The Cassandra Complex

by Wendy Nikel

  Something shifts beneath us; the train is slowing down.

  Madeline presses her hand to the small of my back, ushering me out of the suite. “And what year did you say you were from?”

  “2133.”

  A smile stretches across her face. “Fascinating! You absolutely must tell me all about it. We’ll have plenty of time to discuss it on the trip back east. Come on, then.”

  “I ought to tell—”

  “No time,” Madeline says, tapping her own expensive but ordinary watch.

  “But I promised—”

  “The train’s already slowing. If we disembark now, we can be back in New York in three days.”

  “New York?” I ask. “I thought you said we’d go to Washington, D.C.”

  “We’ll need to stop at my estate first,” she says, bustling me alongside her. “We must approach this strategically, my dear. You can’t simply waltz into the Oval Office and demand to be seen. We need to be cautious, careful, else we’ll meet the same reception that old Governor Ammons gave you, and we can’t have that, can we?”

  I shake my head. No, that wouldn’t do any good.

  “Shall we?” Madeline loops her arm in mine and grins. My own lips aren’t as quick to return the gesture, but so far, she’s the best option I’ve got—the only person who’s come anywhere close to believing me. I force a strained smile.

  “It’s positively serendipitous that you ran into me,” she says. “Come on, now. Let’s you and I go change the world.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Madeline purchases our tickets back east as I watch the California Limited pull away with Fanny, Mary, and Alice aboard. I appease my guilt by telling myself that I’ll send them a telegram as soon as I’m able. When that will be—or where I’ll get the money for it—I don’t know, but I’m sure they’d understand if they knew the whole story. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity Madeline presented.

  The first-class observation car aboard the eastbound train still isn’t as comfortable as the airtrains back home, but it’s a huge improvement over the Harvey Girls’ quarters, and I’m so exhausted that I fall asleep almost immediately and don’t wake again until well into the next day.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” Madeline says, tucking away an appointment book. She’s wearing a different outfit than the one she left in—this one a powder-blue traveling suit with a matching fathered hat—and her hair is done up in perfect ringlets. “Excellent. Let’s get you something to eat and then we can get started on planning our next steps.”

  My stomach rumbles as I follow her to the dining car, but even more than food, I’m eager to hear what she has in mind to do with my foreknowledge. My PVDs, still tucked away in my blouse, press against my chest.

  Madeline orders soup and bread for us, and as the waitress hurries to fill our order, the older woman opens her appointment book to a clean page.

  “Now, as soon as we arrive in New York, I mean to call an emergency meeting of my organization. I’m certain that my colleagues will be very eager to meet you. Am I correct in assuming that you are here because of some horrific future event? Like the traveler who came to the Titanic?”

  “I guess you could say that,” I stammer. “But I have a feeling that the general population wouldn’t react well to the news.”

  “I assure you, my colleagues are very tactful.”

  “But will they be able to help me reach people who can help? The president or his cabinet members? Someone who can really make a difference? Someone who will listen?”

  “Don’t you worry,” Madeline says, reaching out to pat my hand. “You’ll find that we’re a very well-connected group. We won’t steer you wrong. Now, what else can you tell me about the next decade or so? The group will be eager to learn all about what the future holds.”

  The tip of Madeline’s fountain pen touches the paper, leaving a black dot that grows and grows as she waits for my answer.

  “The more specific the details, the better,” she prompts.

  Finally, someone who’s willing to listen, to take me seriously. I hardly know where to start.

  I look around the dining car, and though it seems like everyone else is engrossed in their own thoughts, it still feels strange to be speaking so openly about it. After all, my family kept time travel a secret for years, even from me.

  “Don’t you think we ought to wait until we’re somewhere more private?”

  Madeline scoops a spoonful of sugar into her coffee and stirs it, clanking the spoon noisily against the sides of the cup. “It is my sincere wish that someday things will change, but for right now, we are merely two women talking over lunch. We couldn’t possibly be discussing anything important. Or so anyone will assume. I assure you, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Reluctantly, I realize she’s right.

  “Now, tell me, what about inventions?” Madeline says eagerly. “What important advancements will be coming in the next years?”

  I fiddle with the napkin in my lap. It’s one thing to try to warn people about impending disaster, another just to hand out information about the future willy-nilly. Yet as Madeline sits there across from me, staring expectantly, this feels like some sort of test—a test not only of my knowledge, but also to prove my trust.

  “Well, the radio for one,” I blurt out, as if saying it quickly will lessen its potential impact on the timeline. “It’s used for communication across the country, so that everyday people can hear news instantly from their homes. And automobiles. Henry Ford’s assembly line makes them much more affordable over the next few years.”

  “Fascinating.” Madeline takes up her pen and jots down a few notes. “I never thought automobiles would take off. So clunky and slow, compared with rail travel, don’t you think? What else? Something that will take place within the next few weeks. Proof, one might say, in case the others are not easily swayed.”

  I nearly reached up to pull my PVD from my blouse, but a sudden sense of caution stills my hand. Dad’s words echo in my head: “Knowing about the future changes you, and there’s no going back from that.” There was a lot about the future on that device, and it’d be a lot to take in all at once.

  Madeline sets her spoon down and looks at me questioningly. “You mentioned an incident in the mining town?”

  “Yes, Ludlow. On April 20th.”

  She nods. “That ought to be easy enough to verify. Anything else?”

  “Actually, there is something very important coming up. Something with global repercussions.” I lower my voice. “There’s a war coming, and it will be devastating. And it will lead to another, with more devastation. We have to warn the president. There’s going to be an assassination in a few months—”

  “Of the president?”

  “No, no. An archduke.”

  “I see.” Madeline sets down her teacup. “And tell me, who’s on the losing side of this war?”

  “The Central Powers: Germany, Austria-Hungary, the Ottoman Empire, and Bulgaria.”

  “Of course,” Madeline says. “There’s been unrest in the Balkans for quite some time.”

  “But the end of the war won’t come until 1918, after millions of casualties on both sides.”

  “And which countries are most severely affected by this war?”

  I frown, trying to recall. “The Western front was in France and Belgium and England, while the Eastern front was Russia and Austria-Hungary. And then there was the Italian front as well. Why?”

  Madeline has pulled out her pen again and is taking notes. I try to read them upside-down, but her quick, loopy writing is difficult to read, even without taking into consideration the unfamiliar abbreviations she uses.

  “If we can warn President Wilson,” I say, “we can prevent the war entirely. This doesn’t have to happen.”

  “You may be right,” Madeline says thoughtfully. She closes her notebook. “Tell me, when do women achieve the right to vote in the United States?”

  “1920, I think? Though some sta
tes passed laws allowing it earlier. Women played such a major role on the home front during the war, the government finally recognized their abilities.”

  Madeline nods, as though she’d suspected as much, and taps her pen on her lip. “And if the war doesn’t happen? How long do you think it would take then?”

  “You’re not suggesting that we let it happen just to hasten women’s suffrage, are you?”

  “All I’m suggesting is that, if we are to alter the future, that we need to consider the consequences.”

  I open my mouth, then snap it shut. She’s not wrong. It’s just that I don’t see any scenario where war might be the best option. “Maybe we ought to let the president decide then. That’s his job, isn’t it? To guide the country in what is best for all its citizens?”

  “It is,” Madeline says, though her voice is distant, and I wonder if she even heard what I said.

  “Mrs. Barker,” I say firmly, leaning in to get her attention. “You will help me get an audience with the president, won’t you? Or if not him, a cabinet member or military leader or… or someone who can put a stop to this war.”

  “You know what I like about you, Miss Argent? You’re ambitious—like me. Women like us are vastly underappreciated. Can I tell you a story?”

  I nod.

  “My father was a merchant,” Madeline says. “A very successful man with a keen business sense, who’d built up his legacy from nothing. But by the time I was your age, I was running his company while he wasted away on his deathbed. Every document, every order, every sale and purchase in those years—though signed with his name—was my decision alone. And in those years, the business flourished. But when the old man finally perished, who took his place? My idiot brother, who took it all away and ran the company to the ground within two years.

  “I tried to fight my way into the business world, but no one wanted to listen to a woman, regardless of her experience or expertise. So I found another way: I married.” She leans in, her red lips curved upward. “And with whispers and smiles and womanly wiles, I slowly grew my influence over my husband until there was not a single decision he made without my go-ahead. And then I nearly lost it all again when he died.”

  At that, Madeline throws down her napkin.

  “That, Miss Argent, is the world we’re living in. It is difficult for even skilled and intelligent women like ourselves to be heard, to be seen as anything other than a daughter or wife.”

  “But you’ll help me be heard?

  Madeline smiles as she pushes her plate away and rises from the table. “I assure you, Miss Argent, that I will do all in my power to ensure that your warnings are heard by the correct people. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I have some letters to write before our stop. We’ll chat more later.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: April 21, 1914

  The Barker estate is enormous. It’s incredible to think that the giant, sprawling building is really intended as a residence for just one family. The silvery Rolls Royce—“imported from London,” Madeline explains—rattles down the sweeping drive and through the wrought iron gate, and the house rises up before us like something out of a fairy tale.

  “It looks like a castle.” I feel silly saying it, but it’s true.

  “My husband, God rest his soul, had it built in the style of an English manor,” Madeline says, not even taking her attention from the small book in her lap to glance up at the enormous brick building. “Charles II era, I believe.”

  “It’s lovely,” I say, admiring the perfectly aligned windows and dormers, the elegant columns and balconies, and the multiple chimneys reaching skyward. There’s nothing like this around in my era, at least not in the city where my family lives, where I spent my life until this point. There, everything is built for efficiency, and while there’s a certain artistry to its clean lines and smooth surfaces, there’s something about the design of this manor that feels more naturalistic, as if, instead of being built, the bricks slowly sprouted from the earth, the shingles opened like petals across the roof, and the glass panes pooled like rainwater in the empty spaces. “Your husband had superb taste.”

  “He did,” Madeline says, her voice strangely hollow.

  At the front entrance, a footman opens the door and helps me down from the seat. “Your bag, miss?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any, sir.”

  “Hugh is the butler,” Madeline says. “You needn’t address him as ‘sir.’”

  “Sorry.” I look from my hostess to the servant, uncertain which one I ought to be apologizing to. All those lessons I took on the 19th century, and not a single one of them had anything to say on what the proper etiquette would be in this situation. At least back with the Harvey Girls, Mrs. Wallace made certain I knew my place.

  “And you needn’t worry about your wardrobe,” Madeline says. “We’ll get you settled into one of the guest rooms, and then Hugh, tell Clarice to bring Miss Argent some of last year’s gowns. It shouldn’t take her too long to hem them up so they’ll properly fit you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your generosity,” I say, following Madeline through the front entrance and into the foyer. I nearly forget what I’m saying when I step inside and see the intricate woodworking on the banisters and elegant, polished furnishings, lit from above by a crystal chandelier.

  “It’s the least I can do.” Madeline tosses her gloves and hat on a side table and sweeps up the curving staircase. I rush after her, feeling like a puppy tagging along on her heels.

  “You don’t need to go through all the trouble of fitting things for me, though. I’ll need to be getting back to Chicago as soon as…” I glance at Hugh, who’s lingering at the bottom of the steps. “As soon as I’m done here.”

  I’d been so hasty in leaving with Madeline, I hadn’t even thought of what I’d do after saving the world from a massive global conflict. Maybe, if things work out, I can still get back to Chicago and beg Oliver McIntire to give me my job back before Dodge makes his next visit, whenever that is.

  “I don’t know how you’re used to things working,” Madeline says lightly, “but in these days, gaining an audience with the president takes a bit more than a simple request. And to convince him of your qualifications may be tricky.”

  “What do I need to do? How much time will it take?”

  “All you need to do,” Madeline says, stopping at the top of the steps, “is to leave everything to me. First, we must meet with my organization. With their support, many more avenues will be open to us, I assure you.”

  “And until then? What should I do?”

  “You’re welcome to remain here as my guest in the interim. In fact, for your own protection, I must insist upon it.”

  “Insist upon it?” A sudden, fleeting thought occurs to me that I have no way to communicate with anyone outside this manor. It’s a strange, unwelcome thought that makes me feel suddenly very small and vulnerable.

  Madeline laughs. “Oh, dear. I don’t mean to startle you. You do realize, though, the power of the information you carry in that pretty head of yours? There are those who would die for—who would kill for—even a few of your secrets. For a glimpse into that mind of yours.”

  Something like a cold shiver works its way up my spine, but I shake it off. I’m safe here.

  “I have a brother,” I say, on impulse, not quite knowing why. “He’s a traveler as well, and he promised he’d be looking in on me. I’ll need to send word to him about where he can find me.”

  “Of course,” Madeline says, sweeping once more down the long, paneled corridor. “Do you know where to reach him?”

  “Yes. There’s a boarding house where he always stays when he’s in Chicago. I can send a letter to him there.”

  “Excellent,” Madeline says. “As soon as you’ve written him, just give the envelope to Hugh, and he’ll see to it that it’s posted immediately. Now, this will be your room while you’re here.”

  The first thing I notice when I step inside the door at the end of the
corridor is the fire burning brightly in the fireplace across from a lace-adorned canopy bed. There are chairs and sofas on the opposite end of the room and a door beyond that, which presumably leads to a bathroom. Enormous windows line one wall, opening onto a balcony that looks out over a beautiful spring garden.

  My breath catches in my throat. It’s all so excessive, so impractical, so inefficient compared with the living quarters I’m used to.

  “I do hope this is sufficient for your needs,” Madeline says, running a finger across the mantle and nodding to herself when it comes away clean. “I’m afraid I won’t be much company to you; there’s always so much to do in running an estate like this. There’s a library downstairs; do people of your time still enjoy books?”

  “Um, yes.” I hesitate, trying to figure out how to explain to someone of this era all the changes books had gone through in the centuries between now and my time. In the end, I leave it at that. A book is a book, regardless of the form it takes.

  “You’re welcome to explore the first floor, the grounds, the library…” she says, ticking off each area in a way that makes me briefly wonder what she’s excluding. “Oh, and there’s a music room down the corridor, if you play. Now, I’ll be headed to the city in the morning to meet with the members of my organization and arrange an introduction for you.”

  “And that will help us get an audience with the president?” I press her. “That’s really all I’m here for.”

  “One step at a time,” Madeline says, smiling. And with that, she sweeps from the room, leaving me again balking, unbalanced, in her wake.

  ***

  The next day is so surreal, I feel as if I’m living in a dream. By the time I wake in the morning, Madeline is gone, leaving me alone with a staff of servants who will only answer my questions with single-word answers.

  The butler in particular seems to have quickly developed an overwhelming disdain for me that comes out all the more clearly now that my hostess has departed. Whether it’s because I called him “sir” or some other faux pas I’ve committed, I don’t know, but when I approach him with questions about where to find a pen and some ink for writing Dodge, or how the faucet on the tub works, his answers are accompanied by a condescending sneer that makes me want to yank the prickly-looking mustache from his face.