It was the very smile that had belonged to the man who stole Rebecca’s heart and brought about her downfall—the butler’s son. This girl looked just like him.
Rebecca was vaguely aware that hushed whispers and shocked gasps were filling the room. The dowdy Agnes Andrews, seated next to Rebecca, turned to her with a scandalized expression on her face. “Is he mad, dancing by himself like that?”
Rebecca stared at Agnes “By himself …?” she echoed.
The woman behind Rebecca clucked disapprovingly. “I suppose he thinks he’s being amusing, dancing with the air,” she said with a sniff.
So the others couldn’t see the girl.
“I—I’ll be just a moment,” Rebecca muttered. She hurried down the stairs and into the thick of the ballroom. Something else was wrong—the girl looked out of place, her blue chiffon dress too plain for the occasion, her neckline shockingly low. Rebecca inched her way to the edge of the dance floor, as close to Philip and the girl as possible without being too noticeable.
As she watched the girl look into Philip’s eyes and sway in his arms, Rebecca nearly doubled over. The girl wore a key around her neck—a golden key shaped in the ankh symbol, with a sundial carved into its bow. It was the very key that had been taken from Rebecca, the key that she so often reached for in her dreams—and there was none other like it in the world.
“Michele,” she heard Philip breathe. Rebecca shuddered to learn the girl’s name. She inhaled a shaky breath, trying to make sense of the heinous facts. The man she’d loved and lost had fathered a child, and as if that betrayal weren’t enough, he had given this loathsome daughter of his the key. She was a Timekeeper now, a member of the desirable circle that had so brutally shut Rebecca out. And now Michele was trying to destroy the Windsor family by breaking up Violet’s engagement, just as Michele’s father had destroyed Rebecca herself so many years earlier? Well, Rebecca could simply not allow any of this to go on.
A high-pitched ringing sounded in her ears as she turned and walked out of the ballroom. Once out of sight of her family and the party guests, she took off into a run. Her carriage was waiting outside, and she ignored the questioning look on the driver’s face as he jumped up to open the door for her.
“I need to depart for California at once,” she commanded.
“But Miss Windsor, your private rail car isn’t available at this hour,” the driver protested. “And you’ll need your baggage—”
“Just take me to the train station now,” Rebecca said through gritted teeth. “And you mustn’t say a word about this to anyone.”
She leaned back against the plush upholstery of the carriage, closing her eyes as she remembered the last time she had been in California. It was nearly a lifetime ago.…
The Aura Hotel—February 2, 1888
Rebecca’s first impression of the Time Society’s headquarters was that it looked like a beautiful porcelain castle, with its gleaming white latticework and its turreted red roofs soaring into the sky. She turned her face to the sun, soaking in the California warmth she’d never before experienced. She held a card from Millicent August in her hand, engraved with the date and the Time Society logo: a coronet circling a finely drawn clock. Holding the card while the key pulsed against her neck, Rebecca had been transported from her New York City bedroom to the Aura Hotel. I’m here, she thought giddily, her pace turning into a skip as she approached the entrance.
For a moment Rebecca stood outside the front doors, peering in. The dark wood-paneled lobby was filled with gentlemen in black tails and top hats, accompanying wives in billowing evening gowns and upswept hairdos as they languidly made their way toward the banquet room for dinner. Rebecca waited for one of the footmen to open the door and let her in, until she remembered that they couldn’t see her. She took a deep breath, pushed through the doors—and let out a startled gasp.
An invisible hand had waved itself over the scene, erasing all traces of a normal hotel. The guests she had just been watching faded into ghostly nothingness and the lobby enlarged to more than twice its size, the ceilings rising so high that Rebecca could hardly see where they ended. And then two spinning tornadoes whirled into the room, like a choreographed storm. Rebecca scrambled back in terror—until the tornadoes revealed themselves as people, a young man and woman.
The woman was dressed in such a scandalous style, it made Rebecca feel a funny combination of appalled and envious. The short, low-waisted skirt revealed her bare legs, her blouse had enough sequins to costume a burlesque performer, and her chin-length hair boldly displayed her naked neck. You could get arrested for looking like that in 1888, Rebecca thought.
The gentleman looked much more normal, dressed in a navy military uniform with gold buttons. He had clear blue eyes and his hair was a wavy blond pompadour. He stepped forward to greet Rebecca.
“You must be our new arrival,” he said, giving her a slight bow. “Rebecca Windsor, born 1871, am I right?”
Rebecca nodded, staring at him in confusion. He chuckled.
“We have to learn all the Time Society members’ birth years. That is how we know what time they truly come from,” he explained. “But forgive me for being so rude—you don’t even know my name! I am Hiram King, born 1818. And this is Ida Pearl, born 1920.”
Ida stepped forward and held out a pink-manicured hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Hello,” Rebecca replied breathlessly, staring in fascination from one to the other. She turned to Ida. “You must know everything about the future, then, having been born in 1920!”
Ida chuckled. “Not quite everything. There are still plenty of secrets left to uncover.”
“Are you both age shifting?” Rebecca asked eagerly.
“I am,” Hiram said with a wink.
“And I am my true linear age, twenty-one, traveling back in time to meet you in this moment,” Ida answered.
“I read about age shifting in the handbook and I tried following the instructions, but it hasn’t worked for me yet,” Rebecca lamented. “Why would anyone want to be their true age if they could be any age they choose?”
“Well, much as we need sleep for our bodies to function, we also need time to be ‘in rest’ at our true age. Age shifting takes quite a toll on the body, and spending too many days as your younger or older self can limit your total life span.” As Rebecca absorbed this information, Hiram gallantly held out his arm. “Now, Millicent asked us here to show you around the headquarters before the official grand opening reception.”
Rebecca fell into step with Hiram and Ida, and they walked through the cavernous lobby, stopping at a bronze elevator adjacent to a red-carpeted staircase.
“Timekeepers who wish to spend the night need only reserve a room at the front desk.” Hiram nodded at a reception area across the way, which was overseen by a line of men in black suits and women in starched white blouses and black skirts. “Then you take this elevator or the stairs up to the guest rooms. Each room is outfitted in the décor of a different period and filled with the books and newspapers of the day, which helps us get acquainted with the era we are traveling to. So, for example, say I am returning to the year 1830 after being in this year, 1888, for a number of days. I would reserve room 1830, and there, surrounded by the furnishings, artwork, and writings of 1830, I’d be reminded of the customs and rules of that year. Behaving out of line with the time you are in has had disastrous consequences for several Timekeepers, so it is very important to assimilate.”
Rebecca barely heard Hiram’s warning, she was so enchanted by the prospect of countless rooms decorated in the styles of different time periods. “How far into the future do the guest rooms go?”
“The designers of the headquarters can only build rooms for as far into time as we’ve experienced,” Hiram explained. “We have a research committee in charge of gathering the literature, décor, and newspapers from each year to fill the period rooms, and naturally, they cannot work on a room based on a time that none of us has ever been
to. The farthest that a Time Society member has traveled into the past is 1492, while we’ve gone as far into the future as 1991. This means that when you visit the headquarters today, in 1888, you will find rooms dating from the very discovery of America all the way up to the year 1991. As new future years are unlocked, additional rooms are added.”
“1991—it sounds positively inconceivable!” Rebecca marveled, wondering what inventions she would find in that room.
“Moving on, then. Ida is quite the culinary expert, so she will be glad to tell you about the dining at the headquarters,” Hiram said with a smile.
Rebecca followed them down the corridor until they approached an airy restaurant, with floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the ocean and the sandy beach. Round wooden tables filled the room, and a couple dressed in inconspicuous black clothing were the only diners there. They were eating the oddest-looking dish Rebecca had ever seen, using what appeared to be sticks in place of silverware.
“The restaurant is nearly empty now, since most of us are saving our appetites for the feast later this evening,” Ida said, grinning. “The wonder of this place is that you can order the oldest or the most modern dish you like, from mutton chops to sushi.”
“Sushi?” Rebecca had never heard such a funny-sounding word.
“Why, that’s what that couple over there is eating. It’s a simply delicious Japanese dish of raw fish wrapped in rice. You can eat it as finger food, or with chopsticks in place of utensils,” Ida explained.
Rebecca wrinkled her nose. Raw fish hardly sounded like an acceptable meal to her.
“We have shops and recreation here at the headquarters as well,” Ida continued proudly. “There is an extensive costume shop where we can purchase the appropriate wardrobe for our time travels, a currency exchange, and of course, a bookstore. We have a swimming pool outdoors, and it is always quite entertaining to watch the vastly different bathing suits on display.”
A chime sounded loudly, and Rebecca jumped. She looked around but couldn’t find the source.
“It’s the headquarters clock,” Hiram told her. “It’s built into the walls, so it chimes equally loudly in every room. That’ll likely be Millicent summoning us. Come along.”
Rebecca trailed after them, still taking in all the strange and delightful sights. “Does Millicent live here?” she asked.
“No, but close enough. When the Aura became our new headquarters, Millicent moved into that charming redbrick house next door,” Hiram replied.
They entered a formal room that reminded Rebecca a bit of the parlor in her mansion back home, with its gilded ceilings and rich furnishings in the style of the palace of Versailles. A silver-haired woman in a long red velvet dress stood waiting for her. Millicent August.
“Hello,” Rebecca greeted her excitedly.
Millicent didn’t return her smile. “Hello, Rebecca. Hiram and Ida, thank you for your help. You may go now.”
Hiram and Ida nodded, looking taken aback by Millicent’s manner. Rebecca swallowed hard as she watched them leave, her throat dry with sudden nerves.
“There’s someone here to see you, Rebecca,” Millicent said, her quiet voice a warning.
Rebecca’s body and mind felt paralyzed with fear as she watched the door slowly open. In walked a young man, who eyed her accusingly.
“You!” Rebecca gasped.
San Diego—November 3, 1910
Rebecca approached the three-story Victorian house next door to the Aura Hotel, knowing somewhere in the logical part of her mind that this couldn’t be a sound idea, that her journey here was a mistake, that Millicent August had made it very clear years ago that she never wanted to see Rebecca again. But adrenaline and hysteria were drowning out Rebecca’s common sense, and she found herself banging her fist persistently on the door until it at last opened.
The shriveled, wrinkled woman who answered the door shocked Rebecca into momentary speechlessness. Millicent August was a skeleton leaning on a cane, her hair wispy-thin. She’s not age shifting, Rebecca realized. This is Millicent at her true age—over a hundred years old. Rebecca didn’t know whether the sight was admirable or grotesque.
As she and Millicent stared at each other, Millicent’s steely eyes suddenly narrowed. “Rebecca Windsor,” she snarled, her voice weak but somehow still intimidating. “I told you I never wanted to see you again. You’re a liar and a thief and—”
“He had a child!” Rebecca interrupted, her voice rising in anguish. “He had a child in the future—he broke the law of your Society! And now the girl has gone back in time. I saw her at my family’s ball in 1910. She’s after my niece’s fiancé—he can see her! She’s trying to ruin my family. You must put a stop to it!”
Millicent paused, then grudgingly opened the door just wide enough for Rebecca to step into the entrance hall.
“And what do you expect me to do?” Millicent asked coldly. “Have the girl killed?”
Rebecca rubbed her forehead in desperation. “Change things—make it so he never had a child, so she can’t exist.”
“What if I told you that the girl is a member of your own family?”
“My own family?” Rebecca echoed, uncomprehending. “What could you possibly mean?”
“You aren’t the only one who has discovered this girl, Rebecca. He had a child with Marion Windsor in 1993. The girl you seek to erase is not ruining your family—she is your family.”
“No.” Rebecca shook her head. “That can’t be true. He would never betray me like that, not with someone of my own blood!”
“It wasn’t betrayal. It was love,” Millicent said simply.
“No!” Rebecca roared. She felt wild with anger and pain, and she lunged for Millicent, furiously pushing her against the wall. “You’re the liar!”
Millicent’s elderly body hit the wall hard, and her head cracked against it. Her eyes rolled back, her final expression one of shock. Rebecca watched in horror as the woman crumpled to the floor, blood streaming from her skull.
“No!” Rebecca fell to her knees, shaking Millicent desperately. “Come back, come back, please!” How could someone so powerful die so suddenly, so easily? Rebecca caught sight of herself in a hallway mirror and shuddered. Her hands were covered in Millicent’s blood. Murderer! her reflection taunted.
She leaned over Millicent’s body, her throat filling with sobs as guilt ate at her insides. And then a glint caught her eye: Millicent’s key.
Millicent wore it around her neck under a high-collared dress, just as Rebecca had once done. Rebecca’s fingers trembled as she touched the key. It was bigger than the one she had worn long ago, the shape bolder, with a diamond in the center of the bow where the sundial was carved. Once again, Rebecca’s dark desires took over.
With this key, I can time travel again, she thought longingly. I can change things—I can fix things.
And for the second time, Rebecca Windsor stole a key from a corpse.
New York City—November 3, 1910
Rebecca stood outside the Windsor Mansion gates, looking up at the lights in the windows. She could easily imagine what the scene inside looked like—her “perfect” brother, George, dining with his snooty wife, Henrietta, and their children, including that Clara girl from the orphanage whom they had oddly decided to adopt. But that wasn’t the Windsor Mansion Rebecca would be entering.
She held Millicent’s key in both hands and whispered, as if it were an incantation, “March the ninth, eighteen hundred and eighty-eight.”
New York City—March 9, 1888
The flood of energy that filled Rebecca as her body rose above the ground, spun through the air, and landed back on Windsor Mansion property twenty-two years in the past was so exhilarating that she momentarily forgot all about the terrible crime that had made it possible. All she felt was the relief and satisfaction of having the power of time travel restored to her.
The Fifth Avenue block on which her home rested was suddenly quiet. The land on either side of Windsor
Mansion was still empty, and the sounds of Model T Ford automobiles were years away. Rebecca eagerly pushed through the gates, racing through the front garden and up the steps, much more like a girl of seventeen than a woman of nearly forty. She was returning to her home as it had appeared when it was hers; to her body as it looked when it was young and unspoiled.
As Rebecca slipped into the mansion, she caught sight of her governess walking briskly into the library. What would she think if she knew what was to become of me? What would my parents think? Rebecca wondered. But she pushed the unsettling thoughts aside, focusing instead on her task.
She hurried up the stairs to the third floor, her palms sweating with anticipation as she approached her bedroom. The red-carpeted hallway led to the familiar French double doors. Turning the knob and entering at last, she saw the seventeen-year-old Rebecca Windsor of 1888, frozen in front of her dressing mirror in the lilac-and-white princess bedroom. And just as she had studied in the Time Society handbook years ago—the handbook that had also been wrenched away from her by Millicent August—forty-year-old Rebecca Windsor of 1910 reached out her hand to touch her younger self. Staring into the mirror, Rebecca watched as she and her younger body gasped in unison, a tightening force gripping her chest as the two of them moved seamlessly into one.
A smile curved Rebecca’s lips. Millicent’s key, hanging on a gold chain around her neck, had done its job. Though she was her forty-year-old self in mind, she was now seventeen in body. And anything was possible.
New York City—Present Day
As Michele tried to calm her terrified mind, the multiple girls in black slowly merged into one. The girl stared at her with hatred. Michele tried to run, but the sand held her rooted to the spot.