The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  Light poured in through a frosted half-circle window over the front door. It lit the entryway with warmth and Felicia stole a glance backward. The house was lovely, and the people had been kind to her. It was impolite to run off without saying a polite good-bye. Her grandmother would be ashamed. She pulled her hand from the doorknob, but then remembered the phone call she had to make to her sister, Doug’s lab coat, her long bus ride and the paper she had to write and thought better of it. She would drop by next week and thank them properly.

  She rushed outside, through the squeaky gate and once she had walked a good ways down St. Charles Street, she checked her phone. It still had no reception. Also, the top of the screen should show the time. Instead, it displayed a series of dashes.

  “Stupid thing,” she jammed it back into her purse.

  It was daylight, and judging by the sun, mid-morning. But she knew it had been evening when she had been riding the bus. It was all completely wrong. She had to clear her head. Maybe she had become so disoriented after the accident that hours had passed without her being aware. The sunlight stabbed painfully into her brain, forcing her to squint. She might have an aspirin floating around the bottom of her purse, but she didn’t want to stop and search for it.

  She had two choices. She could catch the next bus to the hospital, get Doug’s lab coat and ride back home. Or she could call Doug, get him to come meet her, go get the lab coat together, then ride the bus home together. Her head hurt, but she thought she was well enough to make the trip on her own.

  This was St. Charles Street, a major thoroughfare, and if she walked down far enough, she would find a bus stop. She crossed Jackson Avenue and Josephine Street, but the streets, though paved, were devoid of cars and had no street signs. She must have taken a wrong turn into an unfamiliar neighborhood and ended up where the historical recreationists had taken over. She spotted some other people, all dressed in Victorian clothing. Women wore trimmed bonnets and large bell-shaped skirts. Some had matching parasols and cape-like coats draped around their shoulders. Men had long coats over waistcoats and they wore either top hats or bowlers. Many had walking sticks. A group of boys ran past her, all dressed in caps, suspenders and rough pants. They looked like something out of a Dickens novel.

  She checked again for a street sign, but could find none. She was disoriented, but was sure that Martin Luther King Boulevard would be coming up. She knew there had to be a bus stop nearby. She hurried down the sidewalk, which was wooden and must be under construction, and paused at a corner to let a mule-drawn cart filled with barrels and crates cross in front of her.

  Up ahead was what looked like a restaurant. But as she drew closer, she saw that it had wooden doors instead of glass and apparently no name. Only a simple wooden sign was nailed over the door with the word Pub painted in large, white letters. A dark layer of grime covered the windows. A few men leaned against the building, one with dark blood crusted under his nose. His feet slid slowly out in front of him, and his back scraped the wall until his rear end rested on the ground. One of the other men laughed at him and the bloody man gave a drunken wave.

  Felicia gave them a wide berth, but something else was bothering her. These men looked like recreationists, drunken though they may be, but the other buildings looked wrong also. She did not see a single ordinary street sign, no streetlights, no regular shops and no cars. Carts and horse-drawn carriages clattered past. Could she have stumbled into an area under renovation? That did not make sense either.

  She turned at what sounded like the roar of a large truck coming up the street behind her. But it was no truck. Instead, a vehicle that looked almost like a carriage puffed up the street. There were people inside, but it had no horses pulling it. It did have a driver who sat in the place a carriage driver would, up high in the front where he steered with a small horizontal wheel at the end of a long straight rod. The vehicle’s engine ground and chugged and a pipe near the back puffed black smoke into the air. The body of the vehicle was made of metal painted a rich burgundy and as it drew closer, she saw that the seats matched the exterior. Two women and two men were inside, chatting among themselves. More recreationists.

  “Hey, pretty girl. How you doing today?” asked one of the drunken men who had moved up close behind her.

  “Fine, thank you,” she turned to leave, but a hand gripped her wrist with more strength than she would anticipate from an inebriated person. He pulled her toward the pub.

  “Let’s have a drink or two.”

  “Let go!” She twisted her arm in and down, toward the space between his index finger and thumb, just as her brother had taught her, wrenching her arm free. He reached for her arm again, but she leapt back.

  “Now, I just want to have a talk,” he said. “Working girl like you is up for a little talk, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not. I have to be going.”

  “What kind of jodhpurs you got on, anyway? Never seen none like those.”

  She spun and another man loomed up in front of her. She put up her hands to keep from crashing into his chest, and he grabbed her arms. She pushed her weight into the man, throwing him off balance enough for her to yank herself free.

  “You back the hell off,” she said, preparing to knee him in the crotch if he made another move.

  “Now that’s not very polite.”

  “You must excuse her. She’ll be coming with me,” said a familiar voice.

  Seamus Connor stood beside them, this time wearing a brown top hat and a matching long brown frock coat over a trim waistcoat and the striped trousers he had worn earlier. Felicia had only a moment to note that he looked quite the proper gentleman when one of the men gave him a hard shove. Seamus moved quickly and deliberately, grasping the man’s arm, bending him over, as if folding him in half, until the man knelt doubled over on the ground.

  “Now, apologize to the lady,” Seamus said.

  “Filthy paddy son of a whore.”

  The man cried out as Seamus did something to his arm. “That’s no way to talk about my mother either.”

  The man tried to yank himself free, and Seamus only released him as the other man, the one with the blood under his nose, took a clumsy swing at him.

  The altercation lasted only moments, and Felicia remembered her brother telling her once that fights usually end within ten or fifteen seconds. She only had time to note two things. One, that the two men who had harassed her were far too drunk to put up any kind of real fight. And two, that Seamus had done this before. He seemed to be enjoying it.

  Once both men were staggering back to the wall, Seamus adjusted his hat, removed his coat and slipped it over her shoulders.

  “You should put this on,” he said.

  On Seamus, the frock coat hung to just above his knees, but on her it came to mid-calf. It was warm from his body and smelled of pipe tobacco and something else, something like old books.

  “You’re taking away the view!” yelled one of the men, but Seamus took Felicia’s elbow and led her away. She yanked her arm free and continued down the street.

  “I expect you are feeling disoriented. Am I right?” He looked as if he wanted to be right.

  “I just need to find the bus stop.”

  “Still trying to get home. Or was it to the hospital where you work?”

  “Hospital first, then home, thank you.”

  “I need to show you something first.”

  “That’s quite all right. Thank you for your help back there.” She went to remove the coat and return it to him, but he pulled it back over her shoulders.

  “Leave it for now. I’ll walk with you.”

  She drew a few stares as they continued, and a few people who looked her up and down seemed to be studying her feet. She noticed that the people had shoes with front portions that were too large, almost cartoonish. Even Seamus
had shoes that seemed like the toe box was much too wide.

  They passed a boy selling newspapers and Seamus gave him a coin. He took a paper but did not open it. Rather he folded it in half and tucked it under one arm.

  Felicia felt herself being watched. A man reading the Picayune stood behind the newspaper stand. Only, he wasn’t reading it but was looking over the top of it at her. He wore all black, in the same style that Seamus wore, except that he wore a long duster that came to his calves. He was neither tall nor short, stocky nor thin, handsome nor homely. The word “medium” came to Felicia’s mind. Even the man’s hair and eyes were a medium shade of brown.

  He caught her looking at him, touched the brim of his hat and returned to his paper.

  “We need to catch a cab,” said Seamus.

  “There don’t seem to be any busses running today. Only the horse-drawn carriages that the tourists like to rent.”

  “Busses? Do you mean omnibuses? I think we should take a private coach. I think you’ve drawn enough attention for one day.”

  This part of the street was busier, with more mule-drawn carts and another motorized carriage. Seamus put two fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. A horse-drawn coach stopped in front of them. It was a functional solid black, scuffed in places with worn, metal-rimmed wheels.

  “Tulane University Hospital,” said Felicia to the driver. He raised his eyebrows and glanced at Seamus who gave a quick nod and handed her into the coach. Seamus took the seat next to her, setting the newspaper and his hat on the seat between them.

  “Did you see the steam carriage?” he asked.

  “That big thing that came down the road right before you showed up? Yes, I saw it.”

  “I was a ways off, but it looked like you had never seen one before.”

  “I saw a video of something like that at the Burning Man festival, but other than that, no.”

  “Your people burn men?” Seamus looked like he was trying to suppress an expression of horror.

  “No, the desert art festival. No one gets hurt. Never mind.”

  She looked out the window toward the opposite side of the street.

  “You seem intelligent enough,” Seamus said, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles.

  “Enough for what?” She glared at him. Who was he to say such a thing?

  “To trust the evidence of your senses.”

  “This should be Martin Luther King Boulevard,” she murmured, spying her first street sign. It hung from what looked like a primitive stop light, with green and red wooden panels that mechanically slid into a viewing window. The coach stopped at the red.

  “It’s not. It’s Melpomene Street,” Seamus said.

  “Both ways?”

  “Yes,” his mouth quirked in a grin. “Both ways.”

  The street to the north should have been Martin Luther King Boulevard, while the part running south of St. Charles should have been Melpomene.

  Seamus watched the streets go by. Felicia’s headache was getting worse, but she planned on taking a couple of painkiller tablets from the hospital staff lounge. The coach turned down the familiar streets toward the hospital, but her headache must be interfering with her vision. No, that didn’t make medical sense. If she had a migraine, seeing auras around things would be normal, but not this.

  The world was different. Every street and every shop looked different. The burrito restaurant where she often bought lunch, Mel’s Coffee Shop, Pyewocket’s Books, all were gone. In their places were strange shops with old-fashioned people moving in and out.

  They were getting close to the hospital now, and Felicia felt herself shaking. A thought, a horrifying thought, was taking shape in her mind. Seamus rapped the roof of the carriage with his knuckles and it pulled to a stop. He opened the door and jumped out, turning to offer his hand. She took it, but did not look at him. She heard Seamus say something to the driver and the coach stayed where it was.

  This was all wrong. The hospital was too small, only two stories high. There were no darkened glass windows or concrete walls. The usual automatic sliding glass doors and covered entryway were replaced by two simple wooden doors, one of which had been propped open. Inside, a few people moved about, but she could tell that all of them were in the wrong clothing.

  She backed up, bumping into Seamus. She understood now. Though she resisted, the thought was fully formed.

  “Pardon me,” he murmured. “Are you all right?”

  Felicia nodded and climbed into the coach. Seamus handed her the newspaper, but she just set it in her lap. Her insides twisted, but not with nausea.

  “I’ve gone insane,” she said. “That’s the most logical answer. I’m delusional.”

  “No, you’re not. And I think you’re handling it very well. Most young ladies of my acquaintance would be fainting or crying by now.” He was studying her. “Take a look at the paper.”

  She flipped it open. It was much smaller than the normal Picayune, only ten or twelve sheets thick. The headline said something about the East India Company. Her eyes snapped to the date. February 17, 1857.

  “I don’t believe this,” she said. “I’m going nuts.”

  “You’re not, as you say, ‘nuts.’ Let’s look at it scientifically. You’re a doctor, correct?”

  She nodded. “Well, almost.”

  “So when you look at a patient, you look at the symptoms, the evidence, then draw a conclusion.”

  She nodded again.

  “You use the evidence of your senses to determine what is true, what is occurring, what is reality.”

  Felicia looked at the newspaper again. Maybe this was a dream. She silently read the headline, “Local Shipping Magnate Accuses East India Company of Piracy.” She read it a second time, knowing that one can never read the same words twice in a dream. The words stayed the same.

  “So there you are!” said Seamus, grinning. “You see? The evidence is nearly incontrovertible! Well, not in a true scientific sense, as you can’t verify reality. But never mind that. You observe things, just as I do or any of the other people out there on the street do. We have a shared experience of reality, perceived together.”

  He rubbed his hands together and rattled on, asking questions without waiting for answers. Felicia was vaguely aware that the coach was heading south and she rubbed her temples.

  Seamus stopped his chatter and became serious. “Is your head hurting you?”

  “It’s probably dehydration.”

  “Or coming through some kind of portal into a different time.” He was thrilled by all this. Felicia wanted to smack him.

  “Dehydration,” she insisted.

  “Then we’re headed in the right direction. Now tell me all about your world.” His eager expression made him a bit unnerving. She was in an enclosed space with a madman. Or she herself was mad. Or both.

  She answered a few questions, and Seamus seemed to be storing the information for future use. As they passed Jackson Square, he rapped on the ceiling again and the coach stopped.

  “I’m going to get you a lime water from this restaurant. You stay here.”

  “I can come in.”

  “Not dressed like that. Just wait a minute.”

  He rushed into a shop with small round tables out front, some filled with diners. Felicia glanced out at Jackson Square, but it blurred and swirled. She leaned back in her seat, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass.

  The door to the coach opened and Seamus offered her a glass of water with a lime wedge and a sprig of mint. It was a real glass, made of actual glass, not a to-go cup. She took a sip and he climbed in beside her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Nare a bother. We can wait while you finish it. Take your time.”

  She did. And
as she sipped and answered Seamus’s questions, her headache seemed to lessen a little. The driver appeared at the window.

  “Look, I don’t know what you two are up to in there, and I don’t care to. But we need to get moving. I got to make a living.”

  Seamus spoke with him, gave him more money and the cabby muttered something. The coach heaved as he climbed back into his seat.

  “If I fell through into another time, why here?” Felicia asked. “Why this time?”

  “I told you. It was by accident. I was studying a machine and I think I made a bags of the whole thing. I made a hole, a pathway. And you came through. Isn’t that marvelous?”

  Chapter 6

  Felicia examined her reflection in front of the full-length oval mirror in one of Seamus’s unused guest rooms. She didn’t look too bad, considering how things were going. Night had become day, and reality had changed completely. She was either insane, or she had moved backwards through time. As Seamus had pointed out, the evidence of her senses confirmed that she was in a different world. And yet, if she were delusional, how would she know that he and the rest of the world were not simply concoctions of her own disturbed brain? But, no. She knew better.

  By the time she and Seamus had returned from Jackson Square, Henry had already delivered a few boxes. Inside were most of the things Felicia was currently wearing, including the slate-gray dress and matching fitted jacket. But Henry had neglected to bring everything she would need, perhaps assuming she would have underclothes. Mrs. Washington had supplied the remaining items from some long-forgotten wardrobe in a spare room.