Only time will tell.
My head pounds. Never in eighteen years has my hair been yanked this tight. Bianca seemed to enjoy making me up. I didn’t notice evidence anyone else lives with her. Maybe she’s lonely or bored or a bit of both.
“You look exquisite, bambolina.” She pushes one last bobby pin against my scalp. “Or, what is it you Americans say? You’re the cat’s meow, doll.” Her sweet titter, unfortunately, doesn’t make my head hurt any less.
I follow her up and down the streets of what I’ve learned is Venice. I scratch my temples where my locks are pulled up and pinned back, twisted into curls and secured with way too many bobby pins. I press my lips together, the sticky red painting them way too pungent a flavor for my taste. The worst part is the outfit. A knee-length khaki skirt and a poufed cream-colored shirt accented with an even puffier chiffon scarf. And the heels. Oh, the heels. I shouldn’t be complaining about the black, character-style shoes. But still, they’re heels. Ebony would be jumping for joy at my vintage fashion, while all I want is a pair of dry jeans and some worn-in sneakers.
I look to the night sky and moan inwardly. You couldn’t have sent me to the eighties? At least then I’d be comfortable.
Bianca remains close to building sides. I mimic her moves, keeping an eye out for a reflective surface. As much as I sense no danger with her, I’m still not sure it’s such a wise idea to just up and go wherever she tells me. Perhaps mirror walking is my only option. I could at least attempt to mirror walk through time. Who knows? It could totally be a thing.
Then again, another part of me, miniscule but present, wants to know more about the Third Alliance and the deal with Shadowalkers. In my time they don’t really seem to be an issue aside from Void lovers such as Jasyn Crowe and my absent father, Tiernan Archer. What happened? Did the Shadowalkers go into hiding? If so, why?
As Alice would say on her way through Wonderland . . . “curiouser and curiouser.”
We approach a shop with a wide front window. Flyers and posters written in Italian deck the glass. One catches my attention and I peer closer. Yep, that’s definitely Humphrey Bogart. This must be a film advertisement, though I don’t recognize the two actors with him. The other papers blast headlines I can only guess announce failures and victories. Wins and losses. One featuring a photo of Mussolini is hard to miss. I shudder and rip down his picture, only to find grime and filth beneath. Still, it’s the perfect target for my hypothetical ticket out of here.
I find my escort in the corner of my vision. Bianca is so focused on her destination, she doesn’t notice when I lag behind. I clear my throat. The dust coating the glass is thick, caked on. When’s the last time someone washed this window? My reflection isn’t a reflection at all. Perhaps if daylight peeked over my shoulder I might be able to make out at least an eyebrow. But night wins this one, leaving me in the dark. Literally.
No bother. I don’t need to see where I’m going to know where I’ve been.
Eyes closed, I open my mouth. Shut it. Open it a second time. But no lyrics form. No song flows easily from my lips. What in the Third? This should be routine for me by now. Why can’t I perform?
Bony fingers wrap my wrist.
I jerk back, but her grip stays firm.
Bianca stands before me, brows knit and eyes narrowed. Everything from the way she glances over one shoulder to her white knuckles on her handbag suggests anxiety. Same as the other residents I happened across earlier. Are the Shadowalkers so terrifying? They worship the Void, but that doesn’t mean they have any power.
Does it?
Wait. Hold the rotary phone—1945 is wartime. It’s February and ha! That’s one thing I recall. World War II ended on September 2, 1945. In your face, history class.
A far-off siren blares, reminding me of home. My heart hammers as Bianca pulls me onward and picks up her pace. Her hold doesn’t give. I don’t fight it either. Does the siren mean a curfew? A bomb raid? I’d rather not find out. I don’t recall much regarding the politics of this war, but honestly I’d rather run into a Shadowalker than a Nazi any day. My safest bet is to stay with Bianca and see whom she might lead me to, what other Called I might find.
When we reach the Grand Canal (which I only identify as the Grand Canal thanks to my guide), we wait at the water’s edge. Tiny waves lap at the walls containing them, begging to rise and be freed. We stand there for what seems like an eternity. Bianca withdraws a pocket watch from her purse, flicks it open, and checks the time before pocketing it once more.
An internal bell pings my memories. I’ve . . . seen that watch before. Haven’t I? Then again, tons of people own pocket watches. Just because I’ve seen one doesn’t mean it was this one. Still . . . there’s something about it—
“Look.” Bianca gestures toward the water, drawing my focus.
A gondola glides toward us, the water below parting beneath it like melting glass. When it arrives, the man on board assists in lowering us off the ledge where we stand, Bianca first, then me. It feels awkward in a skirt, and I nearly knock the straight-faced Italian over from trying not to expose myself. When my feet meet the boat’s bottom, my ankle twists and one of my heels breaks. See? This is precisely why I don’t wear these kinds of shoes, which really aren’t shoes at all. This sort of thing never happens with Converse. I slip them off and shove them to the side. Barefoot it is.
Our pilot pushes off with his slender oar, sculling on one side and then the other—
Wait. Since when did I become a boat junkie? How do I know the man steering is the pilot or what he’s doing with the oar is called sculling?
The Seven Seas. The ship Ebony and I were taken captive on before Joshua came to our aid in the Fourth. My time aboard must explain why I’ve retained some sailor lingo. Did one of the crew teach me? Tide maybe? Or Streak? Couldn’t have been the captain. I never saw him. He stayed in his chambers the entire time, the coward.
But back to the gondola at hand. In movies the Italian guy serenades a cute couple as he rows merrily down the stream. Sort of like on Lady and the Tramp when the spaghetti guy and the accordion player sang to the dogs. But there’s nothing warm or happy or romantic about this. We endure the ride down the canal in silence. Bianca sitting with knees pressed together and shoulders back. Our guide staring straight ahead, unblinking.
And me? I’m here for answers. Like how do I get back to my decade? Why do I feel the Verity within, but when it came to mirror walking, my song list was cleared? Could my Calling be used against me here? Bianca must know something about my mirrormark. Has she read Queen Ember’s Mirror Theory? Is the Mirror Theory even written yet? Does she know the power of the curved lines climbing my skin?
An all-too-familiar wrench in my gut materializes. I glance across the boat at the woman who willingly took me in. Was I too quick to trust her? Did my time-traveling disorientation-slashamnesia play against my better judgment? Could Bianca be another Jasyn Crowe, with an ulterior motive eager to take center stage?
Mom, where are you? You’re supposed to be my Jiminy Cricket, for the love of Infinity!
Infinity. As in Kiss of? Another memory brushes my heart, and I respond by lifting my fingers to my right cheek. Joshua gave me this. I allow my eyes to close a moment. Allow my mind to whisk me away to our first kiss beneath the grand staircase in the throne room. The kiss was everything I’d dreamed and more. Brought with it Joshua’s first admission of love.