The woman ushers me down the stone-paved walkway, her lace-up ankle boots clack, clack, clacking in contrast to the squeaky shuffle of my Converse. We turn one corner, then another, heading deeper into what seems to be a residential area. Up one hill, then down the next. Level streets and curved streets and streets that end nowhere. How very New York. Not a stand-alone house in sight, but what the city lacks it makes up for in an overflow of historical architecture.
Some of the structures are built from old brick, while others are coated with peeling paint or yellowed stucco, all topped with Spanish tile roofing. Curving iron cages cover white-framed windows. Clotheslines droop between windows across the alley. An old woman with a kerchief swathing her hair beats a rug on a mini balcony. A wisp of gray looses and she tucks it back. Instantly I’m reminded of Reggie and my heart leaps. I’ve only known the old cook who helped raise Mom a short while. Surely my memory loss can’t be as serious as it seems if I’ve retained even an ounce of my short-term recollections.
Right?
When we round another corner, my rescuer makes a sharp right and enters a building with a green door. My breath catches and something inside cracks. The Void’s vessel has one brown eye and one green. The color of envy, jealousy, money, and any other corrupt thing you can think of.
I peek back at the door as it snaps closed. Anger rises with each step up the steep stairwell. Man, I hate that. I hate him. That much I remember. My reaction to the green door rings true to this, at least.
The woman withdraws a single key from her handbag. It’s an old key, large and brass and artistic looking, a tattered red ribbon looped through its end. Like something you’d find in a souvenir shop but not intended for actual use. Reggie mentioned Mom found a key once, in the Second’s castle.
“Never did learn which door it opened.” Reggie shook her head and the story was forgotten.
Unimportant. Trivial, but also not. Because with each random detail that triggers a new memory, I’m one piece closer to a renewed mind.
My chaperone inserts the key into the lock. Jiggle, quarter turn, click. The door opens inwardly. A quaint one-room loft rests undisturbed across the threshold. It’s full and bright and not at all what I’d expect to see on the inside of such a dilapidated old building. Everything is the color of eggshells, not white enough to be actual white, you know? Eggshell rafters, eggshell cabinets, eggshell gossamer curtains, eggshell bedposts. A window on the far end of the space allows a small breeze, the curtains billowing like an elegant gown on royalty.
“Sit, sit!” The woman gestures to a chair, which is of course also eggshell, and I obey. The familiar ping in the back of my mind, a.k.a. Mom’s voice, doesn’t call a warning, reminding me to proceed with caution, let alone not to go home with a stranger. The Verity settles cozily, grounding my trust. This woman is genuine. There’s just something about her that assures me she means no harm.
She bustles about the loft, switching on antique lamps at every corner. Then she moves to the kitchen, pulling an eggshell teacup and saucer from a high cupboard. An eggshell teapot and tea tin from another. The tea tin is silver, standing out as a diamond in a quarry. A closer look informs me it’s white tea, the words White Earl Grey engraved onto one side in fancy lettering. My cheeks perk. It’s a sign, has to be. Earl Grey is Mom’s favorite. The Verity warms my core, further infusing me with calm. I may be lost and confused, but I’m safe.
I smile and yawn, relaxing a smidge as the woman, who remains unnamed, prepares tea in silence. A folded newspaper rests on the round eggshell table before me. I pull the paper near and examine the front page. And that’s when the first twinge of uncertainty rises. I glimpse my rescuer from beneath my eyelashes, take her in again. Noticing the distinct Agent Carter hairstyle sweeping the wavy strawberry locks off her face. The classic red of her lips. The style of her jacket and skirt. Even the laces of her vintage ankle boots stand out now.
I look down at the paper again. At the date printed there. The timeless voices of Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, and Bing Crosby bombard my brain all at once, their refrains meshing into unsettling noise rather than soothing ballads. This is much more complicated than I first realized. When I was transported through the wormhole, I knew I had no idea where I’d end up, which Reflection it would spit me into. I was not prepared, however, for this. I may not know exactly where I am, but I know when. And when is not then. I’ve been sent to a completely different decade. A different century, for that matter.
Even if I could find the US embassy or another Threshold and make my way back to the Second or Fourth or Fifth, what good would it do me?
Because it’s February 7, 1945. And I have no clue how to get back.
TWO
Ky
Again!” I heave. “Don’t go soft on me now.” My weapon arm supports my middle. Every muscle and bone aches. My head pounds, and if I had a shirt on it’d be drenched with sweat. It’s been twenty-four hours since Em disappeared through the wormhole. Since then the pain hasn’t stopped. Without her it won’t. Without her love it’s up to me to keep my mind about me—and my heart. My goals rush through my thoughts, racing to keep up with my raging adrenaline.
Find Em. Take her to the Fountain of Time in the Seventh. Change the past. Fix the present. Restore hope for the future.
It all seems too simple. My blade swipes the air. We’re missing something, but what? I wipe my seeping brow with my forearm. Dahlia’s been around longer than any of us. I trust her when she says we must go back in time if we’re to destroy the Void and set things right in the here and now. My opponent grits his teeth but makes no move to charge again. Still, I’ve been around long enough to know this isn’t a game . . .
“I think we’ve had enough for one night, boy.” Saul Preacher lowers his battle-ax and heads for the back door of Dahlia Moon’s cottage. Over one shoulder he adds, “You know I enjoy a good sparring match, but I’m beat.” He scratches his jaw where gray whiskers grow over claw-shaped scars. “We’ll pick up where we left off next chance we get.”
I straighten my spent body and narrow my dry eyes. The moonlight is hardly enough to illuminate my target, but I’m no amateur. “Think again,” I call. Then I flick my mirrorglass blade directly at his shadowed back.
He whirls, all two hundred–plus pounds of him. He may be short and stout, but Preacher’s not a man to be trifled with. Swift as a clipper ship he blocks my throw with the flat side of his ax. My knife pings the metal and clatters to the dirt.
Preacher snorts, then scratches his trimmed beard. “You’ll have to do better than that, Kyaphus.”
“One more hour.” My skin itches so much it’s maddening, the Void-filled veins pulsing against the surface. But I pin my arms to my sides. I will not let it change me. And that includes acknowledging the torture and agitation. “I need to stay strong if I’m going to keep the darkness at bay.” He doesn’t know there won’t be a next time. No one does.
His right eye twitches. Do I detect a smirk fluffing his whiskers? “Fine. But be warned I’ll not go easy on you. You may be bleeding before we’re done.” He snatches my knife and slides it across the sand toward me.
I grab it and wipe off the dust on my pant leg. “No problem.” I flip the knife in my hand and crouch into a defensive stance. “I’ve always said blood is more a luxury than a necessity anyway.”