by Rysa Walker
“But your parents—” I begin. He puts his finger back on my lips, grinning when I give it an annoyed little nip with my teeth.
“My parents will adjust. Like I told Dad, I’m eighteen. This is a war, with stakes higher than any other. If I’d walked in and told my parents that I was enlisting in the Marines, they’d have been angry, but they’d have acknowledged that it’s my choice.”
“Would your mom be angry if you went in the military? She’s with the government, right?”
He laughs. “My mom would be ten times as angry as my dad about the military. The State Department is closer to Peace Corps than Marine Corps. But . . . she’s worked with this Julia Waters. Not closely, but I remember Mom mentioning the name a few years ago. It’s one of the few things that caused a duplicate memory for me. That and the whole Carrington Day barbecue—it makes my head hurt a little to think about those things. Like the deal with Prudence today at tea.”
“You should have stayed away, Trey. Katherine and Connor should never have let you in the house. You don’t have the CHRONOS gene, and we don’t have any way of knowing what this could do—”
“Shh. Don’t blame Katherine or Connor. They didn’t even let me in the first time I knocked. Connor came to the door and said I needed to respect your decision. I sat there in the porch swing for a good half hour, hoping you’d come out, and then I got this . . . gut-churning feeling. I guess it was the time shift? After it passed, I went home, thinking I’d just call you in the morning. I was in the car when it occurred to me that Tilson might know someone who could analyze the sample you brought back from Georgia.”
He stops, shaking his head. “He didn’t remember ever meeting me. No memory at all of the retirement party. Said he retired from Briar Hill twelve years ago. But—here’s the weird thing, Kate. He remembers meeting you, back in the 1990s. He wouldn’t say anything else about it, though. Then I got right back in the car and drove to Katherine’s. I banged on the door until Connor answered and practically pushed my way in so they’d listen.”
He stops like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I just stare down at the carpet. No matter how much he tries to shoulder the blame, he wouldn’t have been in any sort of danger if I hadn’t pulled him back into this mess. If I’d never tracked him down, never handed him that envelope, he’d be safe.
After a moment, he tips my chin up so that I have to look at him. “And don’t blame yourself either, Kate. I made my choice, and you have to accept that. Just like my parents. My life, my choices. The only downside is that Mom and Dad may view you in the same light as a military recruiter, at least at first. They’ll come around, though.”
“You seem pretty sure about that, but—”
“I am. I think there’s even a mathematical proof for it. Ask your dad. They love me, and I love you, so, ipso facto, they’ll love you, too.”
“I don’t think it works that way. Otherwise the whole Romeo and Juliet story would have worked out different . . . ly.”
When I realize what he just said, I reach up to take off his hat and the fake glasses. Then I pull his lips down to mine.
He just said I love you, and unlike the moment on the rooftop, there was no doubt in his voice, no hesitation. Just a simple statement.
And, ipso facto, my doubts are gone, too.
∞6∞
SOMEWHERE NEAR A BEACH
April 26, 1905, 7:00 p.m.
Given the date on the coordinates, I expect to see the cabin in Georgia or maybe the storeroom at Jess’s tobacco shop when I blink in. But it’s a hotel room, and instead of his usual jeans, Kiernan is in dark pants and a dress shirt, with a vest cut low in the front. There’s a suit jacket over the back of the chair, a folded newspaper in his hand, and a cloth bag at his feet. He sits near the open window, staring out over a slate-colored sea. The sun hangs low on the horizon, giving the boardwalk and the small stretch of beach just beyond a grayish-orange glow.
The fact that he’s looking out the window is almost as unexpected as the location. Before, if Kiernan was expecting me, his eyes were locked on the stable point. Even if he was angry, he still faced forward, almost like he had a physical need to see me the second I appeared.
I clear my throat softly, and he turns toward me.
He’s grown a mustache and long sideburns. They don’t suit him.
He gives me a perfunctory smile—not the wide, crazy grin I’m used to, but still better than a scowl.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Eastbourne. Maybe fifty miles south of London.”
“And why are we in Eastbourne?”
“Because Houdini’s here,” he says brusquely. “We should wrap up this one key from the past before dealing with present and future. And tonight’s our best shot.”
Kiernan hands me the newspaper, folded to reveal an advertisement:
The first appearance in Eastbourne of the world famous and Original HOUDINI. Winner of the great Handcuff Contest, as challenged by the London Illustrated Daily Mirror. March 17, 1904. The Original. Not a Copy. The Original.
Kiernan taps a heading about halfway down:
CHALLENGE!
HARRY HOUDINI, Hippodrome, Eastbourne
Dear Sir—You will pardon us, but we have figured it out that the Trunk Trick you are doing IS NOT GENUINE but is prepared, and we can prove it by challenging you to allow us to make an ordinary Packing Case of One Inch Deal into which we guarantee TO HAVE YOU NAILED AND ROPED up so that you CANNOT GET OUT without DEMOLISHING THE BOX. If you do not care to try it publicly, will you try it privately; if so let us know when to send the case and our men will be at your disposal.—Messrs. Cornwell & Son, Builders and Contractors, Grove-road and Ashford-road, Eastbourne.
Houdini Accepts the above Challenge For WEDNESDAY NIGHT, April 26, at the Hippodrome, Eastbourne. Everyone allowed to bring Hammer and Nails.
When I look up, Kiernan is dumping a hammer, nails, and a folded piece of notepaper from the cloth bag onto the bed.
“I’ve been snooping around his shows for the past few weeks here and in Scotland. Tried to arrange a meeting by handing one of his assistants the Boudini flyer several weeks back, which may explain the emphasis on originality in the ad you’re holding. So I can’t do this. You, however, might have a shot. The stage manager will be amused if a five-foot slip of a girl volunteers to drive a nail.”
“Five foot three. And I can drive a nail. I built a treehouse once.” I don’t add that it tilted to one side and wouldn’t have supported an overweight squirrel before Dad took over and brought it up to code. I might have confessed that to the younger Kiernan, but . . .
“Doesn’t matter. These guys understand show business. They’ll put you up front with a half dozen burly guys, just for visual effect.”
“On stage?” Just saying those two words makes my heart pound.
“No,” he says, giving me a look like I’m crazy. “Out back in the alley. Of course, on stage. Once you’re up there, just get close enough to drop this note into Houdini’s crate. And be sure your medallion is visible.”
I unfold the note. A request for a private meeting at the bar inside the Queen’s Hotel immediately after the show, above a rough sketch of the medallion. Below that is the question: What color is the light for you?
“Get this to him,” Kiernan says, “and he’ll meet with you.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Kiernan.”
In fact, I think it’s a horrible idea. I’m two steps away from a total freak-out merely contemplating stepping onto a stage. I’ve gradually reached a point where I can improvise fairly well on time jumps, but that type of performance has never petrified me like being onstage. I’ve only been on twice before—well, three times if you count the piano recital disaster when I was nine, but that wasn’t actually a stage. The first time was in fifth grade. I was forced into a speaking role in the school play when some kid came down with the flu. Three years later, at middle school graduation, I tripped on the
principal’s microphone cord and fell face-first onto the stage, squashing the rolled-up diploma he’d just handed me.
I’m not inclined to admit this to Kiernan in his current mood, however. It probably wouldn’t matter anyway since he’s ignoring me. He walks to the closet and pulls out a dress. “It’s a bit large, so I doubt you’ll need a corset, but there’s one in the dresser if you do. Shoes, bonnet, and so forth, in the closet. Hairpins and a brush are over there.”
Kiernan turns to go, and I grab his arm. Julia’s warning is blinking in my head like a big neon sign, and the change in his overall attitude isn’t really helping to put me at ease.
“Wait. Could we talk first? I’d like some background going into this. I know Houdini was an escape artist and magician, but—”
“We need to get to the Hippodrome early so you’re near the front,” he says, pulling my hand away from his arm. “Get dressed. We can talk after the show.”
I glance back at the showtime listed in the article—it reads 8 p.m. “Is the theater nearby?”
“A short walk.”
Having experienced his idea of a short walk before, I know this can mean anything from three blocks to three miles. But before I can ask for clarification, he’s gone.
I sigh and examine the dress. It’s more elaborate than the 1905 outfit I wore in Boston, with yards of pale-green silk and an odd lace cape. Judging from the way it’s arranged on the hanger, the cape drapes over the shoulders and rests just above my waist in the front, dipping down into a deep V in the back. With the low-cut bodice, I kind of like the idea of the lace in front, even if it does look sort of strange.
I soon discover this dress isn’t equipped with Velcro down the back, so despite several minutes of twisting my body into a pretzel, some buttons remain unfastened.
I’m sitting on the bed trying to pull my hair back into something orderly when Kiernan walks in, not even bothering to knock. He curses softly when he sees I’m not ready and crosses over, quickly fastening the open buttons. Then he takes the brush and shifts the knot of hair to the side of my head before pinning the hat in place and tugging a few curls loose around my face.
All of this takes less than two minutes. Kiernan’s expression is flat, businesslike, as he turns me around to check my appearance. His behavior is a seismic shift from a few weeks back—well, at least for me it was a few weeks back—when he helped me into the 1905 outfit he kept at Jess’s store. Then, his fingers lingered on my skin, like he was looking for any excuse to make physical contact.
Now, it’s like he’s dressing a child who’s late for the school bus—a child he doesn’t especially like. I know I can’t have it both ways. I should be relieved, and in one sense, I am. But this shift in his personality is too abrupt, too extreme, for me just to accept without question, especially after Julia raised doubts about his loyalty. I don’t know what changed him, what turned him into someone I barely recognize, but we need to talk.
I grab his hand as he stashes the brush in the drawer. Again, he shakes me off and drops a black velvet ribbon in my lap. “Put your key on this. It looks stupid on the cord.”
The shorter ribbon definitely works better with the dress and will make it harder for Houdini to miss, but again the words and his tone aren’t in character. I attach the key to the ribbon and tie it behind my neck.
“Better?” I ask with a tentative smile.
“You’ll do.” He holds the evening bag out in my direction. “Now could we get moving?”
The smile freezes on my face. “Who peed in your coffee, Kiernan? Why are you acting this way?”
He lets out an annoyed huff and replies with mock patience. “Kate, we need to go or we’ll be late. Do me a favor and at least try to act professional.”
Both his tone of voice and the words are clearly intended as a slap in the face. I feel tears spring to my eyes and look away to hide them. There’s a brief glimmer of something that looks like remorse in his expression when I glance back, but he gets it under control quickly.
“Fine.” I snatch the purse from his hand. “But as soon as we’re done, you will tell me what the hell is going on with you.”
Kiernan wasn’t exaggerating. The Hippodrome is less than three minutes from the Queen’s Hotel. For the first two blocks we use the boardwalk. Flocks of seagulls swoop along the beach, and they have the place pretty much to themselves. One lone couple huddles together on a driftwood log a yard or so beyond the reach of the tide. It’s cold—cold enough that I wish Kiernan had added a coat to my costume rather than this useless cape.
The theater is a block in from the shore. It’s general admission, and there are already people milling about, so perhaps Kiernan was right to suggest arriving early. Of course, he could easily have set the coordinates so that I jumped in an hour or two before the show and avoided a last-minute rush.
We push our way through to the front of the theater so that I’ll be in position once they start asking for volunteers. Kiernan put the hammer and nails into the little evening bag I’m holding, and the handle sticks out in plain view. It looks stupid, and I wonder if Kiernan’s preparations aren’t overplaying my assigned role as the helpless little woman.
There are maybe three hundred seats in front of us as we enter the plush red auditorium, so my first impression is that it’s much smaller than the one at Norumbega where Kiernan performed his Boudini act. Then I glance up and see that there are two seating levels above us. Most of those seats are already filled, so I’m guessing they’re the less expensive option.
I locate two vacant chairs in the second row, just to the left of center. Kiernan puts his program on the seat next to me and says he’ll be back later. “Keep an eye out for a stage manager.” He nods at a door to the side of the stage that’s slightly ajar. “Then announce loudly that you have hammer and nails. And don’t get all pissy if they laugh at you.”
“Why should I take it personally? I didn’t pick this costume, so they’ll be laughing at you, not me.”
A faint ghost of his old grin surfaces, but disappears almost immediately. He heads toward the back of the theater. The seats around me start to fill over the next few minutes, with a good quarter of the spectators holding hammers and nails.
Eventually, a harried-looking man pushes the door open. He looks around and disappears again. A minute or so later, he comes back out holding a small pad of paper.
“I see a lot more hammers than we expected. Mr. Houdini would be delighted to have each and ever’ one of you pound in a nail or two, but I think the local fire brigade might advise against a mob on the stage. So we’ll take an even dozen.”
Hands fly up. Some of the volunteers, all of them men, stand. Several look like they might be professional wrestlers, if they even have those in 1905. I wave my hand fervently, but the stage manager doesn’t see me. He hands a little slip of paper to six or seven men, clearly going for the biggest and brawniest.
The fact that I’m a head or two shorter than everyone around me isn’t helping. Although the chair doesn’t look especially sturdy, it should hold my weight, so I yank the seat down and climb up. Once I catch my balance, I wave the handbag. “Pick me!”
Several people around me start to laugh. A few jeers are mixed in as well.
“You’ve picked only men.” I’m suddenly conscious of my American accent in the sea of Brits and the fact that everyone is staring. “I think they’re in on the game—you’re paying them. Why not give a girl a chance?”
The manager rolls his eyes. “Sorry, miss, already picked my dozen—”
“So make it a baker’s dozen,” someone yells from the back.
“Bet she can’t hit the bloody nail anyway. Give us somethin’ to laugh at.” That voice is clearly Kiernan’s, and most of the men chuckle.
A woman near the front throws a dirty look in Kiernan’s direction. “Twelve men and no women hardly seems fair.”
Another man calls out, “I say give ’em the hammer and maybe they’ll quit yapp
in’ about wantin’ the vote.”
I’m thinking that give ’em the hammer could be taken two ways. Apparently the woman who asked for a bit of gender equity agrees, because her mouth tightens.
The stage manager shrugs. “Fine, we’ll make it unlucky thirteen. If anything happens to Mr. Houdini, it’ll be on your conscience, lady.” He rips off another scrap of paper and hands it to me. “Now get down offa the chair an’ behave.”
He glances around at the others he selected. “The challenge comes at the end of the show. When they bring out the crate, you’ll come onstage. Houdini’ll most likely joke around a bit, then he’ll climb in, and we’ll close the lid. Each of you steps forward in turn. Two nails each—we ain’t got all night.”
He slips back through the stage door, and I sink down into my chair.
Kiernan comes back about ten minutes later and takes his seat. “Good work.”
I snort. “Don’t give me that. I heard you back there.”
“Just seeding the crowd. A time-honored practice among showmen and politicians alike. When you get up there, make sure you’re at the front of the line, before they close the crate. I slipped a few bob to the guy at the back and told him to yell out ‘Ladies first,’ so I’m guessing it won’t be a problem.” He runs his eyes over me quickly and then pauses to give my breasts a longer look. There’s no lechery involved, however—it’s like he’s debating their effect. “Take off the cape thing and leave it here.”
I give him a scathing look and then reach behind me to unclasp the lace bolero. Once it’s off, I fling it into his lap. “Happy now?” I ask.
His mouth tweaks upward slightly, and I can’t help but think that this new Kiernan would give Charlayne’s friend Bensen some competition as the master of understated facial expressions. In Bensen’s case, I had the sense that it was just his nature. Kiernan, on the other hand, has rarely tried to hide his feelings from me—good or bad, mutual or not. Or if he’s tried, he’s never been successful. Now, it’s as though everything he does and says is an act.