Sparks of Light

by Janet B. Taylor

  “I do not mean to appear brusque, Mrs. Vanderbilt.” Tesla gestured toward the staircase. “But I believe we should go and find Astor, yes?”

  Alva Vanderbilt, champion of the women’s suffrage movement and one of the wealthiest and most powerful women of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, whined, “Must you take this one?” She tucked her arm into Collum’s. “He is quite delicious. Let me keep him for a while, won’t you?”

  Since I’d known him, I’d seen Collum MacPherson single-handedly fend off two chain-mail-clad, sword-wielding brutes. I’d watched him have his shoulder sliced open to the bone and seared back together with a white-hot poker. But I had never, ever known him to look as scared as he did when Alva Vanderbilt tried to drag him away with her.

  “I—​I—​I,” Collum stuttered.

  “Sadly,” Jonathan said, appearing from nowhere to rescue Collum, “I am afraid Professor Tesla and I have need of a strong young man tonight.”

  “Don’t we all?” Mrs. Vanderbilt muttered beneath her breath, making Collum squirm even more. “Good evening, Jonathan,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said without interest. “How is Julia?”

  “My wife is well, thank you. She shall bear our first child in—”

  Alva interrupted. “Yes. Yes. How lovely. Well, I shan’t detain you any longer.” Rising on tiptoe she leaned in, her lips brushing Collum’s ear as she spoke to him sotto voce. “I shall be waiting anxiously for your return. Oh!” Her gaze hardened. “Consuelo.”

  I wheeled around to see that the timid girl I’d met at the Waldorf was smiling as she looked at me. “Miss Randolph,” she said. “I’m so delighted you came.”

  My mouth split into a huge grin. “Miss Vanderbilt,” I replied. “Thank you so much for your gracious invitation.”

  In a sparkling gown of white chiffon, and with her hair piled on top of her head, Consuelo Vanderbilt was beyond lovely. After a quick round of introductions, Mrs. Vanderbilt sauntered off, calling greetings to her guests. Collum stared after her, looking like he’d just swallowed a spider.

  Consuelo tugged me to a quiet spot next to the steps. Away from her mother’s watchful eye, her smile vanished. “Mother found out,” she said. “She would not allow my . . . my friend to attend and has sworn to lock me in my room after tonight. I fear I shall never see him again.” Her voice trembled as she pulled me close. She looked up at me with damp eyes. “He has asked me to run away with him,” she said. “Do you—​do you think I should?”

  My mouth fell open. “Why would you ask me that?” I said, eventually. “We’ve only just met, and—”

  “But you are the only one who understands,” she begged. “You, too, are being forced into a loveless marriage. Would you not do the same? Would you not give up everything to be with the one who holds your heart?”

  Oh God, I thought, as I took in a deep breath. What do I do?

  My Aunt Lucinda’s recurrent lecture blasted through my head.

  Viators hold an awesome and terrible responsibility. As interlopers we must—​above all—​hold tight to our knowledge of future events, particularly from those whom we encounter in the past. Even though it might seem callous . . . even cruel . . . the one thing that we must never, ever do, is interfere with the happenings of things yet to come. One wrong word and we could ruin lives and events beyond imagining.

  I looked at Consuelo’s hopeful face, and swallowed down the painful knot that formed beneath my sternum. I smiled, though it felt like a scarecrow’s grimace as I tried to mimic what Aunt Lucinda would say in this kind of situation.

  “I think,” I said, “that we cannot easily step off the path that the future has laid before us.”

  “This way,” Tesla was calling as he slipped into the stream of guests who were heading up the two arcing staircases that led to the open second-story landing.

  “I see,” Consuelo choked. “Yes, I’m sure you are right, Miss Randolph. I suppose that path you speak of is the only one open to me now. Thank you. I—​I bid you a good evening.”

  Consuelo Vanderbilt bowed and slipped quietly away. But not before I saw the tears that crested her eyelashes roll silently down her cheeks.

  Silks in purples and reds and golds flowed down the banisters. As we climbed, I let my hand glide over the slick, cool surface. Next to me, Collum stared straight ahead, his face as grim as I felt.

  “What was that all about?” Phoebe asked.

  “I think I just ruined that poor girl’s life,” I said, miserably. “She wanted me to tell her it was okay to run away. But that’s not what happened . . . will happen.”

  “You didn’t have a choice, Hope.” She wrapped a soothing hand around my waist and squeezed. “It’s okay. It’s part of the job, you know?”

  “A sucky, sucky part.”

  “Aye,” she agreed. “It is that.”

  “You did what you had to do, Hope. Sometimes that is not an easy task,” Collum said.

  “Then why do I feel like utter and complete crap?”

  Collum took hold of my shoulders and looked at me with that serious, steadfast gaze that always made me feel safe. “Feeling like crap,” he said, “is just a hazard of the job, one we never get used to.”

  In the shadowy rear of the wide second-floor landing, an older gypsy woman sat behind a table. A group of young people gathered around to watch a muscular guy cluck like a chicken.

  “Come, come,” said Tesla, moving toward a set of tall open doors with the rest of the crowd.

  As we walked away, the gypsy called after us. “You! Little one.” Phoebe turned back. “Me?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, the huge hoops in her ears waggling as she crooked a finger. “I sense something about you, child. A greatness that is as yet undiscovered. You are a creature of moonlight and magic. Come and allow me to set it free.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Collum said as Phoebe swayed toward the woman. “No time for that weirdness. God knows what she’ll make you do. Come on.”

  Phoebe groaned, but trudged after him. As we approached the wide entrance, I tripped, catching myself on Collum’s sleeve.

  “The hell?” he said, startled.

  “Oh no-o,” I moaned.

  Phoebe grimaced. “Damn. I was afraid of that.”

  The sheer overlay she’d whipstitched to the waist of my skirt had come free and was dragging. The toe of my shoe must have caught it, and ripped the entire front section loose.

  “Oh, miss!” A maid standing sentinel near the door rushed over to bob a curtsy. “Come with me. We have a seamstress on hand for just such emergencies.”

  Collum cursed as Tesla moved off, unaware, and obviously unconcerned with such trivialities as torn skirts.

  “Well, go on with you then,” Phoebe told her brother, Moira incarnate as she waved him on. “Go and do what you came to do. We’ll be right along.”

  The maid deposited us in an exquisite pocket parlor, loaded with all kinds of Chinese tchotchkes, which—​based on the myriad photographs that covered walls and tables alike—​the Vanderbilts had acquired on a recent trip to the Orient.

  Phoebe stood. “Might as well make for the loo, while we’ve a moment. Be right back.”

  The elderly seamstress took her time getting there, but once she started in with her needle, the repairs took only moments. By the time she’d helped me back into the gown, and taken off, Phoebe still hadn’t returned.

  “Where is that girl?” I muttered under my breath as I reached for the crystal doorknob.

  The door opened suddenly inward, startling me so that I had to hop back.

  “Ready, Phe . . . ?”

  My voice died.

  Because there she stood. In all her perfectly polished elegance. In all her stupid, heiress glory. For what felt like eons, neither of us moved or spoke. I don’t think either of us blinked as Gabriella de Roca and I stared at each other.

  Then she closed her eyes and murmured, “Oh, gracias a Dios!”

  Darting an uneasy loo
k over her shoulder, she rushed in and closed the door behind her, muting the sounds of a ball in full play.

  Before my lips could remember how to form words, Gabriella was hugging me. Squeezing until my bones creaked. “Thank God I have found you in time.”

  I lost my tongue. Like . . . it seemed to have literally absconded from the inside of my oral cavity.

  “Please,” she said, stepping back. “We must to speak. Please.”

  It was that second “please” that did it. That, and the bruises on the pale underside of her arm. Four of them. Dark. Long. Parallel. The exact size and shape of human fingers.

  “You have no reason to trust me,” she said in an accent that made me think of bullfights and ornate cathedrals and plazas baking under the hot sun. “But I had to try. Brandon is in much danger. And though I have told him this as well, I think he is not willing to take it seriously. This is why I have come to you.”

  I wanted to make a rude noise, but instead found myself asking, “What kind of danger?”

  Gabriella sighed. Her perfume, honeysuckle and tuberose, clashed against the delicate pear-scented eau de toilette I’d dabbed behind my own ears. The sickly sweet mélange assaulted my senses as I stepped back.

  Next to her, I felt knobby and wooden, a crudely made puppet conversing with a creature of mist and water.

  Her deep green eyes seared into mine. “Blasi, he is watching me always, so I have only a moment. Before we came to this place, Celia told him I am not to be trusted. The woman does not care for me, and I do not blame her for this, as the feeling is . . .”

  I could almost see the wheels inside her head turning as she searched for the right word in English.

  “Mutual?”

  She nodded. “I despise her.” She said it so simply and sincerely that I felt the smallest crack open in my defenses.

  “Yeah. Join the club.”

  The sleek bun at the nape of Gabriella’s neck didn’t allow even one strand to fall as she nodded. “Sí, sí. I would join this club. But as much as I wish to place the blame on that bruja, I do not believe she knows all of what he has planned.”

  “Of what who has planned?”

  “Blasi.” For a second, I thought she might spit on the floor. “You know this man?”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “He works for Brandon’s mother and grandmother. This you know, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “And that he has been ordered to bring back this . . . this thing of Tesla’s. This also is no surprise to you?”

  Yeah, well, good luck with that. Besides Mac and Doug, he’ll have to get past Peters and his six guards.

  When I refused to acknowledge the question, Gabriella waved it off, as if my answer was of no concern anyway. “You have men there, guarding the lab. This Blasi knows.”

  I tried not to react, but something in my face must have alerted her.

  “Sí,” she said. “What you do not know,” she added, “is that Blasi has more. Many, many more. More than eight men were deployed from the future. Blasi has hired many others from this time. And he has a spy in Tesla’s employ, an assistant of Tesla’s named Jacobo. For much money, this assistant tells Blasi everything Tesla has done. According to Jacobo, the professor tried to create the enhancement from Blasi’s design many times, only to fail. He sent three men through the machine he created, along with this new element. Two returned after three days, as is usual. The third man was never seen again. Only days ago did one of the enhancements—​taken into the past by a man named Emil Stefanovic—​succeed. Emil was gone for a total of six days, nineteen hours, and forty-three minutes. This prototype is the only one that works. And according to Jacobo, Tesla trusts no one with its location. Only he knows where it is hidden. Blasi,” she said. “He knows this. And he will use whatever means necessary to get it.”

  Frigid tidal waves of dread began to swell inside me.

  “I have to go,” I said, skirting around her.

  “Espere! Por favor, tengo algo más!”

  “What?” I snapped, eyes on the door. “What is it?”

  “I need your help,” she said, green eyes locking with mine. “Blasi . . . Blasi va a matar a Brandon.”

  I was nobody’s physical threat. My normal means of causing people injury generally involved me tripping and falling on them. Though once, I’d accidentally impaled Collum’s hand with a seventeenth-century dinner fork. But though I was shorter than the dancer by more than a head, I had blind, seething panic on my side. Before I knew it, I had her shoved up against the wall. Behind her lay wallpaper covered in watercolor renditions of Chinese characters. A likely priceless geisha figurine fell from a table and shattered.

  I didn’t care.

  “Did you just say,” I snarled, “that Blasi is going to kill Bran?”

  Eyes glittering with tears, Gabriella nodded.

  “Talk.”

  She tried, but my forearm was still pressed against her throat. I swallowed. Made myself let go. Stepped back.

  “I—​I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just—”

  “No. No. This is understandable. I am glad of your fear, because Brandon has none. I told him all this, but he is a man who believes nothing can ever truly harm him. You know this about him?”

  “Unfortunately yes.”

  “Blasi has spoken to Doña Maria of taking Celia’s place as leader of the Timeslippers. He has convinced her that her granddaughter has become desequilibrada . . . loca. That she uses resources unwisely, concerned only with the rescue of Michael MacPherson. Maria is old and tired, yes, but she is not blind. She . . . She told Blasi that if he succeeds in this mission, she will honor his request. Brandon will try to block him, and Blasi will not let that happen. I may despise Celia Alvarez, but Blasi? He frightens me. I think, should this thing come to pass, none of us will be safe. Blasi must be stopped.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked, as my mind tried to decipher what this could mean for all of us.

  She wouldn’t look at me as she shrugged in that way only European women can pull off. “He believes I am with him.”

  “Why would he think that, Gabriella?”

  Throwing back her shoulders, raising her chin high, she said, “I am doing what I must to protect mi familia. Would you not do the same in my place?”

  She turned away before I could utter a word, but I saw it when her hand rose to swipe at her cheek. My mind began to fill in the gaps, and my stomach rolled over.

  Because I was pretty sure I knew what she had to do to gain Blasi’s trust.

  “Gabriella, I—”

  She shook her head without turning. “No,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I have known Brandon for a very long time. He is like the brother to me.” She took in a shaky breath. “I think he should go back with you to your home, para siempre. It will never be safe for him to return to the Timeslippers now.”

  For an instant I let the idea consume me.

  Bran at Christopher Manor. The two of us, together every day. Mornings in the library, tucked up, debating literature and history and travel. Lazy horseback afternoons on the moors. Sunsets by the river. In the evening we could smile at each other across the dinner table.

  And the nights . . .

  We both startled as someone rattled the doorknob. The maid who’d helped me peeked around the door. “Pardon me, miss. Is everything all right?”

  Gabriella’s voice lowered to a bare husk as she slipped away. “Brandon is in Blasi’s way, Hope, and he will stop at nothing. Help him. This is all I ask of you.”

  I found Phoebe seated at the fortuneteller’s table. Her eyes looked bleary, but at my approach she stood.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve never been able to resist having my fortune told and . . .” She trailed off when she noticed my expression. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  I shot a look at the gray-haired gypsy, who was counting stacks of coins. I took Phoebe’s arm and led her away, quickly filling her in. />
  “But?” she said when I was done. “Why should we trust a word that dancing Delilah has to say?”

  “You didn’t see her, Phee,” I said. “I—​I think I believe her.”

  “Hmmph. All right, then. Let’s go find Coll and the other lads. We’ll tell them. See what they think, aye? And we’ll need to speak to Bran, too. Is he here yet? Did whatsername say?”

  I shook my head, though I knew he must be. I was already feeling lighter from sharing the burden. As we strolled toward the ballroom door, I glanced over at Phoebe. “Oh,” I asked. “So, what was your fortune?”

  “Bah.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Waste of money. Just the same old claptrap. ‘You’ll fall in love with a tall, dark stranger.’ Did that when I was seven, didn’t I? Do me a favor though, and don’t tell Collum, aye? I hate it when he gives me that look.”

  Chapter 40

  THE DECORATIONS IN THE BALLROOM WERE VASTLY different from those in the rest of the manor. It was as though we’d passed through Aladdin’s cave and entered a fairy forest. Above our heads hung garlands of white and pink flowers, twined with ivy and sparkling ribbon. Barefoot girls in gauzy dresses floated between guests, passing out flutes of champagne. A rain of petals drifted down onto bejeweled hair and black-clad shoulders.

  We scanned the crowd.

  “I don’t see . . . Ah!” Phoebe said. “There they are.”

  To the right of the steps, Tesla was embroiled in a conversation with William Vanderbilt and another man whose face I could not see. Collum and Jonathan stood close by, watching their charge closely.

  “You go find lover boy,” Phoebe said. “Then I’ll grab our lads and meet you in that far corner behind the ice sculpture of the goat man. I’ll take my time so you can have a few minutes alone with him.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grinning. “And . . . I think that’s supposed to be Pan.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “The ice sculpture. Pan’s the god of nature. Son of Dionysus, god of wine?”