The Art of the Swap

by Kristine Asselin

  A small cough lets me know it’s most definitely a person (unless we’re talking about an XXL rat . . . with a head cold), and I hold my breath tight in my lungs.

  The cart begins traveling down the track, and I flatten even tighter against the wall by instinct, even though I know perfectly well there’s plenty of room for it to pass by me. The person walking alongside it, though? Maybe not so much. At first all I can make out is a shadowy outline, but it’s enough that I can tell it’s someone close in size to me and wearing pants, which means definitely a boy. No pants for girls in 1905.

  Please be Jonah, please be Jonah, please be Jonah, please be—

  I screw up all my courage and whisper, “Jonah?”

  The shadowy figure jumps about forty-seven feet and stumbles on his landing. “What in the dratted blazes!”

  “Sorry,” I say in my normal voice, rushing forward to help. I peer into the boy’s face as I crouch next to him, and relax a little. It is Jonah.

  Jonah does the exact opposite of relax when he sees it’s me—er, Maggie. He springs up faster than my old cat Muffintop used to when she heard me shake a can of treats.

  “Apologies, miss. I didn’t . . . That is, I . . . ,” he stammers. “Please forgive me for using such language in front of a lady. I never expected . . . No one is ever . . . Much less someone who’s not a servant . . . and I—”

  “Oh no, please. It’s my fault. I’m sorry for scaring you like that,” I say, hoping my smile looks reassuring and friendly and not more like, Sound the alarm. There’s a crazy person in the cellar.

  He squints at me in the weak light.

  I exhale. Here goes nothing. “I was waiting here to talk to you. I didn’t want anyone to spot me, but I guess I didn’t think things through enough to realize I’d scare the pants off you.”

  His eyes blink extra fast at that expression, and he does a quick check of his waistband, to make sure it’s in place. Oops! I have got to be better about the slang thing.

  He recovers quickly, though. Enough to ask, “Waiting to talk to me? But . . . but . . . why me?”

  Okay, so did I say “here goes nothing” before? Nope. Here really goes nothing. “I know this is going to sound strange, but I have undeniable proof that there’s going to be an art heist at the ball tonight.”

  I kinda sorta skip the part where he’s the one blamed for it by the history books.

  “An art heist?” he repeats. His voice sounds a little dazed. He’s probably in shock. It’s bad enough to come across this girl who’s basically his boss—and who he talked to for only the first time yesterday—in a coal tunnel under the house. In the dark. Unexpectedly. But then she goes and opens her mouth and starts talking about an art heist that hasn’t even happened yet.

  If I were him, I’d probably be checking to see if I was on some hidden-camera TV show.

  Of course, there aren’t hidden-camera shows in 1905. Or any TV shows. Or video cameras, for that matter.

  So maybe it’s not surprising that instead of looking around, he plops down on the brick floor and shakes his head a few times to clear it. I watch him closely to try to determine if he’s in shock because someone (me!) is onto his devious plan to take the painting, or if he’s merely extra surprised by the combo of finding his employer’s niece in the coal tunnel and all the info I dropped on him.

  After a couple of seconds he takes several breaths, then looks up. “How can I help you prevent this from happening?” he asks, his eyes much clearer and calmer now.

  I mean, really. What kind of a criminal mastermind would have that immediate response? He’s so not the one. I just know it. My gut has never steered me wrong before, and it’s practically screaming at me that Jonah isn’t the thief.

  Even so, I’m going to stick to my original plan, which is to keep Jonah close while I rule him out. If I can do that while finding a way to keep my eyes on the portrait for anyone else who might try to take it, I’ll be #winning.

  I don’t feel like I can tell Jonah about the whole Freaky Friday body-swapping, time-traveling thing just yet. The poor guy has had enough of a shock for one day, and I’m positive that hanging out with the niece of his employers is probably blowing his mind quite enough, thank you very much. So I’ll just stick to the very basics here and hope they’re enough to make him go along with my plan.

  “Do you believe in psychics?” I ask him, sticking out my hand to help him stand up. He stares at my palm, eyes wide, before hopping to his feet on his own. I can tell I’m gonna have to get him over this whole “you have the power to fire me” thing sooner versus later. But for now I wait on his answer.

  “Do you mean as in fortune-tellers?”

  “Sure, close enough.”

  Jonah pauses for a second, like he thinks maybe I’m asking him a trick question and I’ll run and tell Maggie’s aunt if he fails my secret test. I smile to let him know that’s sooo not what’s going on here. He winces a little at my grin but then answers, “I—I guess so? Do you?”

  “Pretty much.” Technically I don’t, but that’s not important right now. “The thing is, one of the house parties I went to last week had a carnival theme, and there was a psychic who set up shop in this tent in the backyard.”

  People back then—I mean back now—are forever throwing ridiculously over-the-top parties. One couple had a giant papier-mâché watermelon wheeled in that opened up, and a person sprang out of it and gave all the attendees gold cases and watches as party favors. (Totally beats the make-your-own lip gloss kit I got at the last birthday party I went to, and I was pretty psyched with that, actually.) But anyway, it’s entirely possible there was a carnival party. And if there wasn’t, Jonah would never be in a position to know that.

  Which is why he’s nodding along right now.

  I continue. “So this woman was super-convincing, even though her crystal ball was a little sketchy looking. She said that the portrait set to be unveiled tonight would be stolen before the ball began.”

  His mouth drops. “And you—you believe her?”

  I nod like I’m a bobblehead, which seems to convince him. Or maybe it’s just that he would never contradict his employer. Either way, he’s definitely on my side. Yes!

  “Do you think maybe you could help me?” I ask, biting my lip. It’s not for show, either; I really am nervous about his answer. I don’t know what my plan will be if he says no.

  Jonah’s nodding himself now, though, almost before I finish asking the question. “Of course, miss. I’d be honored.”

  “Oh, whoa. You don’t have to do the whole ‘miss’ thing. Han—I mean, ‘Maggie’ is fine.”

  It’s pretty dark in the tunnel, but I’m positive that this makes him blush. “Of course, miss,” he answers. “Whatever you’d prefer.”

  Okay, so clearly I’m gonna have to work on getting him to relax around me, but for now I’m just grateful to have an ally. Turns out adventures are a thousand times less overwhelming when you have a plus-one along. And while the real Maggie is on my side in this mission, it kind of doesn’t count when she’s a hundred-some years away.

  “Great!” I exhale a big sigh.

  He clears his throat. “Er . . . did this psychic give you any further indications as to the nature of the theft?”

  Man, people talk so old-timey in this century. It’s one thing to read their letters from back then in the archives, but to hear the words spoken . . . I stifle my giggle, though, and give him a straight(ish) answer. “She didn’t. All I know is that sometime in the next few hours the painting of me that’s hanging hidden under a sheet in the drawing room is going to disappear forever, and I need to make sure that doesn’t happen, or else . . . Well, let’s just leave it as ‘or else.’ I could use a second brain on this one.”

  “Well, what if you just sat in the drawing room all day? No one would attempt to steal it out from under your nose, would they?”

  He’s probably right, and that was basically my plan, even though preventing the theft fro
m happening by just plopping myself in one of the armchairs and reading a book sounds anticlimactic. And way too easy. I mean, could it really be that simple?

  “That’s what I was thinking too,” I answer.

  Pride flickers across his face, but he hides it quickly. “Well, miss, I’m happy I could be of service.”

  He begins to push the cart along the track, heading deeper into the tunnel.

  “Wait!” I call to Jonah, whose shape has nearly been gobbled up by the shadows as he walks away from me. He pauses and turns.

  It can’t be that clean-cut. Whoever made this time-traveling thing happen, however this happened, there’s no way I switched places in time to stop an art heist just by . . . sitting around. What if spotting me on the couch prevents the theft today but the culprit returns tomorrow to snag it? Or the next day? No. Not good enough for me. I have to actively catch whoever it is in the act and make sure justice is served.

  “What if I don’t want to just prevent it?” I begin, taking a few steps toward him. “What if I want to solve it?”

  He tilts his head; I’m close enough now that I can see a flicker of something in his eyes before he forces his expression back to something way more neutral. Intrigue? Aha! Jonah has an adventurous streak. I totally relate. I can already tell we’d be good friends if I lived now. I mean, if I lived now as someone who was allowed to hang out with servants, that is. Sigh. It’s glamorous here, but there’s lots that these people have to learn about how to treat others like equals. Although, if I’m being honest, I guess the same could be said about my time too. We just aren’t usually as obvious about it . . . which might be even worse.

  Jonah is quiet for several long seconds where the only sound in the tunnel is some clanging from far off in the kitchen. Then he asks, “What if you pulled a bait and switch?”

  Okay, this is more like it! I have a partner in crime. I mean, a partner in crime-busting. “I’m listening. . . .”

  He starts to talk faster now, clearly getting into his role as chief crime-stopper. “You could swap out the painting and replace it with some other piece of art. With the sheet covering it, no one will know the difference. You could hide behind the curtains and wait for the thief to arrive, and then apprehend him.”

  “You mean ‘we’?”

  “Pardon?” Again with his head-tilty thing.

  “We can hide behind the curtain and we can apprehend the thief,” I say.

  He glances at the floor. “Oh . . . I . . . With all due respect, miss, my place is down here.”

  “Well, what time do you get off? I mean, they can’t work you all day, can they? You’re just a kid.”

  I know I’m really lucky to have the life I do and that there are kids in my time who live in poverty and probably would work full-time to help their family if our country didn’t have child labor laws against it. But of the kids I know personally, if any of them do have a job, it’s just occasional babysitting or something, and mostly to get money for in-app purchases instead of because they have to, like, put food on the table. I help out on tours all the time—much to Trent the Evil Docent’s dismay—but it’s not like it’s a job job. If I have a soccer game or something else I want to do, it’s no biggie to skip out on the tours.

  But right this very minute, if I got into a horse and carriage and ventured out of this neighborhood, I could find kids working in factories, in terrible conditions. Jonah probably figures if he gets fired from here, that’s exactly where he’ll end up. It makes me both sad for him and kind of ashamed that I get to live this carefree childhood that he never will.

  I’ve followed along on our Servant Life Tour countless times, and I know how hard the staff worked back then . . . er, back now. Regular hours were seven in the morning to eleven at night, six days a week. But it could be even later on nights when there were special events, like tonight’s ball. Would a kid have to work that long too?

  “I . . . well, to be honest with you, today is technically my day off. Once I finish up from taking delivery of the coal, that is. And I’ll be back to help during the ball tonight, of course. It’s always all hands on deck for those, and there will be all sorts of vegetables to clean and prep for Chef for the midnight supper.”

  “So you have to work all kinds of hours on your day off too?” Wowza. That stinks.

  He ducks his head. “I don’t mind. I’m grateful for the employment. It’s an honor to work in a home as fine as this; my mother is proud.”

  And I get that. It is a good job for a kid who’s not well-off in this day and age. But you know what would be even better? School. And summer vacation. I mean, it’s not like I loooove math tests or annotating assigned reading or any kind of homework ever, but those still beat nonstop chores all day long, for next to no money.

  I shake my head. “Well, now I feel extra bad about asking this, but any chance you’d want to stick around this afternoon and help me? I mean, but, you don’t have to. I know I’m technically, like, your boss or something, but please don’t feel like you have to say yes, if you have plans. And, um, I could see that you get paid for the time if you do decide to stay.” Mental note: make sure to tell Maggie so she can take care of that once we switch back.

  I watch him closely, trying to be calm about it, but inside my brain is a constant chant of please say yes, please say yes.

  “Do you mean . . . upstairs?” he asks, with a touch of wonder in his voice.

  When I nod, he says, “All due respect, miss, but I’ve never even been up there.”

  He works in this house for, like, fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and he hasn’t left the basement level?

  “Never?!”

  He shakes his head. “I enter and exit from the service entrance, which is also where I receive the food deliveries for putting away in the pantry. On occasion I will run an item to the butler’s pantry on the ground floor, but it is attached to the servants’ stairwell, so I’ve never set foot in any of the rooms where you live. I’d never have a purpose to do so.”

  I can tell that he’s nervous at just the thought of it, and I try to reassure him. “Don’t worry, it’s not that different from down here. A little brighter, of course. Although, except for this tunnel, it’s fairly cheerful down here, too. All the white tiles in the kitchen? And all the copper pots and the stove shining. It’s nice.”

  Jonah ducks his head. “I’m flattered you noticed all that, miss. I spend most of every morning cleaning the stove and a good part of every afternoon polishing the pots. I’ve developed this paste of flour, salt, and vinegar that—” His hand flies to his mouth. “Beg pardon. Surely you don’t have an interest in drudgery such as this.”

  I hold out my hand and add a finger to each point. “First of all, it’s Maggie, remember? Second of all, I do want to hear. I find it fascinating. I’ve always, always wondered who you were.” I stop abruptly because I almost just blew my cover. Jonah can’t find out that his name is known to someone a hundred years in the future, and, for that matter, he can’t know that I’m from that time. I rush to cover my mistake. “I mean, every summer I’ve visited my aunt here, I’ve been curious about what went on down here and who did it. Um. Anyway, so yeah, upstairs. I think you’ll like it. Less coal dust. A few million dollars’ worth of art and adornments. You know, about what you’d expect.”

  Jonah looks like he’s not at all sure what to make of me, so I try another tactic. Maybe if I can get him to feel invested, then he’ll be on board. “Any suggestions for somewhere we could hide the real painting during the bait and switch?” I ask, slipping the “we” in and hoping he doesn’t argue with my including him before he’s actually agreed to help.

  To my relief his face lights up. “I’ve already been thinking about that!” he says, squeezing carefully by me and striding deeper into the tunnel. “Come look!”

  It’s even harder to see back here, where the lightbulbs are spaced farther apart, but my eyes have adjusted enough that I can make him out a few steps ahead of
me. Which doesn’t keep me from crashing right into his back when he stops suddenly.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” he says, sounding horrified.

  “No biggie.”

  “Pardon?”

  Whoops. Slang alert. It just slipped out. “I’m fine, is what I meant.”

  He relaxes and presses his hand flat against the brick wall of the tunnel, motioning for me to do the same. “Feel around. Should be right here,” he says.

  “What should be?” I can’t let on, but I’ve been in this tunnel a ridiculous number of times. When Dad’s friend from college visits, his little boy is forever begging me to take him on a ghost tour of the house. (For the record, I’ve lived here for twelve years and counting and have encountered exactly zip, zero ghosts.) We always end up in basically this very spot near the end of the tunnel. So I’ve “been there, done that” when it comes to this space, and I am positive there’s nothing to see or feel.

  Except I’m wrong.

  I catch my breath when my fingers touch a tiny, worn-smooth square of metal, and I gasp when they encounter a small jagged opening in the center of it.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  I can’t really make out any details on Jonah’s face, but his voice is super-smug when he says, “Keyhole.”

  Say what?

  “There’s a door perfectly camouflaged into the brick. The hinges are on the inside, so there’s nothing to indicate that it’s even here, aside from this minuscule keyhole. Amazing, isn’t it?” he asks.

  A door! How come I’ve never found it? I mean, a door in a brick tunnel doesn’t ever go away, so it has to be there in my time. To be fair, it’s still pretty dark in here even in the future, and I’ve never run my hand all along the bricks. I usually walk down the center of the railroad track, actually. But still. I’m totally shocked there’s an inch of this house I don’t know.

  “You can get into it? What does it lead to?” I ask immediately.

  Jonah’s voice is smiley. “My secret break spot. Oh! I shouldn’t have confessed that to you. Please don’t tell your aunt or uncle! Or Chef or . . . anyone! I’d be fired immediately if they knew I was sneaking away from my duties.”