“Time to fire it up,” Seamus said, and grinned at Miss Sanchez. “Isn’t that how you say it in your time? Fire it up?”
She sighed in exasperation, and shook her head, but a moment later, she slipped her hand into his, and he reached forward and threw the switch.
Chapter 20
January 8, 1864
New Orleans, Louisiana
Hazel balled up the Professor’s letter and threw it into the fireplace.
“Damn the man,” she growled, forcing herself to keep her voice down so as not to disturb Mrs. Washington. She lit a match, threw it in and glared at the paper as it curled and blackened. “The filthy bastard.” She added other curses, ones she had not uttered out loud in years. He had earned every one of them.
He had left without her. He and Miss Sanchez and even wicked old McCullen. The Professor had taken his worst enemy with him, but had left her behind.
This time, the letter held no indication that the Professor might come back in a month or would even try to return at all. He had left her money, his patents, the house, everything, but she didn’t care. Did he think those things would matter to her? That they were important? He had assured her that she was not a burden on him, but when it came down to it, he gave her money and then off he went. It was wretched, to be paid off like an unwanted bastard child.
And it wasn’t only the Professor. Miss Sanchez had also left her. She could have woken Hazel when they left, whenever that was, and taken her with them. Even if the Professor had objected, Miss Sanchez had never hesitated to disobey him when it suited her. Hazel thought back to her talk with Miss Sanchez, about the world of the future and how Hazel wouldn’t be able to get along in it without seeming like a madwoman. This was from the woman who had shown up in the street wearing tight men’s trousers and who hadn’t known how to lace up a corset or put up her hair. Miss Sanchez had learned to live in their world, so why couldn’t Hazel do the same in hers?
The entire thing was grossly unfair. Cruel even. The Professor had promised. He had promised not to leave her. Hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember if he had actually promised. It didn’t matter. She was alone. Tears stung her eyes, tears of rage and pain. She stormed into the laboratory, not knowing what she was looking for or what she would do. She wanted to find something that mattered to the Professor and destroy it, to smash it to bits. Her vision blurred by tears, she surveyed the chaos of the room where she had spent so many childhood afternoons, sitting with the Professor, talking or listening to him rattle on about his findings. All around the room lay scattered ledgers and papers, half-finished mechanical pieces, rolls of tubing and wire, all of it abandoned.
She picked up a mechanical arm, most likely one of the limbs from an automaton at the cathedral. But she couldn’t destroy it. It wasn’t right, and it would be useless and futile. It wasn’t as if the Professor would care if she burned the whole house to the ground. And even if she only destroyed things in the laboratory, it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, as everything was already a mess. Everything except McCullen’s table near the window. That was clean and orderly.
She drew closer, curious. She sorted through things. Perhaps he had left something, a clue, anything. But there was nothing useful. McCullen wasn’t her friend anyway, but as lonely as she felt, she was willing to take any comfort she could find. She flipped through his papers, only pausing for a moment when she saw the name September Wilde. The paper was covered in equations, none of them decipherable to her.
Hazel had accompanied the Professor on visits to September Wilde before. The woman had been completely unhelpful in giving the Professor any useful information, and instead had offered them both pieces of molasses cake.
A fine birthday this was turning out to be. It was nearly noon, and Neil Grey still had not come to visit her. The Professor and Miss Sanchez had abandoned her, and Mr. Ross would surely come by, offering her a birthday gift and hoping she would accept his marriage offer.
She had to get out of the house if she wished to avoid Mr. Ross. It was cowardly, yes, but she only needed a little more time. If Neil Grey never came, or if he refused to take her with him, then she would marry Mr. Ross. But if she could leave, would she? Was her curiosity so strong that she would sacrifice a happy home, a pleasant marriage, money and security to satisfy it?
She grabbed her wrap, put on her bonnet and went to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Washington where she would be and to inform her that her employer was gone forever.
Mrs. Washington was having coffee, her feet propped up on a kitchen chair. When Hazel came in, she pulled her feet down.
“Put them up if you like. It doesn’t bother me,” said Hazel.
“It’s just that they get tired,” Mrs. Washington said by way of apology.
Hazel was about to take the chair across from her, but felt too restless. She needed to move or she would go mad.
“He’s gone,” she said. “The Professor is gone. He took Miss Sanchez and McCullen.”
“Are they at his university laboratory?”
“No, they’re gone completely, to another time. The machine worked.”
Mrs. Washington got a strange look, but it was not one of either shock or disbelief. It was more like a bewildered sense of surprise. Hazel knew that the housekeeper had always known that the Professor had made a time rip, because Miss Sanchez had arrived. Through the years, Mrs. Washington had repeated her opinion that poor Miss Sanchez was an unfortunate woman who might have been touched in the head or had a bad family history. Hazel had never thought that Mrs. Washington truly believed it. She couldn’t deny the evidence before her, that a woman from another time had come and gone, and that the Professor had made a time traveling machine.
“It’s a cruel thing, to leave you on your birthday. I like the Professor. I truly do. But oftentimes he does things that aren’t wise or considerate. It’s a good thing he left you here though, instead of dragging you off. You’re better off safe at home.”
“But I’m not. I’m just as stuck here as ever.” Hazel paced to the door and back. “I wanted to go see the future and other worlds. Just imagine it! And they left me behind. The Professor even left the house and everything else to me. He’s never coming back, and I’m stranded here all alone.”
“Now, you listen to me. This isn’t like you. You are not an ungrateful girl. Lord knows you’ve been through enough to appreciate what you have. And that’s what you need to do now. Be grateful for it.”
“I’m going out for a bit,” Hazel said. “I need to get outside and take some fresh air.”
“You’re pacing around this kitchen like a caged panther, or the Professor. You and he are more alike than you think.”
“This moment would not be the finest time to tell me that. He’s not my favorite individual at present.”
“I’m simply saying that when you both get upset, you get restless. The two of you are kindred spirits, you are. Always wanting to run instead of walk.”
“I’ll be home before supper,” Hazel grumbled.
“Before you go, there’s a letter for you from the owner of the music shop you work for.”
“Mr. Augustus?” Hazel found the envelope on the sideboard. Inside, a letter informed her that he would be closing the shop for a few months. He was going on an extended visit to see his siblings. Now, that was odd. The shop was not doing well, and for him to close it would perhaps lead to its bankruptcy. He would only do this for the direst of reasons.
And there was another strange thing. Mr. Augustus knew that she could run the shop. She knew how everything operated, could place orders, repair most broken instruments herself and was trustworthy. So why would he rather risk the ruin of his business than ask her? She would have done the favor for him gladly.
At the bottom of the note, after his signature, was a postscript. It was a series of nu
mbers with dashes breaking them into groups. Perhaps he had installed one of those combination locks on the shop door, and her old key would not work. Did he want her to go look in on the shop? If so, why hadn’t he asked her? It was just another in a frustrating series of events.
She said good-bye to Mrs. Washington and walked down the street, her anger giving her speed. She had nowhere to go, but moving felt good. When she grew tired, she thought of looking in on Mr. Augustus’s shop. She waved down a trap, but a second before she gave him the address, she changed her mind. She didn’t remember September Wilde’s exact address, but she knew the street and would recognize the house. She told the driver to take her there.
As she passed through the streets of New Orleans, she thought of the time she had spent as a child of the streets, dressing as a boy and living off the coins she earned playing her violin. She had neither confided in nor trusted anyone. Certainly, she had liked the Professor, one of the few adults who regularly gave her work and paid her well. But she was alone then, seeing the world as a hostile and cruel place and people as untrustworthy.
Perhaps her view of the world had been clearer then. There were no illusions then, no silly hopes. She was self-sufficient, strong and independent. Now, she had become soft, needing others. Imagine, being sad because someone who wasn’t even family had left her. It was foolish and weak.
She paid the driver and walked the few blocks to Miss Wilde’s house. Mrs. Washington had told her years ago that Miss Wilde held a bit of notoriety for choosing to live in a white neighborhood. Strangely, few people minded, and whenever a group of citizens, or rarer still, the police, paid a visit to her, they always left with baked goods and smiles on their faces. And so Miss Wilde stayed, living in her little house, unmolested.
Hazel knocked on the door, shifting her weight from one foot to the other when no one answered. She knocked again and was about to leave, angry that she would have to walk a few blocks to find another trap, when the door opened.
The man standing there was known to her, but he was young, far too young. When she had seen him last, he had been in his forties. And now, he was only a few years older than she was.
“Mr. Grey?” she said. “It’s you! You’re here. Oh but this is a surprise! You did come on my birthday!”
“Do I know you?” He looked like he was about to close the door.
“It’s me. Hazel. You haven’t seen me since I was eleven.” She sighed. “And you were older then, so you won’t remember. But you did meet me and told me you’d see me again on my birthday.”
“And it’s your birthday today?”
“It is. I came to see Miss Wilde. I didn’t know you’d be here.” She wanted to jump up and down and do a little dance, but Mr. Grey was looking at her like she was somehow dangerous. Well, she must look a little wild around the eyes and she was smiling too broadly. She composed her features and waited for him to invite her inside. It was impolite to leave a lady standing on the doorstep.
“May I come in?” she finally asked.
“You may. No one else is home. Miss Wilde left this morning.”
He backed up from the door and she entered, pushing the door closed behind her. A white cat sat halfway up the stairs, watching her. It licked its paw and swiped circles over its face.
Mr. Grey looked uncertain, as if deciding if he should let her stay and talk or ask her to leave. “I was making a sandwich when you came.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she said and followed him to the kitchen. He hadn’t even offered her a drink or a seat. She tried to remember what Miss Sanchez had said, that manners were different in her time.
“Will Miss Wilde be back later?” she asked.
“She said she had to go see her brother in town at his shop. Then they’re going to leave the city for a few months. So no, she won’t.”
That was the second time she had heard of someone leaving the city. “That’s odd. I know someone else who is leaving for a few months. Mr. Augustus, the owner of a music shop I work for.”
“That’s him. She said her brother, Mr. Augustus, owned a music shop.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Miss Wilde is black and Mr. Augustus is white.”
“Do you mean they can’t be brother and sister?” he asked, looking up.
“It’s possible,” she said, but she felt her cheeks grow warm. It was certainly possible that they shared a white father who was married to Mr. Augustus’s mother but who had fathered a child with a black maid. The house was modest, but it appeared that Miss Wilde did not live in poverty, so perhaps the father had seen to her upkeep. Or her mother had been a kept woman and she had provided for her daughter. It was not unheard of, but for Hazel to speak of it was unseemly.
Mr. Grey set two roast beef sandwiches on the kitchen table and scooted in his chair. Hazel thanked him, noting that he wasn’t completely devoid of manners, and sat opposite him as he ate in silence. He wasn’t watching her directly, but she knew he was studying her, probably trying to understand how he would meet her in his future and why she would have expected him today.
“Do you have a time machine?” she asked.
He almost choked. “What?”
“A time machine. You had to get here somehow. I know you were born in the future, sometime around Miss Sanchez’s time. And her time was 2015.”
“Who is Miss Sanchez?”
“Another time traveler.”
“And what else do you know about me?”
He was wary now, and she didn’t want to make him uneasy. Of course he would be cautious around someone who already knew so many things about him when he knew nothing about her at all.
“Only that you work for a group of time travelers, that you have a time machine that the Professor made. Last time we met, you knew more about me than I knew about you.”
“And what did I know about you?”
“You didn’t tell me much, but you knew my name, my real name. When we met, I was a child and I went by the name of Henry and dressed as a boy. You also knew I played violin and you bought me a beautiful instrument. I have it still.”
He seemed to be thinking this over. “Can you play well?”
She wondered what she should say. On the one hand, she could be properly modest, but she got the sense that Mr. Grey was looking for information, not just making conversation.
“Yes, I’m a good player.” She didn’t elaborate or tell him how she had been the best player in her class, nor how Mr. Augustus had asked her, at age eleven, to represent his shop even though he had not taught her to play. She was one of the finest players in the area, but she couldn’t tell him that.
“Do you play concerts?” he asked.
“Me? I’m a woman. Playing piano in the drawing room is proper in this time. Standing on a stage playing violin is not.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. He seemed to be adding it to the catalog of information in his head. To be a time traveler must require that he remember so many details from so many times. “So women aren’t supposed to play violin, right?”
“It’s allowed, but most people approve of piano or harp or other feminine instruments more, but rarely on stage.”
“The violin seems pretty feminine to me,” he said, watching her. “The body of it is curved like a woman. It has hips and a waist and it sings with a soprano’s voice.”
She felt herself blush again and wished Mr. Grey wouldn’t say such things. They were completely improper. She tried to remember that Miss Sanchez and Mr. Grey’s times were barbaric and strange. Or perhaps he was trying to goad her, to tease her so he wouldn’t be the only one who felt uneasy and off guard.
Mr. Grey continued. “I also heard that people in this time think the violin is the devil’s instrument, because it sounds like a screaming demon. It possesses men’s souls.”
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He looked dead serious, as if he was giving her a dire warning. She chortled and then burst out laughing. “We’re not all mad, superstitious old women here. We have some common sense. It’s an instrument, nothing more.”
His mouth turned up at the corners, just a fraction, as if he were about to smile. But he continued to eat, and she got the odd sensation that she had just passed some sort of test.
“Do people in your time think the violin is the devil’s instrument or some sort of feminine homunculus?” she asked.
“No. I was just asking to see what you thought. That and I love music.”
“Do you? I teach people to play, if you’d like to learn.”
“No, that’s all right. I’m not very talented musically.”
“I teach all sorts of people, musical or not. Every person alive has some music in them. That’s what I say and I firmly believe it.”
The white cat strolled into the room and leaped up on the windowsill. Its ear flicked once, twice, and then it closed its eyes.
A touch of humor crossed Neil’s face, and at that moment, she realized what a grim person he was compared to other young men his age. When he was older, he was serious, yes. But at this age, he should have been more animated, more lively.
“So according to you,” he said, “we’re going to be friends in my future and your past?”
“Both our futures.”
“Well then, it appears we have no choice in the matter.” The way he said it was half bitter, half humorous. It bothered Hazel, because she knew exactly what he meant.
“It’s not as if anyone is forcing us,” she said. “We can do as we please. We can part ways, say our pleasantries, and I can go back home and play sad pieces on my violin. Then, you can head off to wherever you’re off to.”
He seemed to relax a little at that. “You really can play?”
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 42