we started out that way. And this is something that was inside me at birth. In my chromosomes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, I suppose I don’t know, but I have pretty good reason to believe my mother saw them too.”
“Hmm. Really? That is interesting.” Scott made a small, considering sound and thought a moment. Then he said, “There are identical twins who are different heights.”
Winnie just looked at him.
“I’m saying, what if it’s a capacity—a potential? Not everyone has it, and you both do. But you, for whatever reason, fulfilled that potential, and it just never came to fruition for Winnie. Just like some twins don’t get as tall as they might have.”
What he was saying made sense, in theory, but it didn’t feel right. A pretty, confident her with chic short hair and the boyfriend she’d always wanted? Yes, that was unsettling to see for many reasons, but none of those little differences cut against the core of her being like the thought of a self with no splinters.
Of course, the idea of having this ability all her own in a world where everything was Beta’s had a certain appeal, but not enough to counterbalance how unsettled it made Winnie feel about who she was, and the role her gift played in her identity. She could travel between worlds! It was awful, but in that other sense too—she was awed by this ability that was as unconscious yet central to her as the beat of her own heart.
What did it mean if Beta didn’t share it?
Would Winnie want to give up seeing splinters if she could?
They’d certainly caused their fair share of trouble over the years . . . but she still found herself unable to answer that question.
But it did raise another.
“Scott, wait—I just realized. I haven’t seen one since I’ve been here.”
“Really? Is that unusual?”
“Well, I don’t know. They don’t come on a schedule. I’ve been here”—Winnie silently counted; it felt like an eternity—“three days now. It wouldn’t be that unusual to go without for even longer. But what if, for some reason, I can’t see them here? Oh god—what if that means I’ve lost the ability to cross between worlds too?”
Scott furrowed his brow in worried consideration. “I can’t begin to guess what all this might mean, but it doesn’t seem like we need to jump to that conclusion yet.”
Winnie’s heart thudded panic, but she knew he was right. It was too early to guess what—if anything—was going on.
“Maybe we’ll find answers in Hawthorn’s lab,” Scott finished.
Winnie nodded. “Maybe.”
She just hoped they didn’t find Hawthorn there. Or rather, that he didn’t find them.
* * *
• • •
Hawthorn’s lab was a windowless space on the first floor of the building, meticulously clean and vaguely familiar-feeling from the glimpse she’d gotten in that splinter where she met James. It was just as empty as Scott had promised it would be, and the Faraday cage they would need for their experiment stood prominent and ominous in the corner. To Winnie, it looked like a cell.
Scott took some sheets of paper from his leather knapsack. “I wrote out a schematic for our experiment, based on what you told me about what happened.”
He handed the papers to Winnie, and she began to look over them.
“I kept things impersonal,” Scott said, sounding a bit embarrassed. “I’m the ‘technician.’ You’re the ‘subject,’ et cetera. I just thought that even though it’s unlikely anyone would find our notes, it would be a good idea to make them anonymous.”
“I like it.”
Scott’s expression remained sheepish.
“Really, I do. It’s comforting. Seeing it laid out like that, all stiff and scientific—it could be about somebody else.”
She could almost forget that the life of the “prior technician” was on the line.
“I hypothesize that the panic you experienced when Scott—when he was injured—is akin to the fight or flight response. Your ability just affords you a unique exit strategy.”
“That’s an interesting theory.”
“But it means we’ll have to re-create that feeling. Which might be a challenge.”
Winnie wasn’t sure it would be. That grief, that terror—it remained right below the surface. Keeping it contained was the hard part. Letting it free would be a relief.
“I’m going to start getting the equipment ready while you—” Scott began, but he was interrupted by some
one opening the laboratory door.
Winnie and Scott looked at each other in a panic. The breath caught in her throat as he stepped into view and—
“Oh—sorry.” He looked surprised to see anyone there, then less surprised when he saw who it was. “Hi, Scott. I’m just grabbing some notes Hawthorn needs for the meeting.”
He had dark hair and a sweet face that Winnie both did and did not know.
“Hello, Winnie,” he added. “Nice seeing you again.”
He reached to shake her hand, and Winnie saw the bruises that ringed his wrist. He saw her notice them and quickly pulled his cuff back down.
It felt like the walls were pressing in around her. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. It seemed miraculous that she was even able to say whatever words she said—they disappeared from her mind as soon as they crossed her lips—to get out of that room and back to the hall, where she immediately pressed her back to the wall and slid down to rest on her haunches.
Winnie sucked in air in heaving breaths and tried to focus on the one concrete thing she was aware of: the cool tile against her clenched fists, braced against the wall on either side of her body.
She hadn’t thought much about that splinter since she’d gone to Hawthorn’s party. After that night, there had been so much more to think about.
Now Winnie realized that when she saw that splinter of James—bruised and seemingly in trouble—and decided she needed to try to bring it to fruition by going to the physics mixer at Hawthorn’s, she’d gotten it all wrong. She had gotten a peek into the future, and she’d worked to bring it about because she thought it would mean finding James. But she hadn’t seen herself meeting her own world’s missing James. She had seen something else entirely, misunderstood it, and set herself on a path that led—here. To this stupid lab a world away. A place she had no business being.
Winnie had wanted to go to that party to help, but now she understood—everything that had happened since that party had instead led to Scott’s death. Not because they’d been diverted from the course she’d seen somehow, but because Scott’s death and her coming to this new world were stops on the path she’d set them on.
That splinter had been a glimpse into the future of another reality—and now she was living it. Now she was stuck.
It all just felt so pointless, so unavoidably pointless. She hadn’t understood anything. She hadn’t helped anyone. How could she possibly believe that was different now? How could she think she could save Scott, or even get herself home?
The door opened and, thankfully, Scott came out alone. Winnie tried to scramble quickly back to her feet, and Scott silently reached out an arm to help her.
“Winnie,” he said softly, “you need to come back in, and you need to act normal. James is my friend, and he’s trustworthy—but if we act suspicious, then we’re involving him, and I don’t want him involved.”
Winnie gave a shaky nod. The more people involved, the more people she might hurt.
They walked back into the lab, Winnie wearing a bright and—she was sure—false-looking smile. “I’m sorry, James, I haven’t been—” she began, but the words died in her throat.
James was holding Scott’s experiment schematic. The expression on his face wasn’t shocked, or confused, but sad.
“Scott, she can’t be here,” James said, shaking his head. He sighed heavily. “You must be the girl from the library,” he said to Winnie. “Hawthorn’s looking for you.”
* * *
• • •
Winnie and Scott hurried off campus, but the feeling of being a fugitive remained even after she was back on the crowded city streets.
“God, I feel stupid,” Scott hissed once they were a few blocks from campus.
Winnie did too—stupid for feeling hopeful. James was going to meet them at a diner in neighboring Harlem. He was going to help them—Winnie was positive, although she didn’t know what made her so sure.
They found the spot James had suggested—Gracie’s, on the corner of Lenox and 127th Street. It had been only perhaps a twenty-five-minute walk from campus, and Winnie worried they might run into other students there until they entered. She noticed that they were the only white clientele. Everyone in the physics department at Columbia was Caucasian too. No risk of running into any of them there.
They got some odd looks from the customers, but if the woman behind the counter was surprised to see them, she didn’t show it. “Anywhere’s fine,” she said, and Scott led them to an open table in the corner, where they would hopefully be able to talk without being overheard.
They ordered Cokes and sipped them nervously while they waited. James walked in about twenty minutes later.
“Hey, sweetie!” the woman at the counter called, and brought him a coffee as soon as he was seated.
“Hi, Gracie,” James said. “I wanted my friends to try the best burger in the city.”
His smile looked strained to Winnie, but she supposed it would seem natural enough if you didn’t know the stress they were all under.
“Oh, stop!” the middle-aged woman said, and slapped at his shoulder playfully. “Three burgers, then? I’d ask how you want ’em cooked, but you know Ralph only does medium-well.”
She walked off to put in their order, and the air was immediately heavier. James lost his smile.
“You said Hawthorn is looking for the girl from the library,” Scott said. “Does he already know it’s Winnie?”
“No, no—just a split-sport.”
Winnie gave him a quizzical look.
“You know, someone like you.”
“Oh,” Scott said, “a ‘sport’ like a genetic mutation.”
“He sees them too, doesn’t he?” Winnie asked eagerly, oddly gratified to have her initial suspicion about Hawthorn confirmed.
“Hawthorn?”
Winnie nodded.
James shook his head. “No—his mother does. Did. Only women can. Or, that’s Hawthorn’s theory, at least. It ran in his family, but it only affected the women.”
Scott frowned. “He hasn’t shared any of this with the research team.”
“Well, you couldn’t really expect him to.”
Winnie bet there was a lot Hawthorn didn’t share with the rest of the scientists working under him.
“James . . . what are those bruises from?” Winnie asked, gesturing toward his wrist.
Scott looked back and forth between them in alarm. “What bruises?”
James pulled at his sleeve, but they weren’t showing at the moment. “It’s nothing.”
“James!” Scott pressed.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I would,” Winnie said quietly.
James regarded her, brows knit, and Winnie thought he was about to speak when Gracie came by with some fresh Cokes for her and Scott, providing James with a convenient interruption.
“Thank you,” Winnie said with a nod.
Scott fidgeted angrily on the bench seat next to her, and Winnie put a quelling hand on his forearm.
“You’re better off than you think,” James said suddenly, then sighed. “And worse than you know. Hawthorn hypothesizes that it’s people who can see alternate realities who would be able to move between them—you being here proves as much. You’ve succeeded once. I’m sure you can do it again.”
James stopped there.
“And the rest?” Scott pressed.
James closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. She could imagine how difficult it must be for him to betray his mentor’s secrets.
“He’s going to want her,” James said finally. “He’s already looking for someone by her description. As soon as he read the report, he knew that a girl researching alternate realities was almost certainly a girl who saw them. He’s been working for years—before Nightingale, before the war—on a se
rum that would let him see them too. The serum requires genetic material from a split-sport. He used his mother’s, when she was alive. He still has some, but—”
“Some?” Scott asked, voice thick with disgust. “Some what?”
James looked down at the table and began shredding his napkin. It was an anxious habit Winnie shared.
“Blood. Bone marrow. Some . . . tissue.” He glanced up at them. “Everything except the blood post-mortem, of course.”
“Oh. Of course!” Scott exclaimed. “James, you must realize how gruesome this is!”
“I understand how it sounds.”
“He’s testing the serum on you, isn’t he?” Winnie asked gently.
“Not just me! On himself first, always. I’m the control, since he carries a recessive version of the mutation himself, and I don’t. We don’t know yet what difference that might make. He’s not a bad man. But he’s not . . . he’s not always reasonable about this. He wouldn’t hurt you, Winnie. But he wouldn’t let you go either.”
“Your wrist,” Winnie prodded, working hard to keep her voice level—Scott’s obvious indictment of the whole endeavor was getting them nowhere—“it looks like he grabbed you.”
“No!” James said quickly. “Well, he did, but because I was falling. I was having a seizure—”
“What? Since when do you get seizures?” asked Scott.
“Just once. A side effect.”
“Listen to yourself!” Scott said. “You have to stop this. You’ve got to—”
“You miss sleep for your work,” James interrupted defensively. “You miss meals. Last spring, you came to class with walking pneumonia.”
“That’s not the same,” Scott said with a furious shake of his head.
Winnie noticed the people at the surrounding tables were beginning to shift nervously and stare.
“This isn’t the place,” she said quietly, glancing around the diner.
“Look,” James said, “give me a list of the equipment you need. I’ll sneak what I can out of the lab for you and bring it by your apartment tomorrow.”