by Rysa Walker
“No. Simon and Prudence always have one. And I’ve never seen Saul without his, although that’s clearly a power thing, since he can’t use it. I thought that each of the regional leaders had a medallion, but if they do, then the numbers you mentioned earlier don’t add up.”
Kiernan stares at his bottle for a minute. “If I’d had to guess before I heard Connor say how many keys you have here, I’d have said they had twelve keys, because that’s how many people they have with a reasonably decent ability to use them, at least to the best of my knowledge. But if you have fourteen, some of them can’t have a key.”
“Have you ever been in a group of them?” Dad asks. “A meeting, maybe?”
“Yeah.” He tallies something up on his fingers and then says, “Six. I think. Counting mine. That’s the most I’ve seen in one place. So, even if we don’t count the Houdini key, it means at least one of the five keys we’re going after on these three jumps is one currently in their possession. One they’re gonna miss. We take that key and . . .”
“All the marbles come tumbling down,” I say. “Kerplunk.”
∞8∞
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
July 29, 1905, 9:58 a.m.
My 1905 dress is on top of the faded quilt that covers Kiernan’s bed. I don’t see him at first, and then there is a slight movement in the periphery as he walks into view and crosses over to a small mirror on the wall next to the red curtain. He’s wearing the white shirt and black pants again¸ although I don’t see the tie.
He catches sight of me in the mirror a few seconds after I blink in. I expect his usual grin, but this time his face is troubled.
“What’s wrong?”
He runs his tongue across his teeth and shakes his head. “I’ve just . . . I’ve decided this isn’t a good idea.”
Okay, if someone had told me yesterday that Kiernan was willing to call off this trip, I’d have been relieved. My experience with his field trips hasn’t exactly been positive. I guess I’m just contrary, however, because now I don’t like that he’s canceling it, especially since he didn’t bother to ask my opinion on the matter.
But mostly, I know that Kiernan was looking forward to this. I glance around this room, this bubble he lives in where he can still imagine that his Kate exists. I don’t know if it’s because this project was something he shared with Other-Kate or because it’s something concrete that he’s doing on his own to fight the Cyrists, but when he talks about it, that tiny, fluttering spark of hope in his eyes flares into a flame. And though I really shouldn’t let myself care about that, I do.
“What about getting Houdini’s key?”
“He won’t be there today. I don’t know when or even if he’ll take the bait and . . .” He sits on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said before. About how if there’s even a tiny risk, it’s not worth it.”
“So, when Houdini does show up, are you going to need my help?”
He narrows his eyes, clearly suspicious that I’m walking him into a trap. “Probably.”
“And are our odds better if I know what we’re doing? And a little about where and when we’re doing it?”
“Probably,” he repeats.
“You mean yes. We both know I’ll learn more about how to get around in 1905 with a few hours in the field than I’ll ever learn by you talking me through it.”
Kiernan is silent, but he doesn’t look convinced. I wait a moment and then sit next to him. “What if I promise to jump straight to Katherine’s if we encounter anything out of the ordinary? And since you’re the 1905 expert, I’ll leave that call entirely up to you. No questions asked.”
He snorts, and a smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “No questions? Is that possible for you?” He looks at me for a long moment and then sighs. “If we’re going to do this, you’d better get dressed, or we’ll miss the train.”
“So what exactly is it that you’re doing out at Norumbega?” I ask.
“How about I tell you once we’re on the train that we’re going to miss if we don’t hurry?”
He helps me into the dress, and then I take off my Skechers and slide them under the bed.
“How far is it?” I ask.
“To the train station? Maybe a mile.” Kiernan grabs a black drawstring bag, slings it over his shoulder, and then opens the door to the hallway. “After you.”
I step out, and Kiernan looks around to be sure that no one is watching. Then he reaches into the bag and pulls out a red-and-white tin of Johnson’s Baby Powder, crouching down to sprinkle a thin coating just inside the door. Next he takes out a piece of newspaper and tears off a small strip. He licks it thoroughly and plasters the wet ribbon of paper across the seam between the door and the wall before locking the door and dropping the key into his bag.
“So you want to tell me what that was all about?”
“Security system of sorts. If someone’s been in the room when I’m not here, I’ll know.”
“And you do that entire routine every time you leave the room?”
“Only way to be sure.”
“Yeah, but if it’s Prudence or one of her crew, would they go in through the door?”
“Probably not. But Pru had one stable point set, and it’s behind that red curtain. She agreed to erase it, but even if she kept her word, I’m guessing Simon has it, too. At any rate, that stable point is booby-trapped, too. I can’t stop them from coming in, but if they do, I’ll know they’ve been there. And so far, so good. I can’t guarantee they aren’t using that stable point to watch the room, but if they are, they’re only seeing the red drape. And now, on occasion, they’re seeing me naked.”
“Better them than me,” I say, and he laughs.
I can’t shake the feeling, however, that his precautions are pointless. Prudence or Simon could set a stable point in this hallway. They could be watching us right now. That thought makes my skin crawl, and I glance back over my shoulder. I suspect I’m being paranoid, but then again, how would we know? I look back one more time and then shake my head, following Kiernan down the hall.
The stairwell is kid-free this time, so we manage to escape without pleas for candy. We step out, and the sky is clear, with a few clusters of clouds. The first half mile or so is a mix of apartment buildings and small stores similar to those we saw on the way from Jess’s tobacco shop. I manage to avoid outright gawking, but there’s still something that catches my eye on each block, whether it’s a poster advertising something I recognize, like Schlitz beer or Fig Newtons, or the fact that cars already have license plates. That makes sense, I guess, but it hadn’t even occurred to me.
We turn onto Harrison Avenue, and Kiernan nods to a cluster of newer buildings across the street. Through the gaps between two of the buildings, I see some toddlers playing in a small, fenced garden.
“That’s the headquarters of the local settlement house, South End. A few years back, kids that age would have been on the street all day, while their parents worked in the factories, but now they get breakfast, lunch, and someone to make sure they don’t tumble into the river. Of course, they could take in even more kids if Cyrist House hadn’t lured away some of their donors.”
“Cyrist House?”
“Yeah, it’s in the West End. Their original plan was to co-opt this house, but the leaders resisted, like Hull House did in Chicago. Jane Addams was willing to make a lot of compromises to keep Hull House up and running, but she drew the line at serving up a helping of ‘Praise Cyrus’ with the stew each night.”
Okay, I know Jane Addams was, by all accounts, a wonderful person. Unfortunately, I can’t help but shudder, because every time I hear her name, I automatically think about H. H. Holmes. Not that she was anything like Holmes, in fact, she was pretty much the direct opposite. It’s just that Trey and I watched a documentary about her work at Hull House when I was trying to clear my mind of the really creepy DVD we’d just seen about Holmes and the World’s Fair Hotel. Trey made a quip about preferri
ng “Hull House” over “Hell House,” and now the two are forever linked in my mind.
“Did you know Jane Addams when you were in Chicago?” I ask.
“Not really. I held the door open for her once after a meeting with Prudence—Older Pru, maybe ten years older than when you met her at the Fair. Pru was offering a big chunk of money to buy out Hull House. Even though they agreed on a lot of issues, Addams politely told Pru to go to hell. Addams wanted to help people regardless of their religious views, and it was clear that there were pretty thick Cyrist strings attached to the deal.”
“And the same thing happened here at South End?”
Kiernan starts to answer, but we have to maneuver around a horse cart and a trolley. Once we’re back on the sidewalk, he says, “I’m not entirely sure what happened at South End. It was before I moved to Boston, so I wasn’t in on the negotiations. Simon helped set up the West End Cyrist House, recruiting a bunch of college students to run it.”
“Simon?” The name sets my teeth on edge. I have a hard time picturing him negotiating business deals, except, of course, with monsters like H. H. Holmes.
“Yeah, well, Simon does whatever he’s told. He wants to lead Cyrist International when Saul is gone, so when Saul says jump, Simon says how high.”
“So—do they know you’re back here? In Boston?”
He shrugs. “Pru knows. I’ve no clue what she shares with the others these days. But she believes I’ve lost most of my ability to operate the key. And I think I’ve done a pretty solid job of convincing her that I don’t remember the other timeline. Pru’s got a bunch of Cyrist toadies at her beck and call, and she’s got her pride, too. She’d take me back into that circle if I asked, but she’s not gonna beg me.”
“So why does she think you warned me on the Metro? That day when Simon grabbed my backpack? You said they knew what you’d done.”
Kiernan looks back down at the sidewalk and presses his lips together. “This isn’t anything I can prove, Kate. It could have been entirely accidental that I found out what they were planning. But Pru was the one who delayed me in the hallway and led me in that direction. If she hadn’t, I’d never have overheard Simon.”
“I don’t get it. She tells me to stay away from you at the Expo, and then she—”
“From her point of view, once I warned you on the Metro, I’d done what she needed me to do. And to be honest, I don’t know if Older Pru remembers any of it.”
“Okay, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Maybe not, but it’s the key to understanding your aunt. What if you had the chance to go back and tell yourself not to make the mistakes you made? A chance to change everything you think went wrong in your life?”
“Well, I sort of do. But . . . it’s dangerous, right? Katherine says it messes with your head, and I’d like to have as many marbles left as possible, if we make it out of this alive.”
“Katherine’s right. But either Pru didn’t know that or at some point she moved past caring. She runs her younger self pretty ragged, tasking her with errands that she won’t entrust to anyone else. I guess, from her perspective, it’s no different from what Saul had her doing when he’d order her to show up in visions or at church events—he didn’t like it when she started to show signs of age, so he’d have someone go back to the middle of the night when she was under twenty, wake her up, make her up, and pack her off to wherever he needed a message delivered.”
“So twenty is old to him?”
“I don’t know. It’s think it’s more that the Cyrists have pitched Pru as ageless. She’s a big part of the whole eternal-life myth for the Koreshan Cyrists, and a lot of Cyrists still believe that. I guess you could say she’s sort of a living trademark.”
“That’s insane. How many times has she . . .”
“No clue. A general rule of thumb I follow is the older the Prudence, the more likely she’s bat-shit crazy. You’ll get flashes of sanity, but they’re rare as she gets older, because so many bits of memory have been overwritten. Do you know about VHS?”
The question is such a total non sequitur that it literally stops me in my tracks, and then I have to hustle to catch up. “What? You mean, like video tapes? A little, I guess. We’ve used DVDs as long as I can remember. What does that have to do with—”
“When you get back, ask your dad what happens when you record over them. I don’t understand the technology, but it helped Kate get a handle on it before. Something about afterimages. Anyway, the more I’ve thought about it, the more certain I am that Pru wanted me to know what they were planning with you. I don’t know if she was put up to it by her older self or if she just happened to learn something accidentally, but she led me to that doorway and then disappeared. That’s when I heard Simon running his mouth to someone, probably one of the trainees, about going after you to get the diary and the whole plot to erase Katherine in 1893.”
We’re approaching a crowd of about twenty men, a few with kids in tow, lined up outside a café. Once we’re past the group, Kiernan holds up a finger for me to wait and then steps over to whisper something to a thin man near the end of the line. A boy of five or six, with long blond hair falling down over tired eyes, clutches the man’s pant leg, staring up at Kiernan as they talk.
The guy listens to Kiernan for a moment, then shakes his head and waves him off. He looks back, however, as though he’s reconsidering what he was told, as we’re walking away.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“They’re lined up for the bookie. Told him the smart money’s on the Browns, ’cause Cy isn’t pitching, which actually isn’t true, but they lose anyway. Don’t think I convinced him. Must be a die-hard Americans fan.”
“Is this baseball? I thought the Browns were football, and I’ve never even heard of the Americans.”
He covers his heart in mock pain. “Of course, it’s baseball. The Americans become the Red Sox. The Browns are Saint Louis. Don’t know what they become. You know Cy Young, right?”
“I’ve heard of the award. A pitcher, right?”
“Not just a pitcher. The best pitcher ever, who, even in your day, holds the record for consecutive hitless innings. That game you and I watched on the 4th, my God, he pitched twenty innings, thirteen without giving up a single run.”
“But baseball’s only nine innings.” I’m pretty sure on this point, based on the three or four games I’ve seen.
“Yes, but there were eleven extra innings. Then Cy gave up two runs at the end. Even though we lost, that was one incredible game.”
I can’t help but smile, because he sounds as animated as when he was a kid back at the Expo. “You said we went to the game. Was Other-Kate into baseball?”
“Um, not really,” he admits with a little frown. “It was an early birthday present for me. She slept through about half the game.”
The Nationals game I saw with Dad didn’t go into extra innings, and I was still ready to snooze after an hour, so she has my sympathy. I don’t mention it, though, since Kiernan would clearly consider it blasphemy.
“The games are a lot of fun, though,” he continues. “The Americans are at home next week. I could get tickets—”
“I don’t think so.”
He grins, and I’m pretty sure he’s making Other-Kate comparisons, but it isn’t worth sitting through a game to prove him wrong, especially when I’d probably end up dozing off and proving him right.
We stroll along in silence for a few minutes. Or rather we’re silent, though I can’t say the same for the city. From what I can tell, there isn’t any order at all to the traffic. Trolley cars, horse-drawn buggies, and the occasional car—all painted black—share the road, but they are sharing only in the loosest sense of the word. It’s more accurate to say that it’s every vehicle for itself. Every few seconds you hear a loud clang from one or both ends of a trolley trying to avoid braking for one of the many carriages, bicycles, or pedestrians wandering on and off the tracks.
Another bell rings out behind us, and I turn toward Kiernan. “Is it always this crazy? I wouldn’t have thought there’d be so much traffic on Saturday.”
“This isn’t busy. You should see this area before the subway is built.”
As I glance away from the traffic and look again at the buildings, I realize that at some point we crossed an invisible culture line. Most people two or three blocks back looked European, but the residents here are almost entirely Asian, and most of the signs appear to be written in Chinese.
Kiernan notices my expression and says, “Yeah, we’re in Chinatown. But don’t worry. It’s safe.”
“Why would you assume that I’d think it wasn’t safe?” I ask.
He looks puzzled. “Well, I don’t know. Because it’s different?”
I raise an eyebrow, but then I realize he isn’t being intentionally racist. It’s like this experiment we did in sociology class last year. Things that are different, things that don’t fit into our own typical surroundings, do tend to set off some sort of subliminal trigger in most people. Your pulse beats faster, you become more aware of your environment, more in touch with your fight-or-flight response. So I just give him a smile and say, “I’ve been to Chinatown before. In DC. This can’t be much different.”
“Maybe not,” he says, sniffing the air. “Do they have bao in DC’s Chinatown?”
“They do. I’ve seen them at dim sum.” I take a deep breath and catch hints of bread, garlic, and sesame. Looking across the street, I locate the source of the aroma—Lock Sen Low Chinese Restaurant.
“I don’t know dim sum,” he says. “But I do know bao. They were breakfast for me and Da most mornings at the Expo. And since I haven’t had breakfast . . .” Without warning, he grabs my arm and executes one of those suicidal maneuvers I’ve seen several other people try in the past few minutes. Rather than cross at the corner like a civilized person, he yanks us into traffic, just before a trolley comes barreling around the bend. So now we’re the reason the conductor is clanging the bell and shouting as the trolley misses us by mere inches.