Into the Dim (15 page)

Just before they left, Lucinda had entered the library, where I lay sprawled on the tatty leather sofa, idly skimming through yet another description of the coronation of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

“Here,” she'd said, placing a stack of leather-bound books on the long table. “Read through these while we're gone. I believe they may answer some of your questions and give you a better background on what the early Viators faced.”

When she was gone, I realized my aunt looked even worse than before. Drawn, and so, so pale.

Unsettled, I moved to the table and began thumbing through the journals. They began with Jonathan Carlyle, son of the Viators' founder, and my mom's great-grandfather. Though difficult to follow at first, I was soon tearing through the looping Victorian script.

January 1895. Tesla's machines are a marvel. To think technology could come so far. Julia understands it better than I. My darling bride has an acute mind, while mine is that of a plodding historian. Nikola believes his alternating current disrupts the strange power flowing through the cavern below, causing the cyclonic rift. He is less certain of the opal's significance. Yet after MacPherson's illness, we dare not travel without one.

 

Had we only known. I can hardly bear to render this account. I do so now only to warn future travelers.

 

My father, Dr. Alvarez, and Julia's brother, Luis, were due back. Three days is all the time this majestic power will lend. I was almost to the cavern when I heard the cries and the rush of the dark cyclone.

 

As I entered the cave, the sight before me was unimaginable. My father, on his knees with a rucksack clenched in one hand, weeping like a child. Julia's father, on his feet, Luis clasped to his breast. And I—I can barely put to page what I saw next.

 

I'm ashamed to admit my knees went weak. For though Julia's father held on to his son desperately as he howled his grief, from the waist down my beloved's brother was simply gone, as if a cosmic force had ripped him in half. Blood rained down from Luis's lifeless torso. And, as I looked on in utter horror, his entrails slithered out upon the tiles. I heard Julia's tread upon the stair, heavy with our first child. I could not let her see such a terrible thing. I could scarcely stand it myself. What awful power do we play with?

I frowned as I turned to the next entry, dated five years later. From what I could tell, Dr. Alvarez had already left the group, who now called themselves Viators. Julia's idea, and something of a joke to the early travelers. At first, Jonathan spoke only of the advancements his friend Tesla had made with the machines. A ticker tape now sprouted from the back of one of the mechanisms, which displayed the pulses in the lines of power. Matching the pulses with a log of their previous travels, they could determine the general place and era in which they would arrive.

I skimmed through several volumes. Jonathan eventually regained his sense of humor and wonder at the sights they encountered, and I fell again under his spell as he described what they'd seen and the riches they brought back.

Partway through 1910, the handwriting changed. Blots of ink now dotted the pages. Some of the lines were smeary and smudged, as if they'd gotten wet. My gut knotted as I deciphered the cramped writing.

On a journey a hundred years into their past, husband and wife—along with their friend Archie McPherson—found themselves near a tiny, secluded loch only a few miles from their current home. Though they'd traveled there to see a local baron about some kind of painting they hoped to purchase, the three were delighted when they arrived in the year 1801, close to the exact spot on which—a hundred years in the future—they would build a holiday cottage. As the sun shone down on the trio, they decided to play hooky and simply enjoy the beauty of the as-yet-unspoiled countryside.

March 17, 1910. I report the account,
Jonathan wrote,
to warn of the evil we've unleashed. I shall not look upon my Julia's face again until I can repair what we have broken. She has left, claiming she cannot bear to be near me without thinking of them. Our precious girls. We played God that day. And now we suffer for our sin. I must find it. This mysterious opal Tesla believes is the key. I must find the stone and get them back. For I think Julia shall die without them.

Even blurry and dotted with water marks, Jonathan's words made my mouth go dry. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and I was desperate for a drink. But I couldn't pull myself away. I had to finish it.

My Julia had looked so merry that morning. In her peasant's gown, she was as beautiful as the day we wed. I played the gallant, casting my cloak on the ground for her to sit upon. Afterward, Archie and I stripped to our undergarments and went splashing into the loch, shouting like children at the cold.

 

It was she who first pointed out the young saplings near the water. In our own time, the trees had grown gnarled and ancient. An eyesore. “You know,” Julia mused as we munched on freshly picked blueberries that burst in our mouths like a gift from summer herself, “that is the very tree from which our impetuous Penelope will fall.”

 

Penny's arm had never healed right, and I'd always resented those blasted trees.

 

“Well, then.” I stood and in amused retribution wrenched one of the infant trees from the ground. Not to be outdone, Archie did the same to its sister, who'd dared drop a hornet's nest on us during a summer picnic three years later. “That's done for them, I'd say.”

 

Julia, do you remember how you kissed me then? With the summer sun bright on our hair and the sweet juice on our lips?

 

I will never be that warm again. Oh, that I could take it back. Holy Father, let us take back that one reckless moment.

 

Home. Thrilled as ever to be safe and of sound limb in our loving house, we flew upstairs, caring not that we had played truant, without thought to our mission. If only we had gone on that long walk to the baron's home instead of dripping water on the carpet, all of us sun browned from our lazy follies. With Archie following, Julia and I called out to our children.

The next few lines were too smeared to read. I skipped ahead, though a cold foreboding crept up my legs as I perched on the edge of a deep leather chair.

My mother and our Henry met us at the top. Our son had grown tall and straight as a sword over the summer. Oh, how his young face lit to see his mother so sunburned and jolly. He lived for the day I would take him on his first journey, two years hence, when he turned sixteen.

 

“Wherever are the girls?” Julia asked, puzzled. Unusual, their absence. Normally they were first to greet us, begging to view the trinkets and treasures we brought back. Bubbly Catherine, who at twelve already cared far too much for boys and pretty dresses. And Penelope. Only ten and already a little scholar.

 

“Yes,” Archie called. “I've brought Penny a fern to identify.”

 

“Father!” Henry's face, aghast and suddenly pale. My mother's hand flew to her mouth.

 

“What's happened to the girls?” I demanded. “Tell us.”

 

It couldn't have been serious. Only three days had passed, and surely they would have informed us at once.

 

“Are they ill?” My voice sounded hollow, as if it came from the bottom of a well.

 

“But, Father . . . Mother?” I remember, quite clearly, hearing the tremor in my son's voice. “Why would you say such things, when my sisters have been dead these two years?”

I flinched at the sound of a door closing nearby. Someone was back, but I had to know what happened. I traced a finger over the bottom of the page where the lines had been crossed out with such vehemence, the thick vellum was ripped. I had a hard time swallowing as I turned to the slashed, crabbed writing that followed.

Archie rode for the loch as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. Julia and I stayed behind, begging my mother for an explanation.

 

As she spoke in a tight, choked voice, my mind whipped back to the day, two winters past, when my sweet girls—skating alone on the frozen loch—had fallen through the ice.

 

“No!” Julia insisted. “No. They pulled themselves out. I remember it well. A small incident, nothing more. They were but wet and chilled. Stop this insanity! Why do you keep shaking your head at me like that?”

 

My mother lost the ability to speak and fled our chamber in tears. When Archie returned, his face was the color of chalk. I wanted to pull him aside, but Julia wouldn't have it.

 

Our friend tried to be brave as he explained that the trees we'd pulled from the earth in that previous time were gone. Those mighty oaks did not exist in this time. I stumbled backward as though he'd struck me when he whispered, “The roots, man. Don't you remember? The roots had weakened the ice near the shore. The girls were able to break free and wade to safety because of the roots. Without them, the ice was too thick near the edge, and . . .”

 

I fell to my knees before my beloved as the truth struck home. “Forgive me,” I whispered. “May God forgive us all, for we've killed our sweet girls.”

I sat back hard in the chair, hand covering my mouth.

“Read it, did you?”

I jumped up. I hadn't heard Collum enter. Tears blurred his features as I gulped. “I—I can't believe it. It's so awful. Those poor people.”

I glanced at the portrait next to the mantle. Jonathan's family, still whole and happy. I tore my eyes away, unable to bear looking at the faces of the cheerful little girls.

Collum didn't move from his spot near the fireplace, lit even in summer against the chill evenings. “Read the rest,” he said quietly. “It's on the last page.”

Hesitant, I picked up the book and flipped through a series of blank pages until I reached the final one, written in Jonathan's looping scrawl. It held only a few words.

Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

“My fault,” I whispered, translating the Latin phrase. “My fault. My most grievous fault.”

And just below.

Must find the Nonius Stone. Tesla says it's the only way.

I turned back to Collum, but he was frowning down into the flames. I knew what he was thinking. The Nonius Stone. If his father was still alive, it was the only thing that might save him.

“But doesn't this prove that anything we touch could affect the timeline?” I asked.

“Unlikely,” he said. “Other than this, and the King John treasure debacle, we haven't found that to be the case. The Carlyles were too close to their own time. And on their own property. Plus, they made a deliberate change. But it doesn't mean we aren't very, very careful.”

At my horrified expression, he sighed and replaced the poker. Sitting, he scooted his chair close, until our knees were almost touching.

“What if I mess everything up? I mean, I have no idea what I'm doing, Collum. What if—”

“Hey,” he said, shocking the tears away when he took my cold hands between his own. His level, serious gaze captured mine. “You'll be fine. You're smart. Smarter than anyone I've ever known. And Phoebe and I will be with you. I—we—will keep you safe.”

“But—”

“No,” he interrupted. “We need you, Hope. And that's the end of it.”

Collum withdrew a soft, worn handkerchief. With gentle swipes, he dried my cheeks. Then, as if startled by his own kindness, abruptly stood.

I shivered and watched him go.

J
UST BEFORE DAWN, IN THE CHAMBER DEEP BENEATH THE MOUNTAIN
, everyone said their goodbyes. No fog machine this time, though it was cold enough that our breaths streamed out to twine above our heads and snag briefly on the neon strands.

“It's a go,” Doug huffed as he pounded down the steps. “Lines 212, 486, 510, on the latitude. Lines 101, 419, 771 on longitude. Fits with the location. Forested area several miles outside London. Same sequence as when you all went before, Lu, so the date checks out.”

“You have your lodestones?” Moira's eyes brimmed as she snipped a thread here and checked a seam there. “Phee? You know how forgetful you are.”

“Gran.” Phoebe jangled the bracelet on her wrist before pulling her grandmother into a fierce hug. “Hope has her necklace, and Col his ring. And we've the extra bracelet for Sarah. Don't worry about us. We're good, aye?”

I squeezed the lump of the opal pendant concealed beneath the ruby bodice of my gown, reassuring myself it was still there.

Standing alone, I shifted my weight from one boot-clad foot to the other. Ran a finger over the intricate black embroidery bordering the round neckline. Tugged at the scarlet ribbons that laced up the sides and cinched the cream-colored sleeves to the bodice. The long folds of midnight-blue wool that made up the skirt swished around my stockinged legs as I forced my knees to stop shaking.

Once we . . . arrived, we'd walk a thin line. Not draw attention to ourselves, yet appear wealthy enough so that doors would open for us.

As I huddled inside my warm cloak, my teeth chattered. Collum strode toward the center of the chamber and gestured for me to follow. “Ready?”