“What is wrong with you?” I ask Yellow.
She shrugs. “I’m done with this. Chronometric Augmentation. Annum Guard. I’m so sick of it. I’ve always thought I belonged in another time period, so why not here?”
I blink. And then I blink again. “You’re going to stay here? Permanently?”
“Why not?” Yellow says. “It’s . . . what is it, 1782? Maybe I’ll hop a boat over to England. The Regency period is going to start in a few years. I’ve always loved Jane Austen. Maybe I’ll live in a manor house and fall in love with an earl or something. It’ll be nice.”
My mouth drops open. I close it, but it drops open again. “Are you out of your goddamned mind? I should have known you were one of those girls who’s all into Jane Austen just because she read Pride and Prejudice in an English class, but ugh.”
And then Yellow’s face betrays her. She cracks a smile and laughs. “I’m joking, genius. Handing over the necklace was the quickest way to get him to stitch me up so we don’t waste any more time. Every hour we spend here is like four days. We need to get out, and soon. So while I’m getting stitched up, you go outside, sneak around back, break in, grab the necklace, and we’re gone. Got it?”
The door swings open, and Dr. Hatch is back. I stand there, shaking my head. I have to admit it. She got me good. Well played, Yellow. Well played. If I didn’t hate her so much, I think she and I might actually get along.
The doctor pulls out a flat tray that holds a needle as big as one you’d use for quilting and some stuff that looks like twine; and even though I’m not squeamish, looking at these downright primitive medical tools twists my stomach. I turn to Yellow, and she’s as white as a ghost. But then she makes eye contact with me and jerks her head toward the back door.
“I’m going to wait outside,” I say as the doctor picks up the needle. Yellow settles into one of the dining chairs and grits her teeth.
“Can’t stand the sight of blood, eh?” the doctor asks. He uncaps a plain glass bottle filled with amber liquid and hands it to Yellow.
“Something like that,” I mumble. I set the files and notebook on the table next to Yellow.
“Take a drink of that,” the doctor orders.
Yellow lifts it and eyes it. “What is it?”
“Whiskey. Strongest stuff I got. You’re going to need it.”
Yellow sets the bottle down on the table, untouched. “I’ll be fine. Just fix my arm, please.”
The doctor presses the needle to Yellow’s arm, and I fly out the door. I shut it behind me, but the heavy wood does nothing to hide the scream that Yellow lets out. It starts small, as if she’s trying to hold back but builds into an “Ah-ah-aah-aah-AAH!” My heart sinks for her. This is not going to be pretty.
I rest my back against the brick exterior for just a second to collect my thoughts. Yellow lets out another scream from inside the house. I’m wasting time. I take off around the corner to the back of the house. There’s a window and a door. I try the door first, but it’s locked. Dammit. This is colonial America. Aren’t people supposed to be trusting?
Window it is. I try lifting the glass, but it doesn’t budge. And then I let out a disgusted grunt. God, I’m stupid. It’s 1782. Windows don’t slide open in 1782. I’m going to have to break it. But first I press my face to the glass and look in. I hear Yellow scream again as I stare into a small kitchen. There’s a fireplace that doubles as a stove, and several pewter spoons and brass pots hang on the wall. And that’s about it. Tiny. There’s also the narrowest staircase I’ve ever seen in the corner, leading up to the second floor.
I need to find something to wrap around my elbow to muffle the sound when I break the window. I look around, but there’s nothing. A few other houses line this cobblestone street, but no one’s left out a spare sheet of fabric so I can break into their neighbor’s house. Shocking. I wish I’d had the foresight to grab Yellow’s cashmere sweater, but I guess my old-lady house dress will have to do. I lift it over my head and immediately wrap it around my elbow.
Come on, Yellow, scream again. I’m standing here in a bra and nasty, old underwear. I’m sure they lock you up for stuff like this in colonial times.
“Ah-ah-aah-aah-AAH!”
I don’t hesitate. I slam my elbow into the glass, and it shatters. I do it again, clearing away an area where I can climb through without worrying about impaling myself on broken shards of glass. The last thing I need is to injure myself even worse.
I jump back and throw the dress over my head. One of the arms gets snagged on my elbow, and I yank so hard I’m surprised I don’t rip it. I stare at the window, then through it at the closed door leading into the front room. And then I hoist myself up and in through the window.
There’s glass all over the floor, so I can’t jump down. Instead I stay crouched in the window frame, my arms outstretched and plastered to the wall to keep my balance. I have to jump. I’m waiting for Yellow to scream again, hoping it’ll muffle whatever noise I’ll make. How long does it take to stitch up an arm?
But Yellow stays silent. I’m wasting time! I take a deep breath and go for it. I push off the balls of my feet and sail over the glass. I land on the balls of my feet, too, and sink my knees into a squat when I land; soft but not completely silent. There was a thump. I hold my breath and stare at the door. Was I too loud?
“Ah-ah-aah-aah-AAH!”
I jump. Straight up in the air. My heart hammers in my chest, and I reach up a hand and shove it against my breast, as if trying to keep it from escaping. I whip around and scan the small kitchen. I don’t see the necklace, and there aren’t a lot of hiding spots for Dr. Hatch to stash it. It’s not as if this is a fully stocked modern kitchen with twenty feet of cabinets. It’s barely bigger than a closet. The doctor must have taken the necklace upstairs.
The house is quiet as I put one toe on the corner of the first step. It doesn’t make a sound. So I lift off and put the toes of my other foot on the corner of the next step. Silence. I do this again, then again, going as slowly as I can. I only have a few steps to go when—
CREAK!
I shut my eyes. There’s always a creaky stair. Why is there always a creaky stair? I turn my head and stare down into the kitchen. That was loud. There’s no way the doctor didn’t hear that. He’s going to burst through that door any second now, and he’s going to catch me.
“Sarah!” the doctor’s voice calls out from the other room. “You get back in bed this instant!”
Sarah? Who the hell is Sarah? I whip my head back around and nearly fall. There’s a child standing at the top of the steps, staring at me. She can’t be more than four, and she’s as thin as a rail. A damp cloth nightgown clings to her skeletal frame, and stringy brown hair is plastered to her bright-red cheeks. A rash covers nearly every inch of skin that’s not hidden by the nightgown.
“Who are you?” she asks, her voice soft and weak. She’s sick, clearly. Sick with some kind of fever. I try to remember history. Scarlet fever? Yellow fever? Some other colored fever?
“Sarah!” the doctor’s voice booms.
“Answer your father,” I whisper to her. “I’m here to help you.” A pang of guilt surges through my heart as I lie to her.
“Yes, sir,” Sarah calls down the steps. Her voice is so weak, I’m not sure if Dr. Hatch even heard her. Then she turns and plods down the hallway. I follow after her.
Upstairs is a hallway with two doors on the right and another staircase at the end. And that’s it. Sarah walks into the first room. Her bedroom. It’s tiny, only slightly larger than the kitchen. There’s a little Sarah-size bed, and next to it is a wobbly, wooden table barely bigger than a stool. The table is filled with herbs and potions and all sorts of metal instruments that look even worse than the ones Dr. Hatch is now using on Yellow.