Do you recall Mrs. Gubbins’s prophecy that I would never marry? We were digging for potsherds one gray October morning when Tom turned to me and, without any fuss or ceremony, asked me to be his wife. We’d always been very much at ease with one another, and I suppose I could characterize my feelings for him as a fierce sort of affection. I had no visions of a honeymoon on the Riviera, or a house with a white picket fence; no, the only thing I thought of was Mrs. Gubbins, and how I cried myself to sleep that night, and how Cass apologized for telling me what was meant to be a secret. That was what had shaken me so at the time: when Cass has a conviction, you can be sure it is not rooted in any sort of fantasy or wishful thinking.
So when Tom asked me to marry him—how ashamed I am to admit this!—the first thing I thought was, “That stupid dirty old doll was wrong. I’ll marry him and prove her wrong.” Tom had the heart of a scientist, and I managed to convince myself he loved me only as I loved him, that he too saw our marriage as a comfortable arrangement.
For the past ten years I’ve carried this guilt, because part of me believes that had I done the honest thing and denied him, Tom would be alive today. I wonder if Mrs. Gubbins ever talks to you the way she spoke to Cassie; I wonder if she’s already told you what I’ve done. I didn’t want to think she could be real, not even when she spoke to me in the middle of the night, but I see the folly in that now. It makes no sense to believe in you and not her.
You guessed I would change careers, and Tom had everything to do with that too. He came into the Evening Star offices one day for an interview—fresh off his discovery of the Señora de Supe, the mummified priestess with the priceless golden breastplate, and even the popular papers and magazines were eager to write of her—and as he sat down on the far side of my desk a strange feeling settled over me, rather like that which accompanied our early sessions on the talking board. I should preface this by saying I was twenty-seven years of age and had already been working at the newspaper for a decade. Most days I felt I’d written every story there was to tell.
For an hour he told me about his life, from his boyhood explorations in a Roman rubbish pit to his latest field-work in a desert by the sea. As he stood up and shook my hand he said, “Come with me to Peru, if you like. I’m in need of an assistant.” In that instant a new life unfurled before me, like the flag of a brand-new nation. I hope you’ll have plenty of those moments in your own life, Alec . . .
Emily Jane came floating into the room on a cloud of jasmine. “All right, Aunt Jo—I’m off.”
Josie offered her cheek to be kissed. “Be good.”
“I’m always good,” her niece retorted.
Josie raised an eyebrow, and Emily Jane laughed as she glided out the door. A moment later the clock struck nine, and Josie rose from her desk. She could finish the letter tomorrow.
* * *
“Do you know what Josie was doing this evening?” said Cass as the assembled diners—Josie, Byron, Jack and Emily—perused the wine list. “She was writing a letter to the very person to whom you owe your fame and fortune.”
Byron waggled his bushy gray eyebrows. “Ah, but that would be you, my lovely.”
“Why would she be writing a letter to me, you silly man? No, she was writing to Alec.”
Byron’s eyes grew wide. “Alec? Really?”
“That’s what I said. Isn’t it splendid?”
Emily was excited too. “Did you tell him about Byron’s play?”
Josie nodded. “But if I know him, he’ll have already heard of it. Alec loved poking through the library archives.”
“Funny to think of my work going in an archive,” said Byron. “The play isn’t that old.”
“It’s been twenty years since you wrote it,” Cass pointed out.
“Speaking of which, how’s the new play coming along?” Jack asked, and they were off on another train.
Byron ordered an outrageously expensive bottle of prosecco for the table—of course the war had interfered with wine production, and prices had been high ever since—and when it arrived he poured them each a glass. “May I make the toast?” he asked, and everyone agreed. “To Alec,” Byron said. “The man from tomorrow!”
Something occurred to Josie as her dear ones clinked their flutes, and the realization left her with a feeling of serenity. Their discovery, their secret, their impossible friendship: it was all still ahead of him. She raised the glass to her mouth, smiling to herself as she took the first sip.
A Word of Advice
The characters’ use of the talking board in this story allows them to form a friendship across time, but if you attempt to use such a device in real life your experience may be very different. Horror stories are only entertaining when they happen to other people, and so the author recommends you leave the talking board to the realm of fiction.
Acknowledgments
Seanan McDonnell (first and best reader), Alonzo Jennings, Nova Ren Suma, McCormick Templeman, Mackenzi Lee, McKelle George, Marika McCoola, Kendall Kulper, Rebecca Mahoney, Elizabeth Duvivier, Amiee Wright, Todd Noaker & Bill Mullen, Ailbhe Slevin & Christian O’Reilly, Deirdre Sullivan & Diarmuid O’Brien, Victoria Moran, Kelly Brown, Aravinda Seshadri, Keith Godbout, Joelle Renstrom & James Miller, as well as Mary Bonina, Debka Colson, Kate Gilbert, Susan Tan, Alexander Danner, and all my friends at the Writers’ Room of Boston. I am grateful to Mary Lee Donovan for showing me exactly how to fix what wasn’t working, to Agnieszka Grochalska for her perfect illustrations, to Kayla Church, Dayna Anderson, Keara Donick, and Cami Wasden at Amberjack for being so thoroughly delightful to work with, and to Barney Karpfinger and Cathy Jaque at the Karpfinger Agency for their support. Thanks most of all to Kate Garrick for her optimism and determination, and to my family (particularly my sister Kate) for inspiring this story in the first place. Olivia and Quinn, I hope you’ve enjoyed it.
About the Author
Camille DeAngelis is the author of several novels for adults—each of them as full of impossible things as The Boy From Tomorrow—as well as a travel guide to Ireland and a book of nonfiction called Life Without Envy: Ego Management for Creative People. Her young adult novel Bones & All won an Alex Award from the American Library Association in 2016. Camille loves knitting, sewing, yoga, and baking vegan cupcakes. She lives in New England. Visit her online at www.cometparty.com.
About the Illustrator
Agnieszka Grochalska lives in Warsaw, Poland. She received her MFA in Graphic Arts in 2014. Along the way, she explored traditional painting, printmaking, and sculpting, but eventually dedicated her keen eye and steady hand to drawing precise, detailed art reminiscent of classical storybook illustrations. Her current work is predominantly in digital medium, and has been featured in group exhibitions both in Poland and abroad.
She enjoys travel and cultural exchanges with people from around the world, blending those experiences with the Slavic folklore of her homeland in her works. When she isn’t drawing or traveling, you can find her exploring the worlds of fiction in books and story-driven games. Agnieszka’s portfolio can be found at agroshka.com.
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