Where had I heard that voice before? It was just on the edge of my brain, but catching it was like grabbing a fistful of water.
The man’s voice: “Should we stay? Look around?”
“I don’t think there’s any point. We couldn’t find John Wald. There’s too many places to hide. I wish he’d just talk to us.”
“Too afraid he’s going to get knocked over the head.”
“Don’t joke about that. We have to find out what happened. That poor little girl.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t joking. Let’s get back, then. We don’t even know for sure he went into the mirror. This could be the wildest of goose chases, taking us away from what’s important. I want to know what he was doing up there in 1957.”
“What should we do about the mirror?”
“Let’s just leave it.”
“Okay. We’re lucky, aren’t we? That it owes me a trip forward and you a trip back?”
“Lucky. Yeah, that’s what I’d call us.”
And silence. It was tempting. I could call out to them before they left. Run if they tried to come after me. But had I heard they’d been hunting for Wald? That didn’t inspire confidence.
I waited for a long time before going back into the carriage house. Eventually, boredom took over, and I wandered outside of the hedges that bounded the little property and took a look at the main house. Peggy had been missing for almost a month. Was her mother back home? Did her father even realize his daughter was gone?
I shivered despite the humidity.
It owes me a trip forward and you a trip back.
So they were from two different times?
It must have been after three in the morning when I went back into the carriage house and approached the mirror. Could they be waiting in the Silverlands? If they were, it was dark enough that they wouldn’t see my approach. Having left my backpack in the coal cellar in 1957, I didn’t have a flashlight to brandish as a club, so, feeling foolish, I took Anthony’s length of string and wrapped it around my hand, working it so the two spoons ended up on the outside, a makeshift and ridiculous set of brass knuckles.
I edged around the side of the mirror. I’d stick my head in first, open my eyes as soon as I could, and try to see if anyone was in the Silverlands. If it was empty, I’d go right in and survey the abandoned house, but then I wasn’t sure what I’d do. Tumble out and hope that the element of surprise would get me past? Wait until they left? I was determined about one thing: I wasn’t letting myself get stuck one more mirror into the past. If they tried to grab me, I’d kick, bite, and scream, anything to get on my feet and running.
I took a few deep breaths to get myself worked up, running through an internal pep talk all the while, then rounded on the mirror and stuck my face in.
The mirror was cold.
Cold, as in downtime, the past, heading to 1937. Not hot as it should have been if I was going up. That was wrong. I was out of my time. Whenever I went into the mirror, it should be uptime hot. I didn’t get to go further back. That was against the rules.
Panicked, I pulled my face out and stumbled back. I tripped on a chair leg and fell onto the sofa where I had spent so many nights as Peggy’s secret guest the month before.
I lay there in silence for a moment, thinking about this new development.
The mirror was cold.
This was impossible. Against the rules.
I lay on the sofa and looked at the mirror for the longest time. It was supposed to take me home, or at least in that direction.
I felt stupid wearing my improvised spoon knuckles, so I unwrapped the string and put Anthony’s doorstop on the floor beside me. It was all I had. I was reduced from my backpack full of boxes, flashlights, a map, and a dwindling supply of money, to two spoons and piece of string. If I went back to 1937, would I find that Lilly’s mirror also opened only backward for me? Would it open only backward for Peggy as well?
I don’t know how long I lay there and looked at the stupid mirror, but I found no answers there. What was there to do in the end but go in? John Wald was missing in this time, maybe scared off by the interlopers or perhaps just steering clear while Peggy’s parents searched for her. I had no other friends in this time; my dad was seven.
I got up and with a weary sigh pushed my hand into the mirror.
Which was hot.
I jerked back.
What the hell was going on? For the first time all year, I was beginning to get angry at the mirror. How did it go all these months operating on the same rules, and then suddenly go back and forth. What had I done differently?
Other than keep a doorstop in it for a month.
Frowning, I bent down and picked up the string and spoons. For a month, these had kept a mirror open leading back from 1957 to 1947, Anthony’s passage. We had never done anything like that before, because it blocked access to the kids one jump further up and down. I held the doorstop up to the dim starlight leaking in the hayloft window, but it hadn’t changed in any way. Ordinary white household string, six feet of it, a tarnished spoon tied to each end.
Holding the doorstop, I stretched out my hand to the mirror and pushed in.
Cold.
I put the doorstop down and tried again.
Hot.
Put it in my pocket.
Hot. It had to be touching my skin to change the mirror to downtime. When I tried it again, I noticed something else. When I held it in my hand near the mirror, the whole thing, string and spoons alike, felt like it was vibrating, almost living. The feeling was subtle, not like the buzz of an object meeting itself from another time, more like the trembling of a pet mouse when you hold it in your hand. When I moved it away from the mirror, the feeling diminished. But it didn’t go away.
“Oh, man,” I said aloud, and my voice startled me in the empty little house. I held the string and spoons in my hand. “I know what you are. You’re better than a doorstop. You’re a key.”
Four
Before I went through the mirror next, I stood and asked myself what Luka would do. I imagined it was her and not me who had run back to 1947 and discovered the rule of keys. I imagined she was the one chased by these mystery people from different times. Would she let herself be scared by them, stick around a couple of days watching the mirror, tell herself she was gathering information?
No way.
I broke off a chair leg, stuck the spoons and string into my pocket, and shoved my way into the mirror. The Silverlands were wider now, maybe as much as seven feet.
On the 1957 end, I could see nothing but darkness. I stuck the tip of my finger out to make sure I wouldn’t emerge into water, then pushed the rest of the way through to an immediate shout and a grab from the side, but whoever was grabbing me got a vicious swipe from my chair leg. I tumbled out of the person’s grasp, kicked, and felt a satisfying jar as my foot made contact.
There were shouts of “No, wait” and “Kenny, you don’t understand,” which I couldn’t argue with, but I wasn’t going to stop for people who chased me through time and grabbed before they talked.
After all those hours, I must have had the element of surprise, because by the time one of them had the light on, I was already out of the living room and slamming the door. I threw a kitchen chair at them to confound pursuit and escaped to the backyard. At this point, I was good enough at fence-hopping and familiar enough with the neighborhood that getting out was as good as getting away. Just in case they followed, I took a long, roundabout way back to Brian’s place.
Back in the choking dark of the coal cellar, too tired to crack my brain against new mysteries and new rules, but pleased at my escape, I fell asleep.