Scoffing, I hurried after her, flabbergasted at the liberties she felt compelled to take with me. “I beg your pardon?”
She flowed up the steps effortlessly, moving through the sparse crowd of people as if they weren’t even there. When we reached the second floor, she headed straight for the section she desired, marked by a large American flag and portrait of someone who could only be George Washington.
“Take a look around,” she ordered, waving to the long hallway littered with artifacts. “Tell me what you see when you’re done.”
Thrown off by her approach, I frowned, opening my mouth to protest. A pointed look from her silenced me before I could begin though, and so I slowly moved into the exhibit, taking in the pieces and paraphernalia located along the walls.
Campaign tents, letters, weapons, uniforms, and paintings were displayed in cases and on easels. A healthy mix of both British and American trappings was present, stationed beside one another, telling the story of a war I never got to experience the end of. It was odd, seeing so many things from my own era weathered by time, dingy and worn, displayed as if they were remarkable in their own simple ways.
A strange, lonely feeling gripped my heart the farther I walked down the hall. Words written by the men I’d fought and stood with reached out to me. Images of battles were all too familiar to my soldier’s mind. Even the stains on the uniforms were recognizable, right down to the brown color of old, washed out blood. It was as if I were utterly known and understood, yet wholly forsaken and alone at the same time. Here, among the pieces of the past, I felt more at home than I had in the weeks since I’d come here. It wasn’t a sensation meant to last though, and I soon found my eyes pricking with unexpected moisture as I realized the full extent of what happened to me.
I was alone here. Every member of my family was dead. The friends I’d held dear were also gone. Each person I had ever met besides Olivia was a part of the earth now, buried in graves so old that no one remembered who they were personally or the impact they’d had on the world, however great or small.
Try as she might to make life normal, Olivia must have discerned I would have no peace with this. Perhaps that was why she was trying so hard to keep me from dwelling on what happened to us. She did not want me to feel what I was experiencing now.
She knew the pain of really, truly being alone in the world.
Halting in my journey along the path, I stared at the portrait in front of me, meeting my own gaze in the oil paints for the first time since Olivia had gifted me the picture in the seventeen hundreds.
Somehow, it looked . . . Different. The restoration work wasn’t visible at all. If she’d not told me beforehand, I wouldn’t have even realized it was ripped and dirty when it entered this building. The red of my coat was the same, as were my smile and eyes, the gift as touching to me now as it had been that Thanksgiving day. However, something was off about my appearance. When I’d first seen the creation, there had been no mistaking I was the subject of the portrait. Now, it was as if my nose weren’t entirely right and the color of my hair was a few shades off.
“It’s pretty impressive,” Miss Mercer’s voice muttered behind me. “Olivia has a gift for this kind of art. She’s fudged a few places, but, overall, it really does look like you. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that.”
“No,” I agreed, staring at the painting she had created, some of the pain in my chest lessening. “I knew from the moment I first laid eyes on it that it was her calling in life to create images such as this. But . . . It has changed. A few of the details aren’t right anymore.” Glancing at the nameplate for the work, I felt my stomach twist some.
“Unknown Redcoat soldier, August, 1777.” Miss Mercer made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t exactly tell them who the portrait was of when I donated it.”
“Beg pardon?” I asked, surprised as I turned to gape at her. “You were the one who gave Olivia my portrait in this time?”
She nodded. “I did. Of course, you were the one who told me where to find it and when to drop it off.”
Raising an eyebrow, I folded my arms, pursing my lips as I stared. “Elaborate, if you will.”
Shrugging, she smiled, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “When we met ten years ago, you told me where your portrait was hidden and asked me to take care of it and deliver it in its ruined state to this museum on Christmas Eve of last year.”
Shaking my head, I sighed, turning to the artwork. “All this talk of more traveling,” I muttered. “How one keeps their mind from running amuck with a million different questions and possibilities is beyond me.”
Laughing, she touched my shoulder, drawing my attention to her. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Natural travelers have to deal with a lot more than trained ones. It can be hard to keep all the timelines organized and understandable.”
“Natural travelers?”
“That’s what you and Olivia are,” she explained. “People who travel through time on accident. You have a natural ability to do it, whereas myself and my brother both had to train and take special medicines. There’s a lot more to it, honestly, but we can talk about all of that when we get to the estate. I have a car waiting outside.”
“Estate?” Shaking my head, I moved on, walking quickly as I passed several more artifacts. “I do apologize, Miss Mercer, but as I was saying earlier, Olivia has expressed intent for us to handle things on our own. While your knowledge is appreciated, I do believe we are not quite ready to accept it at this moment in time. I will call on you once I have gotten Olivia to agree to a meeting we can all attend together.”
“You’re going to want to come with me,” she insisted. “And the longer you look at the stuff here, the more you’re going to realize that.”
Scoffing, I turned around, glaring at her. “Stop assuming you are on familiar terms with me,” I spat out. “Whoever you claim to have met in the past could be anyone. For all I know, you and your brother could be cut from the same cloth. Until you can prove to me that your intent is honest and pure, I am afraid I will be unable to accept your help. Good day.”
Turning on my heel, I flew down the hallway, moving around the corner and making my way through the rest of the exhibit in an angry rush. As I was nearing the end, something caught my eye, though, and I turned, staring at the large portraiture with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
Gabriel Mercer was seated on a rearing horse, front and center of the image, a ripped and bloodied British flag clasped in his hand. His uniform bore the markings of a captain, the men behind him locked in a bloody battle of desperate proportions.
Beside the picture was another, Gabriel administering medical aid to General Mercer as Redcoats raised their bayonets to stab him. In another, he led his men to a brilliant victory, a sword held aloft like a beacon of hope and strength.
The entire section was littered with the time traveler’s face. He was being displayed as an American hero, a man who had given his all for a cause he believed in.
“What has Gabriel done?” I breathed. Turning to Miss Mercer, I frowned. “He is the one who has changed everything?”
She nodded. “I have reason to believe he may even be responsible for bringing Olivia’s parents back to life.”
Confused, I peered at the paintings, my stomach twisting uncomfortably. “What would possess him to do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure it has something to do with you, though.”
Raising an eyebrow, I faced her again, motioning for her to continue.
“You’re missing, August,” Miss Mercer stated, her voice sure and strong. “Gabriel became a war hero, Olivia’s family has been returned to her, and you have become a blank space on every historical document you should exist on.”
An uneasy pit rested in the bottom of my abdomen, twisting around and around like a ball of snakes attempting to knot itself as many times as possible. My voice refused to utter at a level louder than a whisper, my heart thump
ing wildly as I sat beside Miss Mercer in her car.
If—no, not if, when—when Olivia discovered I’d not only abandoned my meeting with her employer but that I’d left the museum all together and was in the company of Charlotte Mercer, it was extremely likely she would give me a dressing down to rival even the strictest of generals. Her mood regarding the truth of our situation was dark at best. We hadn’t made many decisions without the other’s input over the past year as well. My betrayal would sting her, without a doubt.
As loathe as I was to go against her wishes, I couldn’t help but believe I was on the path intended for me. The same feeling I’d received when I first met Olivia, the sense of fate intervening in my life, was present with Miss Mercer as well. It wasn’t a heroic or romantic notion, as it had been with my love, but more so one of haste and importance.
My pondering of the American History Exhibit had only enforced what I was too afraid to admit to myself these past weeks. I did not belong in this century. It was true, I could adjust if I desired to do so, but the urge to follow that path was not there. Melancholy I could not explain away was settling deeper into my bones with each passing moment, the life I’d imagined for myself as a boy skewed and broken on the teeth of time.
However, as soon as Charlotte Mercer had extended the offer to return to her estate so she could better clarify the situation she was presenting to me, I knew it was what I was meant to do here. The reservations I held against her character and intent remained, but something inside me whispered she could be trusted.
Letting out a long sigh, I focused on the painted roadways, ignoring the tinge of sickness that came with riding in cars. Everyone from this era appeared entirely at ease in the crafts, yet I still experienced discomfort every time I entered one. Olivia assured me it would fade, but I wasn’t so sure.
“Here we are.”
Miss Mercer’s voice broke me from my concentrations, and I glanced up, taking in the façade of the impressive building rising before us. It was built in a style much like the great houses in England I’d seen, with sprawling gardens and stone-lined paths. Every measure of space gave off the impression of wealth and poise, while a scholarly attitude hung in the air.
“It’s a little way out of the city,” Charlotte offered, smiling as we rolled up the pebbled pathway to the front entrance. “But better than the place Louis kept after the divorce. Mom and I always preferred this site over the others.”
“Your home is lovely,” I admitted politely. “Many thanks for the invitation to join you here.”
The door opened, an attendant outside ushering us from the automobile and through the front entrance. There was a flurry of activity as soon as we set foot on the stone floors, several people addressing Miss Mercer and passing papers back and forth with her. She ordered them all about with ease, her command of the home obvious and practiced. Before I could get a word in edgewise, she had ordered food to the library for us, requested something to drink, left a message for her mother, signed a number of documents, and was leading me down the long hallway, past a double, spiral staircase that led to the next floor.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said, her tone apologetic as she pushed a pair of doors open and stood to the side to let me enter. “Things have been quite chaotic since your arrival.”
Declining to comment, I pursed my lips as I glanced around the collection of cases stuffed full of tomes. Undoubtedly, this was one of the largest rooms in the house, with several chair lined tables stretched across the middle. Their surfaces were covered in maps and documents, volumes flipped open to various pages, papers with scribbled handwriting scrawled across them draped along each available location, like a delicate lace cloth centerpiece.
To my surprise, many of the leaves appeared to have my name written on them. Upon further inspection, I discovered the books to be housing information on the various places I had resided, as well as a collection of personnel records from the military.
“You have been researching me?” I asked, trying not to let the uncomfortableness I felt at such a thought show through the words.
Miss Mercer grimaced all the same, nodding in reply. “Trying to, anyway. There’s nothing to find, though. It’s odd because I can remember looking you up after we first met ten years ago. Your records were there. Now . . . You’re just gone. I think that might be why your portrait doesn’t look the same, too.”
“Would you care to explain what that means?” The testiness in my tone was a surprise to both of us, her eyebrows raising as she took a seat at one of the tables. Guilt flooded me as I sighed, running a hand through my hair, missing the familiarity of my long locks. “I apologize,” I mumbled, sighing as I took a seat beside her. “This whole situation has been a maze of twists and turns from the start. While I do not hold you at fault, I do believe you could elucidate in a manner I will understand.”
Her expression softened into a smile, and she nodded, splaying her hands across the table as she sucked in a breath. “I will do my best. What are you not understanding?”
“How am I missing?” I pressed. “Are you saying I never existed in my own time?”
“No,” she replied immediately. “You most definitely were there. Everything you did, the people you knew, where you lived, all of it is real and tangible. It’s the record of you that’s missing.” Her eyebrows pinched together as she motioned to the books laid out before us. “I cannot find any evidence of your birth, your military enrollment, your disappearance—nothing. The notations of your regiment list there are enough men enrolled for you to be a part of it, but the names cataloged are one less than there should be. Anywhere you should or could be registered is blank. There isn’t any record of Olivia, either, though she wouldn’t have been as well watched and noted in that time. As for the painting . . .” She clicked her tongue, frowning. “Its changing could be a precursor to the both of you vanishing completely, but I don’t know.”
“How is that possible?” I asked, panic at the thought of Olivia and I being torn apart by powers unseen grabbing hold of me. “You said you looked before and I was there.”
Her lips pursed, the light in her eyes darkening significantly. “That’s true. To describe how that works, I’m going to need to give you a little lesson in time travel first.”
I motioned without hesitation, urging her to continue and lift the veil still clouding my mind on this manner.
She blew a considerable puff out of her lips, leaning in the seat, and then stood, moving to a slate anchored into the wall. It wasn’t like the ones I’d seen at the hospital, instead reminding me of my own time, chalk messages written across its surface. She erased what was there and picked up a fresh piece to write with, turning to look at me.
“Some of it is very scientific,” she began, holding her hands up as a plea for patience. “But the gist of it is this.” Taking the chalk, she drew a circle on the board, with a straight line beside it. “This,” she stated, pointing to the line, “is a cosmic string. Basically, these were formed at the creation of our universe. They are pieces of matter left over from the Big Bang—I’m aware you don’t know what that is, just think of it as an explosion of stuff that was the start of all our planets and every single thing ever and whatnot—and the only source we recognize as being able to travel time with.”
She paused, allowing me to soak in the outlandish things she said. “With me so far?”
Not sure what to say, I blinked, then nodded, leaning in my seat and pressing my fingertips to my lips as I listened.
Watching me for a second longer, she grinned and turned to the board. “These strings, while invisible to the naked eye, are constantly moving through time and space, twisting and wiggling along until they phase themselves out.” Her hand darted across the green top, dragging the chalk with it and creating a bunch of squiggly lines next to the straight one. “In all of that motion, the strings can sometimes cross over themselves.” Her attention returned to the circle then, and she drew two lines
coming off it, turning it into a string passed over itself. “Whenever a loop is formed, it breaks away from the rest of the string, shortening the line and eventually phasing it out in its entirety.”
Picking up a fuzzy box, she wiped away all her drawings and redid the crossed over string larger, in the center. “Each end of the string exists in a different time,” Miss Mercer continued, an air of awe and excitement underlying the words. “So, when a loop forms, for the briefest of moments, before it fizzles away from the line and disappears, two dates that shouldn’t touch, do.”
Pausing, she stepped away from the board, staring at it in silence, her explanation hanging in the air like an unfinished symphony. The look in her eyes was one of awe and contemplation, as if she were reconsidering everything she knew and believed at that moment.
A knock at the door interrupted the moment, a manservant appearing with the food Miss Mercer had ordered upon our arrival. It took him a few moments to clear a spot on the table and set the tray out, but after that he departed without another word, leaving the two of us in silence once more.
Staring at the bread, meat, salad, and bottles of beer that had been left for us, I remained quiet as well, waiting for the lesson to continue. When she did not speak for a moment, I cleared my throat, prodding her to explain further. “If these strings are invisible, how do you know where they are or where they will circle?”
The question snapped her from whatever thoughts had seized her mind, and she glanced at me, lips turning upward once more. “Both good questions. As for how we find them, the answer is surprisingly simple. All we had to do was listen for the strings singing.”
“Singing?” I asked, taken aback. “What does that mean?”
“It’s like when you blow across the top of a bottle,” she answered off-handedly. Picking up one of the beers, she popped the top off and took a swallow before pursing her lips and breathing over the top of it, creating a sweet, high note. “The air is matter you’re moving across the top of other matter, creating a whistling or singing sound. When cosmic strings move and twist, they create their own sound. It’s too low a note for us to be able to hear because the strings are so big—remember, the bigger the instrument, the lower the notes—but my mother and I created a machine that can hear it for us. Whenever we are looking for a string, we bring it along and let it be our ears.”
Abandoning Anarchy (The Lost in Time Duet #2) Page 7