The Art of the Swap

by Kristine Asselin

  Please buy it, please buy it, please buy it. I don’t care if I get in trouble (I’m guessing Maggie will forgive me), but the last thing I want to do is cause problems for Jonah.

  Mrs. Berwind’s head cocks to the side. “Oh, honestly, Maggie. That clumsiness of yours is going to be the death of us both. What does it say about a young lady of your position?”

  I wrinkle my nose and whisper what I hope is a super-legit-sounding “Sorry.”

  “And do keep your facial expressions mild, darling. You don’t want your features freezing in any of those ghastly faces you make. I’ve been told on quite good authority that that is a genuine possibility. What a terrible tragedy that would be, come your debutante year.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I whisper, hiding my grin. Probably not the time to tell her how wrong she is about the whole face-freezing thing. Because, yeah . . . science.

  “At any rate, thank you for your assistance,” she says, turning to Jonah.

  Beside me, Jonah nods but doesn’t speak. I can almost feel him shaking with fear.

  “Mr. Birch, can you please see to it that this is taken care of? Boy, you may return to your duties downstairs, and we are grateful for your help.”

  Jonah scoots out the door before I can even get a good-bye in, and Mrs. Berwind turns back to me. “Now, Maggie. Shouldn’t you be dressing for the evening, young lady?”

  My jaw drops open. I didn’t even think about that. I’m 99.9 percent sure we’ve solved the mystery of switching back, but if I’m not meeting up with Maggie until the morning . . .

  “Margaret?” Mrs. Berwind prods when I don’t answer her right away.

  “Oh. Yes, ma’am. Dressing. Evening.”

  Annnnnnd, I guess I know what this means.

  I’m going to a ball.

  Lemme try that again.

  I’M GOING TO A BALL!

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Maggie

  MY EMOTIONS ARE A JUMBLED mess when I realize I will miss the ball in my honor. I admit I was nervous about being the focus of attention, but I was looking forward to it. I think about how Aunt Herminie will be so disappointed, but then I remember that to everyone else in the world, I will be there. There’s an odd sense of rebellion in my stomach at that thought. Even if no one knows, I’m doing something against the rules.

  There will be other balls. And perhaps I’ll have time to read some of those books in Hannah’s room. I don’t have time for too much adventure, however. I have to retrieve a key that opens a mysterious room in the lower reaches of the house.

  “Hey, you. Doing some last-minute dusting?” Hannah’s father chuckles, catching me off guard as I’m climbing off the sideboard. He is dressed in a tuxedo, with a name badge clipped to the lapel, no doubt ready to work the evening’s festivities. “Have you started packing yet?”

  “No, sir.” I look up and catch his eye. I have to forcefully make myself not glance at the upholstered chair in the corner, wondering if the key has been hidden under my nose the whole time.

  He blinks once before he smiles. “I can tell something’s going on with you right now, and I can’t pretend to know what it is, honey. But you know you can talk to me if you need to.” His expression tells me he’s considering that statement. “Don’t you?” He pauses again. “You really do need to think about packing, though, my dear Miss Hannah. Our flight is”—he checks his watch—“T minus fifty-six hours. Since you always wait till the last minute, why don’t you start early this time while I’m busy with this wedding?”

  I don’t want to think about flying to the other side of the country. If he makes me leave the mansion, I may never get back to where I really belong. Not to mention my abject terror at the thought of what it means to actually fly.

  The tickle of a tear threatens, and I hurriedly wipe it away before he notices. I envy Hannah. She seems to be handling this time travel so well, and all I’ve succeeded in doing is making her father and Tara suspicious, forcing Hannah to lose her game, and frightening her beau. I briefly wonder what would have happened if Colette had traveled through time. Would she have gracefully slipped into the twenty-first century? Am I the only one who could mess things up so badly? And now I’m not even sure if I’ll ever get back to my own time.

  I must start searching for the key, but before that I’ve got time for a question that’s been on my mind. Hannah’s father turns to walk out of the room, and I find myself speaking. “Excuse me, Father? I mean, Dad?”

  “Yes, Hannah.” He sounds exasperated.

  “Do you think people are much different now from how they were a hundred years ago?” I fold and unfold my hands. Finally, I clasp them behind me to stop fidgeting.

  He looks thoughtful as he gazes out of the floor-to-ceiling glass door that faces the lawn.

  “You know, I don’t guess they are. Not really. I mean, we talk differently. We have different clothes and tools and even food. Technology, of course.” He scratches his head. “But down deep? I’d guess that emotions and love and fear are mostly the same.”

  I stare at his face and let out a sigh of relief. My own father would have scoffed and left, with the question still hanging in the air. Would this man believe me if I told him I’m not really Hannah?

  “I like that answer,” I say.

  “Why do you ask?” He crosses his arms across his chest.

  “No reason. It’s just something I think about.” The idea of people essentially being the same under all their exterior appearances is comforting. It makes me feel as though things aren’t really all that different.

  I don’t want to stay here forever, but knowing that human nature hasn’t changed makes me feel less frightened about being trapped here for a little while.

  “Kiddo, you never cease to amaze me.” He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, then shakes his head as though he’s changed his mind about something. “Go pack, Bug.”

  As soon as Hannah’s father leaves the room, I scurry to the chair and ever so gently run my fingers along the armrest. Hannah no doubt stitched up the seam, since it’s no longer torn. I’m impressed that it’s in such good condition after a hundred years. It’s a shame I have to damage it. I pick at a loose thread along the braided cord sewn onto the fabric, and trying not to make a big tear, I slip my finger into the opening. No key.

  “Well, you silly goose, you didn’t really think you’d find it on your first try, did you?” I say quietly to myself. It must be in the other arm, and I cringe, knowing I’ve got to make another rip in the fabric.

  No key.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. I check the legs of the chair, to make sure it’s the right one. But maybe it’s not the only one. Maybe there’s a match somewhere else in the house.

  I run through the ballroom, around the tables that have been set for the wedding, to the dining room. I search the entire house looking for another chair that matches the one in the drawing room.

  No chair.

  No key.

  I need help.

  I’ve already asked a strange question of Hannah’s father, so I’m reluctant to ask him anything else right now. I’m at a complete loss for what to do. Standing in the middle of the foyer, I try not to cry as servants hustle around me, setting up for the wedding. I feel invisible. Suddenly the silver-haired tour guide from this morning walks past. He must know something about the folklore of the house. Even so, I remember our interaction in the Rose Room and brace myself for an angry response.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  He stops and stares at me. “Did you just call me ‘sir’?”

  “You know a lot about this house, right?” I try to keep my voice from shaking.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you making fun of me, young lady?” He huffs. “I don’t have time for silly questions.”

  “No, please,” I say, wringing my hands. “Do you know anything about a key? Some story about a skeleton key being found in this house?”

  He scowls and start
s to walk away. “I know everything about this house. If there were a tale about a mysterious key, I would know it.”

  “But I heard . . .” I jog after him. “Are you sure?”

  “Hannah Jordan. You purport to know more about this house than any docent.” He wags his finger at me, and it makes me take a step back. “I’m sure I’m not going to waste my time playing the fool for something that is untrue. There is no story about a mysterious key.” And he strides down the hall toward the servants’ staircase.

  “Is there another chair that matches the one in the drawing room?” I shout as he disappears out of sight, but he doesn’t answer.

  What now?

  • • •

  As much as I’d love to curl up on Hannah’s bed and wait for someone else to fix this problem, I’ve got to try to find that key. There’s no one else who can do this. It’s all on me . . . for the first time in my life. Hannah’s and my futures depend on it. I’m scared to death at the thought of messing this up for both of us. But instead of falling apart, I push my shoulders back and start up to the second floor, thinking maybe I missed seeing the chair the first time. As I climb the stairs, I spot the older woman from earlier. She knew the correct color of my dress in the portrait. Maybe she can help.

  “Excuse me, Mrs.—” I almost curtsy, but I stop myself. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “It’s okay. I haven’t been volunteering here very long. I’m not surprised you don’t.” She smiles and holds out her hand. “Florence Ensminger-Burn. Just ‘Florence’ is fine.”

  With a sigh of relief, I say, “Can you help me with something? Or are you in a rush?”

  “I was just going to get a bite to eat and then head home, now that everything is sorted out with the bride’s mother. What sort of help do you need?”

  My shoulders relax. “Do you know anything about a key that might have something to do with the mystery of the house?”

  She looks thoughtful and then shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about a key. But I do know a lot about the house—you might call it an obsession. Tell me more about what you’re trying to find.”

  I can’t help but smile. “It might have something to do with the upholstered chair in the drawing room.”

  A large woman pushes a cart with a wedding cake past us, and I’m momentarily distracted by the spectacle. I didn’t expect something so elaborate, based on my observations of this time so far.

  When I look back at Florence, she’s laughing. “Oh, Hannah, you’re too funny.”

  At the sight of my stricken face, she stops. “I’m sorry, dear. I thought you were joking. I thought for sure you knew the details about the furniture. Trent has been telling me how much you’ve studied the house.”

  As another member of the staff pushes a cart laden with table service past us, Florence takes hold of my arm. “Walk with me. Let’s get out of the way of the traffic.” She pulls me into the corner and guides me into the chair behind the ticket desk. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you. When Julia Berwind died in the 1960s—Mr. Berwind’s last surviving sibling—none of the other relatives could afford the upkeep of the house. Most of the furniture and paintings were sold at auction. It was only due to the Antiquities Society that the house wasn’t bulldozed. It was quite an accomplishment by the society to save it.”

  I can’t help but gawk. Seriously? Colette’s mother inherits The Elms? I can’t help but wonder why it’s not me or Colette, or one of the other cousins. Part of me wants to know if Florence knows what happens to us. To me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for just a second. At the very least, I know The Elms survives. It’s probably not wise for me to know too much about what happens to my family. I shake my head to stop my thoughts from racing out of control. All that’s important is finding that key, so that I can get home. So that Hannah can get home. I try to remain calm.

  “Some of the furniture is original, but not all of it?” I look past her to the ballroom, where elaborate floral arrangements are being placed on the tables.

  She nods. “Most of it is original, actually. The Antiquities Society was able to buy back a lot of the original furniture over the years.”

  “The chair in the drawing room is original, right? The upholstered one?” I wonder if somehow I misunderstood which chair it was. But I know Hannah and I were talking about the same thing.

  “A few items in the house are replicas. That piece is a spectacular reproduction. The Antiquities Society was able to commission an exact fabric match. Even the best of experts have trouble telling the difference.” Florence smiles at me, as though the story is finished.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that.” I feel almost as if I’ve betrayed my aunt and uncle.

  Florence beams at me. “I know you’re a history buff, my dear, but there’s no reason why you would have known that. It’s extremely hard to tell.”

  The key isn’t in the house. What am I going to do? I close my eyes to control the panicky feeling in my stomach and tell myself it’s fine. We’ll be able to fix this. I’ll just meet Hannah in the mirror in the morning and advise her to hide it somewhere else, as soon as I find out from Florence which items of furniture are original.

  Perfectly fine. No reason at all to panic.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hannah

  CINDERELLA. MIA IN THE PRINCESS DIARIES. Giselle in Enchanted.

  And now me.

  Ball attendees, all of us. (And here’s hoping mine doesn’t end in disaster like two out of those three did. Unless you count a “stolen” painting as a disaster, because I can pretty much guarantee mine’s ending with that one.)

  But I’m optimistic anyway. I know the painting’s not actually lost forever, and I’m feeling confident in the fix we came up with, which means that, for the first time since I landed here, I can actually let myself just relax and soak it all in.

  And oh my WOW is there a lot to soak in. I mean, I grew up riding my scooter past the floor-to-ceiling shelves of china dishes in the butler’s pantry, and hiding in the vault that houses the silverware (emphasis on “silver”), but I’ve never seen the real stuff all laid out on the table the way it is tonight. We’d never dare use it for any of the events we hold at the museum.

  We have an art restoration expert from Venice coming to brighten up the mural in the dining room, but I can’t imagine she’ll ever be able to get it to shine like it is tonight. Shining like it’s brand new. Because it is. This place come to life is better than I imagined any of the zillion-and-one times I’ve dreamed about it.

  I could probably squeak four years of college tuition out of what the Berwinds dropped on this one shindig. While I was upstairs dressing, the entire downstairs was transformed by about forty billion rose petals that form an actual carpet over the floors. The ballroom is also covered in flowers—all varieties of roses bunched in big clusters, climbing the walls. There’s even a rose-covered arbor set up in the doorway between the ballroom and the drawing room. Wow. This crew did a LOT in just a couple of hours. Although, obviously, people were busy assembling this somewhere else ahead of time. Maybe for months.

  Tonight’s ball is also a costume one, and the theme is Venetian. For whatever reason, high-society peeps super-love dressing up. They’re like the grandparents of cosplay, I guess. I giggle at that thought. But honestly, the dresses. OMG.

  Some of them are so wide, with hoops and petticoats underneath them, that the women have to walk sideways to get through the openings between the dining room and the ballroom. It’s crazypants.

  And the jewels. Dripping. Positively dripping. This one lady has a pearl necklace that reaches all the way down almost to her ankles, and at the bottom is this egg-size, canary-yellow diamond that practically scrapes the floor. Whenever she moves, she has to kick it out in front of her. Like, she’s just kicking this massive diamond the same way I dribble my soccer ball down the field. If I weren’t so busy gaping, I’d totally be laughing.

  O
f course, as grown-up as thirteen was back in Maggie’s day, it’s still not old enough to fully participate. Maggie won’t get to actually attend any balls as a real guest until she makes her society debut. So while most of the women here will toss out their ball gowns (that probably cost as much as brand-new cars in my time) after they wear them once tonight, I’m in the same taffeta dress Maggie has on in the painting. The same one I “arrived” here in yesterday. Someone on the staff has cleaned and pressed it since then, but it still feels familiar . . . comforting.

  That doesn’t mean I didn’t have to endure hours of mad-crazy preparations that involved a team of three. There was no way I could turn away Maggie’s lady’s maids without looking suspicious, but lemme just say, it is super-weird to be dressed by someone else. I don’t really remember my mom much, because she died when I was only three, but I’m sure she must have tugged me into clothes. Since then? Uh, yeah. No.

  Too bad corsets don’t cinch themselves. (I did draw the line at the maids’ bathing me, though.)

  The one time I was really grateful to have someone else handling things was when it came to my hair. Curly hair is all the fashion, and let’s just say that curling irons are pretty, um, primitive in 1905. They don’t plug in; instead they’re heated in the fireplace. I’m pretty sure Maggie would not be thrilled to come back to a head full of singed hair, so I let the maids have their way there.

  I would have loved to wear makeup to the ball, since Dad puts his foot down on that at home, but no one suggested it. And it’s not like anyone would have seen makeup on me anyway, since the party’s theme means I have a real straight-from-Italy silk Venetian mask to hold up to my face. It makes me feel like more of a spy than I already am. I can hide behind this thing and people-watch all night.

  Or at least for as long as I’m allowed to stay up and take part. It’s okay for me to be here for some of the stuff—and I’m even kind of a guest of honor because of the portrait unveiling—but I probably won’t be doing any actual dancing.