“What’s that supposed to mean?” I throw myself into a nearby chair, crossing my arms across my body, pouting. No sense in hiding my feelings now.
He sits on the arm of the sofa. “What I mean is, you have a favor you need of me—and well—I have something I’d like to ask from you. In return, of course.”
“Of course!” Agitated, I look away, letting my cheek rest upon my palm. I ignore him for a few moments, letting my gaze drift around the cluttered workroom, allowing myself time to understand his personal agenda and ultimately devising how I might get my way. But there is no way, of course, because Turner is absolutely impossible.
He clears his throat. “It’s not much, I promise.”
“Fine.” I moan, letting my head fall back. “Spill.”
“Well, I’d be willing to keep your secret from everyone, including your precious Bishop, and keep you supplied with new defense holograms, if you tell me two little things.” He smiles, knowing he has me.
“What?”
“Tell me,” he stands and paces, “why are you so obsessed with mastering defense, and what are you doing with this necklace?”
“That’s none of your business!” My body flings forward.
“You’ll tell me.” He circles the space, casting his devious eyes over his shoulder, and then he sits, relaxing back into the couch.
My eyes narrow.
“I have a feeling—a hunch really, that they might be related. What do you think of that hypothesis?”
“You’re way off!” I fume. But really, he isn’t. His guess is spot-on. Am I really that easy to read? If so, I’ll never be able to hide my plan, especially from Bishop. He knows me better than anyone.
I look over at Turner, this time intensifying my evil eye. I wish I had laser eyes for a superpower rather than time travel, so I could burn the word “turd” onto his forehead. But when he flashes those sultry eyes again, I lift myself out of the chair and walk away without saying another word. I’m too annoyed.
There’s no way I’m becoming indebted to him. That would be about as smart as entering into an agreement with the Devil. I’ll get my rosary necklace back—somehow.
“Seraphina! Really, I’m only looking after you!” he yells in amusement. I cringe, irritated further by my full name.
I wind my way through the smoke-filled laboratory, kicking the pieces of brown paper aside as they appear out of swirling clouds. Then I exit the laboratory, slamming the door on the way out.
In the hallway I pace, conflicted. Should I return to bargain with him? I know he won’t give in until he gets his way. And I won’t surrender until I get mine. Right now, telling him the truth, answering his questions, simply isn’t an option I can entertain, because not one soul knows my plan for that necklace—to use it as a relic to go back and rescue my mom from the Underground.
The rosary relic was sent all the way from Rome, Italy, because finding a suitably aged relic in the Relic Archives had proven impossible. Anything within a year old would still be waiting to be cataloged by Argus Matchimus, the relics curator.
The small jewelry dealer I purchased the rosary from sat mere blocks away from the church in which I found my mom on the day I used the Egyptian sundial bracelet to wander from Chicago to Rome. To be sure, I don’t know if I found her in “true time” by skipping (moving from one moment to the next without losing or gaining time), or if the encounter transpired sometime in recent history. Using the Egyptian sundial bracelet had made it impossible to know for sure.
When I think to the piazza in Rome that day, everyone appeared to be dressed in clothing from the current time. But the biggest clue was that Francis and Jessica were there. As Seers, they would have arrived in a normal way, not via wandering. Still, pinpointing the exact day is difficult. And I refuse to ask Sam, my Seer, even though her ability to see the events as they transpired through Bishop’s eyes will allow her to make an educated guess. Sam is the only other person who knows my mother is alive. I swore her to secrecy months ago. Bringing up the experience again might alert her to my plan. I can only hope that she’s forgotten. Or, to be more accurate, I hope she’s filed it away in the back of her mind, as much as a Wanderer can.
I lean against the wall, angry with myself for losing the relic to Turner’s games. I press my hand to my stomach, feeling sick.
Footsteps approach from behind the laboratory door. Not wanting to confront Turner until I can consider my options, I keep moving.
I mope through Olde Town, taking my time, letting the fake sun warm my skin. I collapse into a metal chair under a tree and watch the champagne-colored butterflies dance around the golden obelisk. The pillar stands several stories tall in the center of the plaza of the underground city. The top third of the obelisk sits aboveground, outside, in the courtyard of Washington Square Academy for Wanderers.
I glance around the buildings. Olde Town is completely empty, except for a few tropical-looking birds that have made the city their permanent home. A manufactured breeze rolls through. It ruffles the bright green leaves in the tree’s canopy and pushes the butterflies farther away, toward a crumbling building with Victorian details.
True, I’m not ready to face any aged Wanderer, Protector, or Seer to fight for my mom. They’d be much more powerful than I, even with all my hard work. If I’m being honest with myself, I still might be years away from the peak of my abilities, whatever they may be. So if I have to weasel the necklace away from Turner over a short time, it would be okay. This eases my mind. After more consideration, I’m mostly disturbed by Turner’s games and his obvious attempt to control me. Why can’t he just leave me alone, be nice, and choose another girl to stare at with his hypnotic eyes?
The clock on the Tower Building strikes twelve with a deep gong that vibrates my skin. This cheers me slightly, and I roll my aching body to stand. I walk through the nearest stone archway, the Lion’s Gate, and cross the worn redwood bridge, leaving Olde Town.
Two metal lions stand guard on their pedestals. Their rusted gears grind and activate, creating a dull roar. I should be used to it by now. The Animates always stir when I’m near, but I quickly jump into the ornate elevator and slam the retractable gate shut, locking it into place, just in case they decide that this is the day they will finally attack. I crank the handle until the elevator ascends toward the main floor of the Academy.
A few moments later, I stand in a large vestibule off the main entrance. Mailboxes stack high, twenty feet into the air on the walls, encircling me. But these are not normal mailboxes. They’re of the Animate variety. Similar to the lions in Olde Town, they and other metal statues here magically live and breathe.
When the mailboxes sense my presence, they snap to attention with a metallic whack. With the precision of a fine timepiece, wheels and cogs revolve and click, rotating the boxes from top to bottom and left to right, like the largest Rubik’s Cube known to man. The Animate, solving the intricate puzzle, presents my mailbox—number 42508.
I touch my finger to the recognition thumb pad, and the mailbox lock clicks. The bronze door swings open, and I shove my hand into the dark cubicle, grabbing a wad of envelopes. Huddling the stack to my chest, I close the door and step away as the mailboxes rearrange themselves.
Leaning against a nearby column, I shuffle through the papers. I stop on a beautiful postcard. Fancy script announces, “Greetings from Taormina, Sicily.” Aunt Mona returned to Italy for the summer on a painting tour.
I flip to the next piece of mail—a large golden envelope from my dad, Ray. I keep going, pretending not to care about what he’s sent. I’m still angry with him for our non-summer. We’d planned to spend several weeks together, even planning a Hawaiian vacation. But not long after I returned home to Miami, work summoned him. Annoyed, I decided not to wait around. I’ve never been a priority in his eyes. So one week after school ended, I returned to the Academy and started a rigorous training schedule.
Finally, I flip to the envelope I hoped for—a letter fro
m Bishop. I smile and admire the red stamp of Queen Elizabeth. Just this small item eases the annoyance of the morning’s activities.
Thrilled, I dart up the main staircase and down the long marble corridor to my apartment. I shove the mail between my legs and pull out my keys to unlock the antique crystal doorknob.
“Seraphina.”
I look over my shoulder to see who calls.
::4::
Love Letters
I steady my eyes, taking in the image twenty feet away.
A cloaked hologram wavers, hovering just above the shiny marble floor, where I can see its reflection mirrored.
“Seraphina.” The hologram speaks again.
I snap to attention at the name, certain that Turner sent the hologram to taunt me. This is his sad attempt at sarcasm. He’ll probably make all the holograms call me Seraphina from now on, just to tick me off.
“I’ve finished my defense lesson for the day,” I command. This should shut the machine off, but it doesn’t. Instead, the image steps forward.
“I said—I’ve already done my exercises for the day!” I yell.
“Yes, I’ve seen.” Another voice speaks nearby, too close for comfort. I jump, dropping my mail and it scatters across the floor. A few pieces land on Terease Ivanov’s black boot. She’s appeared from an adjacent hallway.
“Oh—you,” I say unenthusiastically and peek around her black leather-clad body to make sure the hologram got the message. Swirls of electrified dust coil, evaporating into thin air. Good. The last thing I want to do is tell Turner that one of his stupid hologram machines malfunctioned. Spft.
“Who was that?” she asks suspiciously in her Russian accent.
“Just one of Turner’s inventions,” I explain. “What do you want? I didn’t know you were back.” I lean down to collect the mail.
When I look up, she’s examining me skeptically, probably considering the hologram. I hope she’ll just let it go. It’s not unusual for the professor and Turner to install inventions around the school.
“What?” I demand again and stand straight, giving her the defiant face I normally reserve for my dad, Ray. You could say Terease and I have an uncomfortable history.
Her eyes narrow with her usual contempt. “Meet me in my office, tomorrow afternoon at four. We have much to discuss.”
Before I can turn away, her coal-black eyes engage mine. Our minds lock together, and she lights one simmering spark. The flames explode with the force of lit kerosene. Quickly the uncontrolled wildfire whips and races through my maze of thoughts and memories. I fight her psychological rampage, helplessly attempting to force her out of my head. I squeeze my hands over my temples, clench my teeth, and gag at the taste of sulfur foaming in my mouth. Get out! Get out! I scream inside.
She releases me.
Immediately my muscles seize into painful cramps, and I collapse to the floor on my hands and knees, panting. I look up, and Terease walks away. Her high-heeled boots click the corridor floor.
“Sounds like fun,” I respond sarcastically to her meeting request.
She just laughs her sandpapery laugh. The evil sound echoes, bouncing off the cavernous halls. A sickly cape of darkness follows her, dragging along the marble floor, murals, and columns until she rounds the corner, pulling the shadows from view.
Strangely, I seem to be the one person who evades her special abilities as a Harvester. With a normal Wanderer, she can search their brains, pluck thoughts, pull memories, and extract information. But with me, she can only burn my mind. What purpose this serves, I have yet to understand. For now, I consider it a type of child abuse or an act of dominance.
Recovering on the floor, I rub my forehead. Unfortunately, the short-term results of her burn sessions are massive headaches. The long-term effect—I’m not exactly sure yet, but I’m positive it involves a butt load of lost brain cells.
I moan and roll over. With wavering enthusiasm, I gather my mail, leaving it in a pile on the floor. Turning, I jiggle the door lock, trying to pop the apartment door open from a kneeling position. When the door finally opens, I lean in and hold on to the knob steady myself, then lift my body.
The doorknob pops off in my hand, sending me crashing back to the ground. I rest for a few moments, considering my bad luck. With all the energy I have left, I lug myself into the apartment, drag a nearby chair across the room, and wedge it against the door as a temporary doorstop. It won’t keep out anyone who really wants in, but I’m not expecting any visitors at the moment.
Walking through the apartment, I pick up several pairs of dirty socks, push through my bedroom door, and drop the stack of mail on my bed. My room and apartment are a colossal mess. Sam, impeccable to a fault, will die if she arrives home to this unsalvageable wreckage. She and Bishop, as my team members, are also my roommates. I promise myself to clean it up tomorrow, but first, I need to take care of myself. Immediately, I take an extra long, extra hot shower.
When I slip into my oversized robe, my muscles relax, finally at ease. My burning headache is a dull memory. I linger by the bed, towel-drying my hair and eyeing Bishop’s unopened letter. Normally, I hold off reading them for as long as possible. When I can no longer force myself to wait another minute, the rush of reading his words is all the more satisfying and exhilarating. But today, I can’t wait. The ache of missing him is at a heightened peak, probably because I’m anticipating his return to Chicago tomorrow.
He made me promise not to wander to see him in London over the summer holiday, which is absolutely ridiculous. Somewhere in his Protector mind, he considers me vulnerable. After last semester, he fears Cece and the Underground will hunt me down again.
When he looked imploringly at me with those beautiful green eyes, I reluctantly promised to lock myself away in the Academy for the summer, with only his letters to remind me of him. And those letters—they’re simply beautiful, romantic letters.
I collect the cream envelope and walk out of my bedroom and into the living area. I grasp the handle of Bishop’s bedroom door, rotate the knob, and peek in. My brain knows the room is empty, but I always hope, wish, that Bishop will appear, leaning back in his chair with his feet anchored on his desk, reading a tattered book, just as he always had during the spring semester.
He’d smile brightly and say, “Hello, love,” in that delightfully British way, his perfect, lopsided smile revealing a ghost of a dimple. The smile would reach his eyes, bending them into arcs, accentuating his thick-fringed lashes. I’d do anything to look into those sparkling green eyes right now.
I exhale when I register the empty room. Afternoon sunlight barely filters through the curtains’ sheers. I meander to his bed, still unmade from my last visit, and sink down into it, relaxing into the fluff as my tiptoes barely graze the wood floor. Rocking back, I swing my legs on top of the down comforter and nestle my head into his feather pillow.
The pillow smells like him, even after all this time—weeks. His aftershave lingers, warm citrus and leather. I inhale the intoxicating aroma. My eyelids flutter. Bishop’s stunning face dances behind them. If I could only hold this thought forever, I’d be in heaven.
Giving in, I break the wax seal on his envelope, slide my finger under the open corner, and tear. Instantly, I regret it. Why don’t I have the strength to wait? Why does he have this unexplainable hold over me?
Ornate script decorates the cream page. He’s been working on his penmanship, practicing calligraphy. He explained that my letters deserved to be beautiful. I smell the paper first. The ink is still tart and fresh.
•
My Seraphina,
All I can think of are the coming days.
When we can unite once more,
promise me this:
Nourish my heart, for it has been starved.
Feed my eyes, for they are weak.
Satisfy my touch, for my hands lay quiet.
Restless. Waiting. Dreaming.
Until I fall into your sweet embrace,
; Feel the ebb and tide of your chest,
Become drunk once more
by your sweet breath,
Consumed, forever lost,
in the wild violets of your gaze.
Restless. Waiting. Dreaming.
— Bishop
•
I reread the words out loud, memorizing them with my special gift of perfect recall. I want to capture these perfect, loving emotions in my thoughts forever.
My body and shoulders tighten with each reading and, in this moment, I decide I must see him. I can’t wait any longer. With his beautiful letter in hand, I can wander through time, directly to him. I just have figure out how to leave the Academy without anyone catching me.
::5::
The Launch
I’ve not only been on lockdown at the Academy for Bishop’s sake, even though I pretend that’s the case for my own sanity. The thought of someone telling me what to do always seems like a challenge for me to do the opposite.
Now that Terease is back, she’ll enforce the lockdown herself. The entire staff, at least what is left for the summer, watch me like hawks. I can’t even leave the Academy grounds without a chaperone. They know about my confrontation with Cece last winter and won’t allow a repeat performance. Little do they realize, that’s exactly what I want—eventually.
I stand in the turret of my room, staring out the bedroom door on the far side of the room. The furniture was a pain in the butt to move, but with it pushed to the side, near the walls, there’s a bare stretch of running space from my bedroom all the way through the living area. Even still, there doesn’t seem to be enough space to run and launch myself into a time-traveling wormhole. I have a sneaking suspicion that the apartments are designed this way on purpose. The Academy doesn’t want students to wander within their rooms, with no security cameras to record the event.
Gripping Bishop’s letter in my hand as a relic, I run regardless. I have to try to wander; I have to see him. If I use his name in my mind as the keyword to unlock the time-traveling door, the relic will transport me to London, where he last touched the envelope.
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