Jonah snorts.
I roll my eyes. “Wow, you really don’t get it. You’re toast. You never had the real painting, and you never will. Deal with it.”
The man puts his face in his hands and hangs his head. “I was so close.”
“Yeah, you were soooo close to stealing a worthless landscape,” I say. “Gold star for you.”
The man shakes his head, still covered by his hands. “The portrait’s not much more valuable. It wasn’t about that.”
Interesting. Now I’m intrigued. “What, then?”
“I didn’t want it unveiled,” he says through his fingers. “I didn’t want anyone to see it.”
I exchange a look with Jonah, but it seems Sherlock hasn’t pieced things together yet either, because he looks just as puzzled as I am.
“But you told me you were there for the sittings,” I say. “And you’re Mary Cassatt’s apprentice. Wouldn’t that make you feel proud of it? Wouldn’t you want the whole world to see what she created?”
He drops his hands and looks at me, and his eyes have this weird hard look in them. “I knew that if no one had the chance to see this portrait, Mademoiselle Cassatt’s bright light would begin to dim, and attention would move on to the painting world’s rightful artistic virtuosos, such as myself. Everyone knows men are the ones who should be honored and acknowledged for our creative genius. She doesn’t deserve glory. Not—not a weak-minded female!”
He spits the last word out of his mouth like it’s a watermelon seed.
I drop my jaw. “Seriously, dude?”
Both Jonah and Frenchy stare at me.
“Dude? What is this ‘dude’ word? Je ne comprends pas.”
I just laugh softly. “Listen, I’ve got news for you. Your boss is . . . She’s . . . well, let me put it this way. In a hundred years her paintings are gonna hang in museums all around the world, and schoolkids are gonna do reports on her. Who are you?”
“Augustus Renaldo,” he answers, tilting his head in confusion.
I pretend to think hard for a second. “Yeah . . . nope. Not a single person in the future will have your name on their lips. The only way your memory is going to be preserved for all time is in the picture this camera contains. The one proving you’re a spineless, gutless, sneaky nobody. Oh, and by the way, in case it isn’t totally clear”—I drop my voice to a whisper and lean down so he can hear me—“this here weak-minded female just B-U-S-T-E-D BUSTED you.”
There’s dead silence when I stop speaking, and then Jonah quietly claps. “That was amazing.”
I flash him a giant smile. “Thanks.”
We both turn to face Augustus-You-Bustus, who’s studying the grass.
“What were you planning to do with the painting?” I ask.
“Nothing! That is to say, I planned to destroy it the first opportunity I got.”
Wow. Just wow. The guy’s ignorant and heartless. I can’t even.
“What will you do with me?” he asks.
My intention all along was to see justice done and turn the thief in, and he definitely deserves to rot in jail. But then I realize what will happen if I run yelling for the Berwinds right now. Gossip about the attempted theft will be all over Newport in an hour and cause chaos for the ball. The drawing room—aka the scene of the crime—will fill with cops and there won’t be any chance for Maggie and me to switch places. That’s so not fair to her. She deserves to be back for her own ball. Maybe it’s enough just to know that the painting is safe and sound.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re really extra lucky that I don’t have time today to turn you over to the authorities, like you deserve. But if I’m gonna let you get away with this, I do have terms.”
“Terms?” he asks, sounding scared.
Good. He should sound scared.
I raise my finger, as if to poke him. “You’re going to leave. ASAP. Pronto. Don’t say a word to anyone, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. And don’t try to figure out what that means. Just leave. And never, ever, EVER come back or try to contact Mademoiselle Cassatt, or anyone in my family, or even anyone remotely related to any of the families I might know in passing. You should probably just switch to painting houses, in fact. Or fences. Or porta-potties, whenever those become a thing. Do you get me?”
He nods so fast, I’m afraid his head might pop off his neck. Wow. This is actually kind of FUN! I feel like a superhero. Jonah looks like he’s trying not to laugh, but in a supportive way, not a mean way.
“How do I know you won’t use that picture you took against me the minute I leave here?” he asks.
I sigh, because he’s seriously pushing his luck. I hold the camera out in front of me and flick open the door that contains the roll of film. It unspools toward the ground, ruined. “Satisfied?”
Jonah gives me a look that can only be interpreted as, Why did you DO that? but I just shrug. “I have my reasons,” I whisper.
He nods, and we both watch in satisfaction as Augustus-You-Bustus gets up and slinks out the opening in the wall, onto the street.
I turn and high-five Jonah, who seems a little unsure of how to do it but plays along. Jeez, is the high five not even a thing yet? There sure are some major inventions coming in the twentieth century!
“What do we do now?” Jonah asks.
“We have to put the portrait back on the wall, so it’s all ready for tonight.”
Jonah shifts from one foot to the other. “I owe you an apology. I did not put full faith in the words of a fortune-teller, but I’m a true believer now. She said there would be an art heist, and there was an art heist! Or an attempted one, at least.”
I blink. If Jonah’s mind is blown by that, imagine if he knew the rest of the story—like the fact that I hail from the future.
A future I’m about to zoom back to. I should be crazy-excited about solving the art heist (and hello, vindication—I knew Jonah was innocent!), and part of me is. I’m so curious to see what it will be like to go home and have the original portrait hanging there and no one talking about the art heist, because it never even happened. It’s going to be so weird. At least it’s one less thing Trent can mess up on his tours.
But as great as all that is, I can’t help being bummed that so much of my short time here was spent hiding and waiting, when there’s all this history to explore. I never even glimpsed Mr. Berwind! And I wanted more time to hang with Jonah where we could just chat.
I know I shouldn’t be greedy, but I really wish this weren’t all ending so quickly.
Chapter Twenty
Maggie
AFTER CHANGING OUT OF MY dirty uniform into a pair of very soft pink trousers and a blouse I found in Hannah’s closet, and then taking a short nap, I feel much better. I still cannot believe the softness of these clothes. I flip through a couple of the books on her desk and ponder how to smuggle them back to my own time. After skimming the books on her shelf, I pull out one whose title I recognize. It’s a brightly colored version of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and it strikes me that there are things in this time that are similar to my own. It makes me feel hopeful that not everything fades away for something newer or shinier.
Just before seven o’clock I hover near the reproduction portrait. I’ve looked at it from all angles, close, far, left, right. It is not a bad facsimile. The dress is all wrong, but the artist got the lighting mostly right. I remember how many days I had to sit still in order for Mademoiselle Cassatt to capture my likeness. If I could do it again, I would ask her more questions about her life, even if that horrible Monsieur Renaldo pulled faces at me behind her back. It’s a shame all her work was for nothing, since the original was never unveiled. I hope whatever we’re doing here fixes that wrong, and Mademoiselle gets the credit she deserves. I feel like she is one person from my own time who would appreciate the advances made by women in this century.
And now, more than a century later, a photograph can be taken that looks as clear as real life. I must admit that there’s som
ething about painted portraits I like better. The texture and the brushstrokes breathe a life that’s different from the two-dimensional photographs that adorn the shelves across the room.
“Hannah, dear?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
An elderly lady standing in the opening to the ballroom looks from me to the portrait and back to me again. She startled me, but I try not to let it show.
“I know I’ve been here for only a short time, but please call me Florence. You seem to be quite preoccupied with Miss Margaret this afternoon.” She steps closer and looks up at the portrait again. “Is there something new you’re seeing?” Her expression is curious, and though I’ve never seen her before, she makes me feel safe.
I take a deep breath, knowing I need to suppress all my recent thoughts, even though I want nothing more than to confide in this woman for some strange reason. “Did you ever wonder if the artist who re-created the portrait got it wrong?”
“Actually, yes, I have.” She winks as she gestures for me to come closer. “The rumors are that the dress was originally green.” She stares serenely up into my face hanging on the wall.
“Wha—?” I try to close my mouth, but I approach her side and gaze up. She’s right about the dress, but at that moment something flickers in the mirror under the portrait. Clearly this woman must not be permitted to see Hannah and me talk.
“Did you hear that?” I ask, turning toward the front of the house.
“Oh goodness!” she says, taking a step toward the ballroom. “I’m sure it’s the bride’s mother stopping down to make sure the flowers have arrived. She’s a big donor, so it’s all hands on deck tonight. Elaine, the wedding planner, wanted to be here when the woman arrived, but the last time I saw Elaine, she was busy trying to make sure the caterer’s truck could fit under the arboretum. I’ll go run interference. I suggest you keep out of the way tonight.”
“There’s a wedding here tonight?” I feel a thrill of excitement, thinking about what a wedding in the twenty-first century will look like, and then a jolt of reality. How am I going to switch back with Hannah when preparations for a bustling party are happening behind me?
“You could probably stay in here and watch; the wedding will be intimate and confined to the ballroom, not this room.” She pauses halfway to the doorway and looks at me, as if she’s about to say something else.
I nod, hoping she leaves quickly, but not wanting to be rude. “Thank you.”
I am a bit nervous to tell Hannah what a mess I’ve made of her life. Although, I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, and I am fairly certain I could get better at running and kicking, if given the chance. I need to figure out how to sneak in some running when I’m not being watched at home. My heart jumps a little at the thought of creeping around behind my aunt’s back. Avoiding my father when I’m back in New York will be easier, even though there won’t be anywhere to run in the city. Perhaps at least I can modify my skirts somehow and run up and down the stairs. I imagine other girls in my time being interested, and for a brief moment I construct a fantasy in which I form a ladies’ running club when I get back to school. I must admit that it will be nice to get home to a place where things make sense, even if I do plan on finding ways to resist some of society rules; now that I’ve been here, I can see how silly they are. It makes so much more sense for women to be able to do the same things men can do.
I sigh in anticipation, knowing it is a sound that would be admonished by my aunt as self-indulgent and childish—but then I giggle recklessly at the thought of her dismay at my planned rule-breaking. I take a deep breath to try to get control of my emotions. Any moment now Hannah expects me to appear, ready to return to 1905. As Florence slides the pocket door shut, I turn to the mirror and climb slowly onto the sideboard, thankful the tourists are all gone.
I push the portrait frame aside. The mirror shimmers, and Hannah’s (or rather, my) face appears in the glass. A large painting is propped next to her on the sideboard. “Hey, Mags. There’s no time to catch you up on what’s been going on here, but guess what? We caught the thief! It’s wasn’t Jonah. He’s totes innocent! It was really this dude named Augustus Renaldo.”
“What? That horrible man? Now that you mention it, though, he likely should have been on my list of suspects.” I think about the way he’s been glaring at me during all our portrait sittings. I clear my throat. “Before you continue, Hannah, I must confess something.”
“Uh-oh.” Her face falls. “What’d you do? Don’t tell me I’m grounded for life!”
“I—I don’t think so,” I stammer, though I don’t know what “grounded” means.
She turns at a noise behind her and then faces me again. “Confess later. It’s getting busy around here, so if you want to attend this ball, now’s your chance. Unless you’d rather stay me a little longer?” Her voice sounds hopeful, but I shake my head.
“No, I’m ready to return.”
She nods slowly. “Yeah, I get it.” Then she gives me a big smile. “Don’t worry about me, Mags. I can totally fix whatever you messed up. I’m glad we got to do this.” She glances behind her again. “Are you ready?”
I nod my agreement. “It will not be easy going back to wearing stiff petticoats. Should I hold on to something?” There are no handrails, but I steady myself against the wall.
“Wouldn’t hurt. Here goes nothing.” She lifts her arm and places her fingers on the edge of the age spot. The mirrored glass shimmers. It looks as though someone dropped a pebble into still water. I reach out to touch the same spot, and press my fingers to hers.
And . . .
Nothing happens.
My panicked expression must match Hannah’s. I remove my fingers and press anew, so hard that I half expect them to pass straight through the glass.
Nothing.
Hannah’s eyes—well, mine actually, only Hannah’s controlling them, of course—are as wide as saucers. “It’s not working!” she says.
I am quiet, my mind racing. Am I truly stuck here? What is happening?
Hannah removes her hand and jerks it through her hair. “Think, think, think,” she murmurs.
“Pardon?”
She glances up as if she’d forgotten I was here. “Sorry. I talk to myself when I’m trying to work something out. I was so positive that our swap had to do with the stolen portrait. I mean, it has to. It’s waaaaaay too coincidental that I would land here on this exact weekend. But I stopped it from happening, so . . . mission accomplished, right? All that’s left to do is hang it back up and wait for the big reveal.”
“Perhaps that’s it!” I cry.
“Huh?”
I press my palm against the mirror. “Perhaps it’s not fait accompli until the portrait is hanging in its rightful place again.”
“Fate what?” she asks.
“It’s French for, how did you phrase it . . . ‘mission accomplished.’ ”
Hannah nods. “Well, that’s worth a try. Hang on. Gimme a sec, ’cause this frame is heavier than fifty algebra textbooks.”
She struggles to lift the painting beside her but manages to get her arms around it. The back of it comes closer to the me in the mirror, and then—
Something crashes behind me, and I turn, expecting to see Florence or Hannah’s father enter and scold me for being perched on the furniture.
What greets my eyes is completely unexpected, and I blink, trying to absorb what I’m seeing. It’s not Hannah’s father or anyone else I’ve met in the twenty-first century. It’s not Aunt or one of the servants from 1905, either.
Another crash catches my attention, and I look down to the floor. A small boy with wheels on his shoes whizzes past the sideboard I’m perched upon. He doesn’t see me, so I quickly scramble off the edge and hide behind a large potted plant near the window.
The room has somehow transformed. The antique furnishings have disappeared. A giant divan with plush cushions takes up most of the middle of the room. An enormous TeeVee hangs on
the opposite wall. Even the sideboard I was perched on is different. It’s made out of some sort of metal. The only thing the same about the room is the painting that covers the ceiling, the mural of the god of the north wind being driven out by spring.
What in heaven’s name is happening? I pray Hannah is still at the mirror. As soon as the boy glides out of the room into the foyer, I leap back onto the sideboard and push the painting aside again.
Hannah is peering into the mirror around the side of her frame, with a tortured look on her face. “OMG, Mags, there you are. I was so freaked that you’d disappeared! What’s the deal there?”
“I . . . I don’t know, but I suspect that you’ve changed the future by hanging that portrait. The house appears to be a private residence, no longer a museum.”
“Noooooooo! Then where’s my dad?” Hannah gulps, and she quickly removes the painting from its hangers. She stares hard past me as though she’s trying to see through me to what’s happening in the room behind me.
The mirror shimmers again, and this time when I look around, the room has gone back to the way it looked before—antiques and the sounds of the wedding preparations from the next room.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “It worked. All is as it was before.”
“Okay, then. We caught the thief, but hanging the portrait back where it belongs makes the future go all wonky and clearly doesn’t switch us back. I don’t get it.” Hannah takes a gulp of air. “What are we supposed to do now? If the goal wasn’t to solve the crime, what is it?”
I have no answer.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hannah
THINK, HANNAH, THINK.
My skin prickles everywhere, like I’m hugging a porcupine, and my throat is so dry, it’s as if I gargled cotton balls. Yes, we got back to the normal time line by taking down the portrait, but what if the only way to keep things like they should be is to . . . not switch back?
I can’t believe I’m even having that thought.
Up until now this whole experience has been mind-blowing and weird and cool and intriguing. I wanted even more of it. But now? What if I really am stuck in 1905 . . . forever?
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