Timekeeper (23 page)

Ida hesitated.

“Millicent had a theory,” she began. “She had the idea that Age Shifting Timekeepers could only cease to exist if they
were killed in multiple Timelines besides their own. Of course, this was never proven, and I imagine it would be incredibly difficult to accomplish. But Millicent believed in her theory with conviction.” Ida looked at her carefully. “I don’t know that I would advise attempting it under any circumstances, but certainly not alone.”

The clock sounded and Ida stood up, signaling the end of their meeting.

“Wait!” Michele called out. “There’s one more thing I need to know. What’s so bad about being born to parents from two different times? Why is it against the law? What’s going to happen to me?”

Ida hesitated before answering. “It’s against nature, against the rules of Time, for a child to live and grow up in one century when one of her parents is from another. Let me ask, have you ever found yourself time traveling against your will? Have you been pushed back to the present when you hoped to remain in the past, or vice versa?”

“Yes,” Michele admitted. “It’s happened a number of times.”

“That is your body’s gravity, trying to pull you back into the past where half of you belongs. We’ve seen this with a few other time-crossed children. Gradually, usually beginning around adulthood, they become split between their father’s and mother’s time periods, involuntarily pulled from one era to another.” Ida looked at her sadly. “That means that you might be having the best day of your life here in the twenty-first century, only to be propelled back one hundred years before, for who
knows how long. It’s enough to drive you mad—and it makes having a normal life an impossible task.”

Michele shook her head frantically. “No. No, that won’t happen to me! I
can’t
be a prisoner of Time like that. There’s got to be an exception.
I’ve
got to be the exception. I can’t get stuck in the past, not now that I’ve found—” She broke off midsentence, not ready to talk about Philip just yet.

“Millicent used to say there is a way around every hurdle,” Ida shared. “In this case … you’ll have to be the one to discover it.”

“What is it about 1904?” Michele asked. “The times that I’ve recently gone into the past involuntarily, it’s been to 1904.”

“You’re sixteen years old, aren’t you?” When Michele nodded Ida continued, “Your father came to the future from early 1888. Had you been born in your father’s time, you would be sixteen years old in 1904. So the split is already taking place. You have two Timelines now, one as a sixteen-year-old girl in the twenty-first century … and the other as a sixteen-year-old of 1904.”

The color drained from Michele’s face.

“What if—what if I can travel without a key?” she asked, grasping for straws. “What then?”

Ida’s movements stilled, and she looked at Michele in astonishment. “That I would very much like to see.”

Who do I belong to
,

Who belongs to me in this life?

There exist no love songs
,

Tender is the key of my strife
.

I’ll fill the world with my creations
,

Live the soul of imagination
.

Who do I belong to
,

Who belongs to me?

When I look inside me, who will I meet?

Leave the past and present behind me
,

Let the future steer and guide me
.

Who do I belong to?

The one who left the key
.

Now it’s time for me

To be who he thought I could be
.

—IRVING HENRY
FEBRUARY 5, 1991

13

THE DIARY OF IRVING HENRY
February
5, 1888

“I am ready,” I whisper to the key in my hand. “Take me to New York City, in the year 1991.”

I cry out, currents of shock coursing through me as invisible strings pull my body above the floor. I rise like a phantom over Room 1991, higher and higher, until I am nearing the colossal ceiling of the Aura Hotel. And then my body begins to spin faster than I’ve ever imagined possible, so fast that I find myself clawing at the air in a desperate attempt to slow down. I feel violently ill, like my heart might give out on me at any moment. It isn’t
human
to move at such a speed!

Shooting through the roof of the Aura, I yell in terror as I find
myself soaring into the open air, the sand and beaches of San Diego so far below that they look like tiny dots of color.

I’m
flying
! Adrenaline mixes with dread as I realize there is no one to catch my fall. Suddenly, the scene around me swiftly begins changing. Instead of a beach down at ground level, I see what looks like an island—an island containing the grid of a city. And then I spot something vaguely familiar, shining a light and beckoning me from below. A small copper structure standing on a pedestal—a statue that, as my body begins involuntarily hurtling downward, reveals itself to be the shape of a woman. She wears a spiked crown and proudly waves a torch into the air. It is the new gift from France.

Lady Liberty
.

My face stretches into a smile as my fear leaves me. The Statue of Liberty is welcoming me back—back to New York, but into the future—and I whoop, waving my arms like a bird as I soar closer and closer to the ground.

“So I’m all, ‘Talk to the hand, and don’t even think about calling me after pulling that shadiness!’ I went postal on him.”

“You tell him, chica!”

“Jake, stop pushing your sister or I’m taking your Game Boy for the rest of the trip.”

“No fair, Mom, she started it!”

“All right, stop, collaborate and listen/Ice is back with my brand-new invention—”

“Dude, turn down the Walkman.”

I kneel on the floor of Grand Central Terminal, my head in my hands as I fight the motion sickness threatening to overcome me. I’m too weak to open my eyes, but I hear a cacophony of voices and foreign sounds all around me—the voices of the 1990s.
I made it
!

When I finally look up, I hastily lean back against the wall to keep from falling over in shock.

Spending the past few days at the Aura Hotel, studying and learning all about the 1990s, could never have fully prepared me for actually being here, among the real, living, breathing humans of the future.

The ladies hurry toward the train platforms dressed in what looks like men’s clothing: high-waisted, pale blue jeans, wide-leg black trousers, and baggy black knickers over black stockings. Some wear oversized denim shirts, while others have on high-collared sweaters that Celeste called “turtlenecks.” Their heavy winter coats are missing all the flounces and frills of my day, while their hair, too, couldn’t be more different from what I’m accustomed to. I see ladies with poufy, wavy hair worn down to their backs; others with shorter, straighter locks that fringe across their foreheads; and half a dozen actually sport a man’s cropped haircut!

The young men are dressed similarly to my costume, though where my T-shirt and jeans look stiffly brand-new, their clothing appears lived-in and comfortable. Some of the boys my age even flaunt long, greasy hair and visible tears in their jeans, as if they’re
trying
to look bedraggled. However, I spot a few middle-aged men who look more like my Victorian peers,
buttoned up in wool coats over sweater-vests, long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. The more casual gentlemen wear jeans with plaid shirts and suspenders.

The children running and playing throughout the station mark one of the most significant changes between my time and the 1990s. While Victorian children always dress formally for travel and are expected to follow their parents with utter deference, these rambunctious youngsters look like
they
are the ones controlling the parents, and their clothing seems more suited for playing outside than taking a trip on the train. Boys and girls alike wear jeans and farmer-like overalls with colorful jackets and sneakers.

I blink rapidly as I watch the scene in front of me. I’m so astonished by the people, it takes me several minutes before I discover that I am viewing a completely new Grand Central. The L-shaped depot has been replaced by a breathtaking building with floor-to-ceiling windows, marble staircases that lead to restaurants on indoor balconies, and a domed ceiling studded with stars.

I gingerly step forward into the rush of traffic and smile as the crowds throng around me, no one noticing my presence—yet I am truly among them! It’s incredible, and suddenly I find myself picking up my pace, running to the nearest door. I have to see New York.

The sounds, smells, and sights of a new city seem to swallow me whole as I push through the doors and out onto Forty-Second Street. I gaze in openmouthed amazement at this foreign New York. It seems to have grown
vertically
over the past hundred years, as towering buildings stretch into the sky and loom over
the sidewalks. Gone are all the horse-drawn carriages, landaus, and broughams trotting down the cobblestone streets, replaced instead with horseless automobiles and yellow cabs that zoom over paved roads. No Elevated Railroad chugs overhead, but a strange sound whirs from above. I cover my head in shock, as I look up to find
flying machines
circling the sky.

It’s hard to imagine that the world really can change so much in one century. Will
anything
of New York’s past still exist in the hundred years to come?

I pass Lexington Avenue in a trance, my eyes drinking in all of the new sights while my mind struggles to believe that what I am seeing is real. I watch as these future New Yorkers follow signs leading underground, to something called a “subway.” I pass the same shop on three different blocks, each looking slightly unique yet sharing the same name: “Deli.”

A delicious, buttery smell wafts toward me as I cross the street in front of a sidewalk vendor. “Get yer soft pretzels and hot dogs!” he yells. Beside him is another vendor, this one selling a vast array of magazines and newspapers. I glance at the front-page headline of the
New York Times
, which is dated February 5, 1991.
GULF WAR!
the headline screams.
Ground Troops to Enter Kuwait
, and I turn away, realizing with sadness that this new future holds no more promise of peace than my own post–Civil War era.

As I reach Fifth Avenue at Forty-Second Street, I gasp at the sight before me. The Croton Reservoir, one of my favorite places in the city, is gone. In its place is a mammoth structure covering the entire two blocks from Fortieth to Forty-Second Streets. Its façade reminds me of the Windsor Mansion, and I feel my
heartbeat quicken as I wonder if I might be looking upon the Windsor home of the future. But when I look more closely, I see that the lettering on the building’s exterior reads: N
EW
Y
ORK
P
UBLIC
L
IBRARY
. It’s the biggest, grandest library I’ve ever seen.

Continuing up Fifth Avenue, goose bumps rise up my arms as my Christmas Eve vision is realized. The extravagant mansions and proud brownstones of the 1880s have vanished, replaced with tall buildings that house shop after shop. A massive new public plaza called Rockefeller Center decorates Midtown, and as I make my way farther up Fifth, I find that nearly every block comes equipped with its own luxury hotel, their awnings declaring such commanding names as the St. Regis and the Peninsula.

I turn onto Central Park South, and tears spring to my eyes. There it is, just ahead—the great park where some of my happiest childhood memories took place. At last, I’ve found a surviving friend in this unfamiliar city. And finally, there are the horses! I smile at the line of mares standing in front of an elegant hotel called the Plaza. If I squint hard enough, I can ignore the cars, the buildings, and all of the modern people. Keeping my eyes focused on Central Park and the horses, it looks like I could be in my own time.

A familiar marble structure, sparkling in the sunlight behind the Plaza, catches my eye. My throat suddenly turns dry. I don’t want to go near it, and yet I can’t stop myself. I’m running, racing across Fifty-Ninth Street, until I find myself staring at the
W
carved into the wrought-iron gates.