Mira's Diary (7 page)

“Don't try it again,” I said. “Ever!”

The woman sniffed and turned away, melting into the crowd. At least I'd kept her away from Mom.

“Mira, she made a simple mistake. Did you have to hit her?”

“She didn't give me much choice.” I showed him my wrist where her claw-hand had left deep red marks.

He looked startled, then sad. He lifted my wrist to his face and kissed all along the welts.

A kiss! At last! And even if it wasn't the kind of kiss I'd imagined, I could feel it all the way to my toes.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to break the magic spell.

Degas did that. “You two!” he called out. “Why are you dawdling? The light is changing. The air is turning chill. It is time to go home to a nice warm fire.”

I had seen Mom again, which was good, but I'd also seen the beautiful scary woman, which was bad. Worst of all, I still didn't know what the job was that I was supposed to do and why Mom was here in the first place. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I wandered through the streets, searching for some kind of clue, keeping my eyes open like Mom had said. Since Mr. Walrus had left the note for her at Notre Dame, that seemed a good place to try.

By the time I got to the park behind Notre Dame, I was exhausted. I sank down onto a bench by the fountain and looked at the statues climbing the roof of the cathedral, their silhouettes black against the pale blue sky. They were an odd sight, statues where you least expected them. Just like me. I was someplace I didn't belong at all. A place and a time where I would never fit in. I knew there was a reason for the sculptures, probably a kind of prayer reaching up to heaven. But what was the reason for me to be here?

My feet ached. I slipped off my shoes, and the breeze felt so good playing on my toes that I almost didn't notice it. Wedged into the side of my shoe was a folded-up piece of paper.

“That's strange,” I thought. “I didn't put that there. Did Mary? Why?” I'd walked so much the creases were worn through, but when I unfolded the paper, I could see it was a letter. From Mom.

Dear Mira,

I need you to understand that I'm here for a very important reason. Something terrible will happen in the future, in your future, if I can't change things. Time is always splitting off, like binary trees. When it hits a certain bump or hiccup, it splits and then it can go one of two ways.

Our job, mine and now yours, is to make sure the second way heals or prevents the first way. I didn't know you had the gift too, or I would have told you all this in person at home. I'm guessing this is the first time you've time-traveled, which means you're here for a reason. There's something you need to do.

People like us, those who can time-travel, have a heavy responsibility. When something horrendous happens, we're sent into the past to prevent it from happening. Some horrors are too big for us to change, but others can be altered.

There are other time travelers, like the woman at the racetrack, who try to stop us. They're evil people who profit from misery and destruction. We can't let them win.

Since you're here, it means you need to change things too. It all has to do with Dreyfus, the man I was with at the races. I think you are meant to make Degas support him. He's an important public figure and his voice defending Dreyfus could make the difference. You need to make that difference happen. Then find your touchstone and go home. I'm also working to change things, so don't worry about me. You work on Degas. I'll work on Zola.

Love,

Mom

Unlike the other letters, this one actually told me something, but the tone was so tight and worried that it scared me. The something Mom needed to change must be really horrible. And the fact that the beautiful creepy woman was so determined to stop Mom made it even riskier. I wanted to help Mom, like she asked, but now that I knew what my job was, it made no sense. Who was Dreyfus and why did Degas need to support him?

I read the letter again, hoping for more answers, more clarity, but I was just more confused. Except that one thing was clear. I was here for a very specific reason. This wasn't an accident at all. I wondered if that meant I wouldn't find my touchstone until I'd done whatever it was I was supposed to do. Would I be stuck here forever if I couldn't figure it out?

“Excuse me, mademoiselle.” A man sat next to me on the bench, far too close for a stranger. I quickly folded up the letter and glared at him. Only it wasn't a stranger—it was the Walrus Man. I thought he'd gone to another time when he vanished in Notre Dame, but here he was, back again.

“I'm Morton, a friend of your mother's,” he said, leaning in and speaking in a hoarse whisper. “A time traveler, like yourself. She asked me to find you.”

“Is she okay?” I asked. “Where is she?”

“She's fine, she's fine.” He wiped beads of sweat off his pasty forehead. “She wants you to go to 1894. That's when you'll be useful to her.”

As if I could just open the door that said “1894” and walk through it! How was I supposed to time-travel? I hadn't done any of this on purpose.

Besides, I already had instructions from Mom in her letter. I didn't trust this so-called friend at all. “My mom said I need to get Degas to support Dreyfus,” I told him. “So that's what I'll do. Once I figure out who Dreyfus is and why Degas should support him.”

“No, that's a waste of time. I told her that would never work. She thinks instead you can save Dreyfus from being accused of treason in the first place. Then Degas's opinion won't matter.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You saw your mother with me. You know she's my friend.” He looked surprised that I'd doubt him, which made me believe him even less.

“Being together doesn't make you friends.” Everything he said made him even more suspicious.

“I can't prove anything, it's true. And if you don't want to believe me, well, all I can say is that I tried.” He shrugged and actually looked relieved. “Maybe it's best if you don't listen to me.”

“Even if I wanted to believe you, I don't know how to get to 1894. I don't know how to control time travel. Can you explain it to me?” I didn't trust pasty, sweaty Morton, but I might learn something useful from him.

“I can't tell you how to time-travel. You have to figure that out for yourself, but you need to be looking for something, really looking, to go anywhere. After a while, you develop an instinct for what works.” Morton leaned back, looking almost relaxed. “These kinds of things I can tell you, it's allowed, but you'll still have to figure out what works yourself. Anything can be a touchstone. You just have to look. But you should know that sometimes they work only once. You can't always go back and use the same touchstone again.”

“What do you mean ‘it's allowed'? What isn't allowed?” I asked.

The man turned purply red so suddenly that I thought he was having a heart attack.

“I can't tell you more,” he choked. “That's for your mother to do. She said she'd given you the rules.”

“She did. She said we shouldn't be in the same time and place since we're related. Is that true?”

The man nodded, his skin blotching into a mottled pink and white as he calmed down. “Better you avoid each other. It's safer for everyone that way. And you know you can't tell anyone you're from the future.”

“That's a pretty obvious rule,” I said. “More like common sense. Explain to me about Dreyfus. Why does it matter if he's accused of treason? Why does Mom care?”

“I can tell you what she thinks,” the man said. “I don't completely agree with her, you understand, but she's right about this. A single person's life can make an enormous difference.”

“So?” I pressed. “Why this man? Who is Dreyfus anyway?”

“He's a captain in the French Army who will be accused of selling military secrets to the Germans.”

“Why does Mom care about a traitor?”

“He's accused,” snapped Morton. “That doesn't mean he's guilty.”

“He must have done something suspicious,” I insisted.

“What makes him seem suspicious is that he isn't Christian.”

And suddenly it all made sense. Claude's comments about the Jews, Degas's friendship with the Halévys. Dreyfus must be Jewish, and that made him seem automatically guilty.

“I get it,” I said. “So Degas needs to like Jews to support Dreyfus?” It kind of made sense, though it seemed stupid to accuse or not accuse, support or not support simply because of somebody's religion.

“Because of how the French military treat Dreyfus, because of their prejudice, the government will collapse and the military will never recover. The direction of France, of all Europe, will be changed. Intolerance will breed more intolerance, which will breed violence. All because of how this one man is unjustly accused.” Morton cleared his throat. “That's your mother's opinion, not mine.”

“So how does she know what has to be changed? What will turn history down a different path?”

“She doesn't. None of us do. We guess, we try, and we try again.” Morton's voice got lower and lower, turning into a whisper. “But it's dangerous. You might think you're doing the right thing and do completely the wrong thing.”

“And what about the people who try to stop you? Like the woman who followed you into Notre Dame? How dangerous is she?”

“What woman?” Morton looked terrified. “Describe her!”

I told him what she looked like and what had happened after he vanished that day in the cathedral. I was going to add the scene from the racetrack, but he interrupted me, wringing his sausage fingers together in worry.

“This is dreadful, just dreadful! She knows what Serena is doing. She knows what you're doing. Maybe it's best to forget about all this. Yes, just forget about it. Don't try to do anything! Find a touchstone and go home!”

“But then she wins! Mom said we have to do this—it's really important. She said this affects my future, so it's not a vague problem but something very specific. Besides, we can't let the bad guys win.” I was surprised Morton would give up so easily. Could I really trust this man?

“She told you that!” Mr. Walrus squealed in panic. “She shouldn't have!”

“Why? What is she really trying to stop?” I pressed.

“This, the whole Dreyfus mess,” he insisted. “Which will lead to the collapse of the French government and to some other issues that are all connected. Maybe something that happens in your future, but I don't know anything about that. And you shouldn't either!”

Obviously he knew a lot more than he was admitting. “What about that woman? Who is she exactly?”

“Someone you should avoid at all costs!” Morton snapped. “Stay far, far away from her!”

“But who is she?”

“I can't tell you any more. I really can't,” he said. He looked scared and miserable at the same time.

“Can you at least tell me what happens in 1894?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You can stop Dreyfus from ever being accused. A French spy, working in the German Embassy as a cleaning woman, will find a torn-up note that lists military information passed to the German military attaché. That's the note Dreyfus will be accused of writing. Your mother wants you to find it before the cleaning lady does.”

“Me? How? And if it's so important, why doesn't she do it herself?”

“I'm just passing on the message.” The man looked anxiously behind us as if the woman he was so afraid of would appear at any moment. “But if you don't want to do this, just go home where you belong. That's my advice. Your mother can change things all by herself without involving you. If she really thinks she has to.”