“That is so not CHRONOS approved,” I say, stifling a laugh as I shake my head. Katherine nearly blew a gasket when she caught me with a pink toothbrush in 1893, so I know there’s no way that she gave this the thumbs-up.
“We’re not CHRONOS. And dozens of pearl buttons don’t exactly make a dress easy to get in and out of, do they?”
There’s a touch of sadness behind Kiernan’s smile. It probably should have occurred to me immediately, but it’s only now that I realize Other-Kate brought the Velcro back to 1905. This was her dress. I decide not to think about the reasons she might have had for wanting to get out of her clothing quickly.
The dress seems large enough to fit over the slim skirt and shell I’m wearing, so I just slip off the cardigan and hang it on a hook in the cabinet. Then I step into the dress Kiernan is holding open and turn around to let him fasten the Velcro. He pulls the dress together around my body and then slowly runs his palm down my spine from neck to waist to seal the seam. His hand is warm through the fabric, and a little shiver runs through me.
Bad girl, Kate.He’s not Trey, and you are not his Kate, I remind myself. This is only about stopping Saul and the Cyrists. I plaster on what I hope is a get-down-to-business look before turning back around to face him.
He hands me a pair of brown, low-heeled shoes, with a sensible strap and absolutely no need for a buttonhook. I smile and slip the saddle shoes off my feet. I’m about to stash them back in the cabinet, but Kiernan pulls out a small drawstring bag and tucks the shoes and sweater inside.
It’s still not the jeans, T-shirt, and Skechers I prefer, but it’s oh-so-much better than the 1893 getup I had to wear the last time Kiernan and I ventured out together. Of course, that time he was eight years old and I had to look down to meet his eyes, rather than up.
After fastening the last buckle on my shoe, I stand. As I do, Kiernan pushes my hair a bit to the side. “Do I need to pull it up to avoid the wrath of the propriety police?” I ask, but my voice trails off as I realize he’s looking at the scar on my neck.
“No,” he says. His tone is harsher now. “Leave it down.”
“Kiernan, it’s okay. Really. It doesn’t hurt at all, and it’s barely noticeable with a bit of makeup.” He probably knows I rarely wear makeup, unless Other-Kate had entirely different fashion sense. But I have to say something, because I don’t like seeing the wounded look on his face. “You did the best you could. I would have been dead, but I’m still here, right? Perfect health? Ready to save the world as we know it?”
His lips twitch up the tiniest bit on one side, and then he leans over and presses them against the scar, very gently, very briefly. I feel myself stiffen slightly and step back. His voice is softer as he repeats, “Leave it. I like it down. And I don’t care what the stuffy old maids of Boston think.”
Kiernan flicks up the little metal hook that locks the thin sheet of wood serving as a makeshift door between the tobacco store and this storage area.
“Wait,” I say. “You said Jess is a friend, but what does he know? I mean, does he know I’m here from the future?”
He shakes his head.
“Then how does he think I’m getting in here?”
“I have a key to the store.” He pulls it from his pocket and bounces it once in the palm of his hand before stashing it away again. “I worked here for a while. In fact, I slept in this storage room for a few months. If I’m meeting you here, I always come in when he’s closed or when he’s stepped out for a few minutes.”
“What exactly does he think we’re doing in here?”
Kiernan’s grin is back. “Like I said, he’s a friend. And a gentleman doesn’t ask questions. He likes you, Katie. Just flash him a smile and say thank you.”
“Thank you for wh—” I begin, but he’s already pressing the door open with his shoulder, so I paste on a smile and step out behind him.
Kiernan said Jess was his friend, so I expect someone in his teens or early twenties, or at least younger than my parents. I definitely expect someone younger than Katherine or Connor. This guy looks like he’s in his eighties. He has a grayish-white beard reaching halfway down his chest, and he’s slightly hunched over as he stocks a glass jar with pipe cleaners from a small wooden box. I’m surprised to see that pipe cleaners in 1905 are much the same as pipe cleaners today, except these are all white, not bright neon like the ones we used in kindergarten crafts.
The old guy looks up at the sound of the closing door. He squints a bit, then a big smile lights up his weathered face.
“Miss Kate! I am mighty glad to see you again! You gave me a bad turn, taking off like that.” He moves toward us slowly and gives me a tight hug. I stiffen a bit initially, but he smells warm and familiar, a lot like the tobacco in his storeroom. After a moment, I return his hug, shooting Kiernan a quizzical look. Who is this guy?
“I told you she’d be back, Jess. She’s just been away . . . in New York, then down in Washington. With her grandmother.”
Jess’s face looks skeptical for a moment, and then he laughs. “More likely you’ve just been a greedy boy, keeping her all to yourself. Like I told you before, Kate, when you get tired of his shenanigans, you just let me know, and I’ll tell my Amelia to pack her bags.”
“You will not, you horny old goat,” Kiernan says. “This store would close tomorrow if Amelia didn’t keep you in line, and you know it.”
I raise an eyebrow at Kiernan’s language—so much for the idea that younger people respected their elders in the “good old days.” But Jess just cackles and tosses a small wooden box at Kiernan, who catches it easily with one hand.
“Put that in the back room, boy. Be sure you get it on the right shelf, or these old eyes won’t find it. And I’ll fetch what Miss Kate is wanting from the icebox.”
Jess shuffles off, and Kiernan leans in toward me. “It’s ginger ale,” he whispers before heading back to the storeroom.
It is indeed ginger ale, pale brown in a tall, clear bottle, etched with the words “Clicquot Club.” Jess pries the top off with the bottle opener attached to the side of the counter, sticks in a paper straw, and hands it to me.
“Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary.”
I take a long draw of the soda, and I’m instantly hit by a coughing attack. The effect is like snorting raw ginger, spicy-sweet and so potent that it takes my breath away.
“You okay?” Jess laughs. “You should know better by now. You need to sip that stuff.”
Kiernan is back by the time I catch my breath. He’s laughing, too.
I shoot him an annoyed look and then smile at Jess. “Yes, I’m okay. Just went down the wrong way, I guess. How much do I owe you?”
As the words leave my mouth, it occurs to me that what money I have is in the pocket of my sweater in the storeroom—and none of it has a date earlier than 1950. So I’m relieved when Jess says, “Not a penny and you know it, young lady. Just thank your uncle again for me.”
Kiernan puts an arm around me and pulls me toward the door, grabbing two dark brown candy sticks from a little jar near the edge of the counter as we go. “You still have plenty of the pills, Jess?”
The old man nods and smiles again. “Should last to the end of the year, unless it flares up.” He shifts his glance over to me. “If your uncle ever decides to sell those little beauties in Boston, you let me know. I’ll clear out a whole shelf.”
I try to hide my confusion and give Jess a little wave as Kiernan steers me onto the sidewalk. “What was that about?” I ask as soon as we are out of earshot.