by L. E. DeLano
Once he’s thrown there, face-to-face with the person he needs to help, he has only twenty-four hours to find them a friend. A true friend. Someone who can make a difference in that person’s life.
It’s a good premise. I can explore all the many reasons someone might feel alone, and Ms. Eversor is big on the humanity angle, too. She’ll like that I’ve got people helping others. Too many kids in my class write horrible emo poetry and postapocalyptic zombie stories. She likes the upbeat stuff.
I flesh out the story a little more, concentrating on my supporting characters, and despite my efforts, the hero is shaping up to be exactly like Finn. Of course.
I stop gnawing on my pen and glance up at Mr. Draper, who hasn’t moved from the position he took at the front of the class. I don’t think he’s changed the inflection in his voice, either.
I glance over at Ben so he can see me roll my eyes, but he is paying attention. More than that, he looks like he’s enjoying this lecture. I’ve never considered the Prussian involvement during the Revolutionary War to be that exhilarating, but Ben is eating this stuff up, raising his hand a few times and really discussing the answers with Mr. Draper.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, class is over. I’m distracted at school, and it’s starting to show in my schoolwork. I had a C on my test in calculus and end up with a low B on my history pop quiz from last Thursday. I shove the paper into my messenger bag when Mr. Draper hands it to me, thoroughly disgusted with myself.
Ben holds the door for me as I exit the class.
“That was a rough one. You all right, St. Clair?”
“Yeah. I should have studied more.” I make a face because I’m still mad about it. “How did you do?”
“I aced it.” He shrugs. “But I always do. It’s an easy class.”
“Thanks.” I give him a dirty look.
“It would have been easy if you’d studied,” he chides. “What’s up with you?”
“What are you? The nerd police?”
He raises his hands defensively. “Just being a friend. Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. That was bitchy.”
“Yep.”
I give him a sideways glare as we walk down the hall. “I need to get my mind off things. My mom just bought that new space movie—the one with the airborne mutant virus and the scientists who get trapped on that planet.”
“Eosphere?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. We could watch it after school. Can we do it at your house, though?” I don’t want Ben at my house, because I don’t want to take a chance on Finn showing up to the party.
He looks uncomfortable for a moment. “I can’t. I’ve got a date.”
I stop in my tracks. “Really?”
“You don’t have to sound so disbelieving, you know,” he grumbles.
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just … it’s Monday,” I finish lamely.
“It’s just a first-time get-to-know-you-over-coffee kinda thing after school. She lives in Manortown.”
“Didn’t they just beat your team in soccer?”
“Yup. Whupped our butts. She was there supporting her brother and came over to comfort me.”
I raise a brow and make a tsk-ing sound. “Fraternizing with the enemy. What has our school come to?”
“I consider it good sportsmanship.”
“I’ll bet.”
I try not to be disappointed, but I am. I’m just so used to having him as a fallback plan. I don’t know who this girl is, but I instantly don’t like her. And I also realize how completely petty that is, but I can’t help it.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay.” I wave him off. “I should be studying anyway, and Eversor wants me writing something about local ghost stories for the next installment of The Articulator. Maybe I’ll go to the local historical society after school to research.”
“Ghosts? In Ardenville?”
“They don’t have ghosts in New Mexico?”
“Some. Mostly the things that go bump in the night are coyotes.” He says it like a true westerner.
“Out here, that word has three syllables,” I say primly. “You’d better learn that before they kick you out of the great state of New York.”
“Kigh-oats,” he repeats. “You’re the one saying it wrong.”
“At least I’m not a total suck-up,” I say. “It must be nice to have a dad who’s a history professor.”
“Come on. I just asked about the Prussian helmet design and von Steuben’s contributions to sanitation and their effect on lowering the rate of dysentery.”
“Keep talking just like that. It’s sure to get your new girl interested.”
His eyes slide sideways to meet mine. “You jealous, St. Clair?”
“Of course I am. If you’re out with someone else, who’s going to discuss dysentery with me?”
I bump his shoulder with mine and head into creative writing class, uncomfortably aware that I am jealous. If Ben gets a girlfriend, he won’t be hanging out with me anymore. That also leaves a lot more of my time free for Finn, and traveling, and all that comes with it.
I’m still not sure I’m ready for all that comes with it.
14
Unexpected
The Ardenville Historical Society is housed in an unassuming old stone farmhouse, on half an acre of what used to be a sprawling farm, before it got sold and developed into a community of town houses.
There’s a woeful lack of ghost stories centered in or around Ardenville on the Internet, which is not surprising in the least, since there’s a woeful lack of anything about Ardenville on the Internet. We’re just not that exciting.
But since the local historical society is offering a ghost tour on Halloween night, I figure that’s a good place to start with the research on my article. I push the door open, listening to it creak loudly. The wooden floorboards aren’t any more forgiving, and I wince as I try to make my way silently into the room.
“Hello?” I look around, but there’s nobody in sight. There’s a light on in the next room, and the door is partially open. I make my way back to it.
“Hello?” I call again. “Are you open?”
The door swings open wider, and an older woman with a mop of unruly gray hair stuffed under a kerchief peeks her head out.
“Hello!” she calls out cheerfully. “Yes, yes, we’re open. All the way to six. Sorry I didn’t hear you. I’m trying to get this room sorted out. We’ve got a ghost tour coming up, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” I remark, looking around. “I’m actually here to research that very subject.”
“Oh, well, then,” she says, brushing dust and cobwebs off her shirt and pants. “This is your lucky day! One of our volunteers organized it all into a collection, over there.”
She gestures toward one corner of the room. “If you go behind those bookcases, there’s a set of shelves on the wall and a small display of items from haunted houses in the area. You may take pictures, if you’d like.”
I thank her warmly, and she heads back to her work, reassuring me that I only need to call for her if I have any questions. I make my way back to the corner, squeezing between packed bookcases and old, dusty cardboard boxes until I see what she was directing me toward. The shelves are small, and there can’t be more than a half dozen or so books and a stack of yellowed newspapers a few inches high. I may not get much out of this, but I’m pretty sure I can stretch whatever I find into two pages of writing.
I carefully grab a couple of newspapers off the shelf and spy a weathered rocking chair across the room out of the corner of my eye. I make my way over to it as I skim the front page, and turn around to sit, laying the papers in my lap. I realize I’m too close to the wall behind me, because the chair makes a weird metallic thump against whatever the rockers have hit. I half stand so I can pull the chair out a bit more, and my eye catches a piece of my reflection when I glance behind me.
It’s an enormous mirror with a very o
rnate frame, full of curlicues and scrollwork, and it’s framed in pewter, so it must weigh a ton. It’s propped up against the wall, and it’s like something out of an old gothic novel or maybe some Jane Austen story. I’m fascinated by the intricate carvings in the metal, with roses and ribbons intertwining. It’s just beautiful. The kind of mirror that would have hung in a grand parlor or a vaulted entryway somewhere in an opulent old estate. I stare at my reflection and smile, picturing the beginning of a story, of a girl in a high-necked dress, refined and genteel. I catch a glimpse of my reflection, and I smile as I reach out, putting my fingers against the glass.
Her eyes and my eyes lock, and she slowly stops smiling as the room behind me begins to change. The faded roses on the wallpaper give way to stripes, alternating crimson and gold. The arm of the rocking chair is against my leg, but before my eyes it becomes a leather-covered settee, also in a deep shade of crimson. I push my hand forward, and I am through.
I stop a moment to look around, and it’s like I landed in some kind of weird Victorian fantasy. A music player that looks on the outside like an old Victrola, complete with the horn on top, sits on the rolltop desk in the corner, and on a table is a gadget with a hand crank and gears that powers what I know to be a projection screen, for watching movies.
I realize I’m having trouble breathing, and that’s when I look down and see myself. Holy cow, I’m wearing a corset. I can feel it, binding my ribs and waist, under the mountains of fabric that make up my navy skirt and bustle and the smart navy short coat with brass buttons I’m wearing over it. A lacy white blouse with a high collar and a sapphire brooch at my throat round out the ensemble.
My hair is pulled to one side, hanging in artful curls over my shoulder. I pull my skirts back and take a look at my pointed navy shoes with a prominent brass buckle across the bridge and an inch-high heel. I pick up my foot to turn it this way and that as I stare at it.
I smile widely at myself now, taking it all in. I turn as far around as I can and crane my neck to see myself from the back. I look amazing! I wish I could take a picture of this, I really do.
I make my way over to the open window, and my senses register the sound of seagulls as I approach. I look out over the water and down at the docks off to the right. My house sits up on a small hill, overlooking it all, and it is spectacular. The ships at the dock are unlike anything I’ve seen before, bearing massive metallic sails that still manage to ripple and billow with the wind. A few are made of wood, but the rest are metal, sleek and shiny, with scrollwork figureheads and grand murals painted on the sides. It’s like I’ve landed in some kind of steampunk reality.
I dash across the room, throw open the door, and push my way out into the hallway, nearly tripping on my skirts. I’d better slow down until I get used to this. Maybe I should go back and change into something easier to move in?
No, better not. Other me had a reason for putting this getup on. I’d better stick to her plan or people might get suspicious.
I grab the banister in one hand and pick up my skirts with the other as I slowly make my way down the winding staircase. It isn’t until I step out the front door that I realize I live in a lighthouse. I stare up at it in awe. It’s whitewashed and red-trimmed, and the windows around the light gleam in the bright afternoon sunshine. I’m walking backward as I stare up at it, and give a violent start when I run smack into somebody.
“Easy there, my girl,” says my father. “You tear that dress, and your mother will buy you another the color of dun.”
“Oh, I couldn’t bear it,” I say, grinning mischievously. I am the apple of my father’s eye. His darling girl. And I know it. He wouldn’t have me seen in anything but the smartest clothes.
“I’m off to the docks,” I tell him. I want to get a closer look at the amazing ships, but memory tells me that Daddy doesn’t exactly like me wandering the docks.
“Mother said there was shipment of spices coming in today, and some perfumed oils,” I improvise, pulling from a thread of memory.
“Don’t be long,” my father says sternly. “You’ve been spending a lot of time down at the docks. People will begin to talk.” I answer with an indulgent smile. He worries too much.
My fiancé won’t care a fig if I’m seen at the docks. My dowry will see to that.
Whoa. I’m engaged. His name is Boyce Hadley, and he’s the son of a shipping tycoon here in New Devonshire. They’re a respectable family but have recently found themselves a bit cash-strapped. My dowry will get them back on even footing again and elevate me into society, far above my current position as lighthouse keeper’s daughter.
I search my brain, pulling the rest of the details together.
My mother is the sole heiress to her father’s fortune due to the untimely passing of her elder brother five years before her father died. She married for love, never caring much about society. She and my father run the lighthouse because they enjoy it. My brother will be taking over someday.
And I will be marrying Boyce, in eight weeks’ time, because it’s what I’m supposed to do.
Wait … where in the world is New Devonshire? The UK? I pull from my memories here, and it starts flowing in. America never challenged the British. There was no Revolutionary War. We are part of the kingdom of Britain, and if my fuzzy memory is correct, New Devonshire is somewhere on the coast of what I know as South Carolina.
I’m nearly overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds and smells. High overhead, I can see a dirigible passing over, and I’m so excited to see it and the ships, I have to remind myself to slow down so I don’t trip in these heels.
I make my way down the sandy pathway to the edge of the dock, stepping carefully and picking up my skirts in my fist so they won’t catch any rough edges or nails on the boards. I make it about halfway down the dock when I see a familiar ship. The gangplank is extended, so I step carefully on and walk up it, reaching out for the bowline to steady myself as I step onto the deck. My skirt catches on the back of my heel, so I bend over, shaking it to pull it free. Just as I start to straighten up, I’m spun around and fall right into Finn’s arms.
And he laughs as his lips come down upon mine.
15
The Other Finn
Finn’s mouth is warm and his hands slide around my waist, pulling me in closer. He’s moving his lips expertly on mine, giving me a series of soft, sucking kisses that deepen into something longer as his arms tighten around me.
“You’re late,” he murmurs against my lips, between kisses.
“Ummm…” I don’t know what to say, but I’m also not sure I want to stop kissing him.
“Did your father suspect?” he asks. I pull back, looking at him curiously. He’d said father differently.
“Jessa? Is something wrong, love?”
I open my mouth and close it again, shaking my head. “You sound kind of … Irish.”
“Well, how d’you expect me to sound?” he asks, confused.
“I—I don’t know. I guess the Irish is fine.” Actually, it was sexy and it made my stomach flutter, is what I really want to say to him, but maybe it’s just the aftermath of those kisses.
I glance around. “Love the ship.”
“Well, I would hope so. It’ll be your home soon enough.”
“But I’m en—” I break off as the rest of the memories fill my head. I’m not marrying Boyce. I’m running away. In three weeks, I’ll be running away with Finn. He pulled into port four months ago and told me I was a Traveler. We’d become romantically involved shortly after. And we are leaving town, sailing away together.
Suddenly, entirely too many memories are filling my head, and I step back, putting a little room between us.
His eyes show his concern, and he steps forward.
“Jessa? Are you all right?”
I look up at him with entirely new eyes now that the memories are flooding in.
“Finn, I’m not—”
“Jessamyn!” a voice is calling loudly from the dock
.
I look at Finn with wide eyes. Jessamyn? What sort of a name is that?
“Your father!” he says in an urgent whisper. “Here!” He pushes me behind him, motioning for me to head down the stairs to the crew quarters below. They’re empty this time of day, and I press my back up against the wall in the corridor, straining to hear what Finn is saying to my father.
“Beg pardon?” Finn’s voice carries to me. “Jessamyn? Blond hair, blue dress?”
“That’s her,” my father confirms.
“I’ve seen her around here before, never knew her name.” Finn reassures him. “She passed by a few minutes ago, but I didn’t see where she went after she turned off the dock. I was busy seeing to my cargo, mate.”
“Spices?” my father asks suspiciously.
“’Fraid not. Gentlemen’s trousers. Surplus load taken from a Dutch frigate in sovereign waters.”
“Humph.” My father sounds clearly disgruntled. “Did the spice merchant’s load make port yet?”
“Hours ago,” Finn informs him. “They’ve already offloaded and taken it into town.”
“For your trouble,” I hear my father say, and then I hear his boots ring out on the gangplank. A few moments later, Finn comes down the stairs, flipping a gold coin in the air and catching it.
“Not only did I drive him off your trail, but he paid me to do so. I call that a profitable day.”
He grins a lopsided grin and reaches for me once more.
“Now,” he says, maneuvering me gently back against the wall as his mouth hovers just above mine. “Where were we?”
He starts to lower his head again, and it takes a great deal of focus for me to push against his chest and back him up. He looks at me in confusion.
“Something wrong?”
“Finn,” I say carefully. “Don’t freak out, okay? I’m a different me.”
He takes a step back. “Jessa?”
“Still Jessa, but not your Jessa. Sorry,” I say apologetically. “If you’ll give me ten minutes, I’ll run home and get your girl back for you.”