“What kind of music do you write?” Michele made a valiant effort to keep her voice steady.
“Everything. Classical and jazz are my favorites to play, but I write a lot of pop and rock.”
“Do you perform your own stuff?”
Philip laughed. “Nah, I’m not the greatest singer. I write for other artists.”
Michele watched him in fascination. She could tell by his ease that this new Philip had more confidence about his music than the eighteen-year-old she had known in 1910. It was as though the twenty-first century had given him a new fortitude.
“Who were you writing that song for?”
“Ashley Nichol,” Philip replied. Michele’s eyebrows shot up at the name of the twenty-year-old Grammy winner. “I’ve sold two other songs to her, but she hasn’t done anything with them yet.”
“Third time’s got to be the charm, then.” Michele smiled. “That’s really amazing, though, to be selling songs to a major artist when you’re still in high school! How did you do it?”
“Thanks. Well, I’ve been writing and playing forever, and one night two years ago I got a gig opening for a singer/songwriter friend at Joe’s Pub. This was obviously before I realized I wasn’t cut out to be a singer.” He grinned. “But a music publisher happened to be in the audience that night, and she liked my songs and signed me to a deal. Since then, I’ve been recording demos after school and on the weekends, and she pitches them to artists. It’s been really cool,” he said modestly.
“I’ll say.” Michele took a deep breath before asking the question. “Do you write everything yourself? Music and lyrics?”
“Yeah, but I’m a lot better at the music,” Philip admitted. “My publisher keeps trying to set me up with different lyricists, but I haven’t really felt it with any of them.”
Michele’s mouth fell open. Philip’s words from last night in 1934 echoed in her ears. “This is the way to remind him of us, and of who he used to be. After all, writing music together is how we fell in love.” It felt as though he had somehow orchestrated all of this from the past, providing her with an opening back into his life.
“How about giving me an audition?” she asked lightly. Philip’s expression turned wary, and Michele quickly added, “No pressure. It’s just that I’ve been writing lyrics for as long as I can remember, and I have the opposite problem you do—I’m way more skilled with words than music.”
Philip gave her an amused smile. “Okay, why not. I’ll just keep playing the song and I guess we’ll see what you come up with.”
As he played the tender melody, a title came to Michele immediately. “I Remember.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her school bag, and soon the words were pouring onto the page.
You’ve got a new life now,
You’re free from old ties.
I can’t understand how,
Was all I knew a lie?
We could live all we ever dreamed
If you’d just remember you love me
’Cause I …
And then the chorus flew from her pen in a simple, urgent plea.
I remember
The way you used to hold me.
I remember
The thrill we used to share.
We seem to be
Strangers passing by now.
Tell me, did you forget how
We once cared?
She looked over what she’d written, a self-conscious flush heating up her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to write something so personal … and the lyrics were far simpler than what she usually wrote. For a moment she hesitated, but then she gathered her resolve. She knew her words would fit the song.
“I have a verse and chorus,” Michele called to him over the sound of the piano. “Want to hear it and let me know if I’m on the right track?”
Philip looked at her in surprise. “That was fast. Yeah, let’s hear it.”
She moved toward him, her heart thumping loudly in her chest.
“I’m not much of a singer either, but here goes.” Michele began to sing to Philip’s melody, looking down at the piano keys shyly. She started off shaky but gained confidence as she reached the chorus, and dared to glance up at him as she sang:
“I remember
The way you used to hold me.
I remember
The thrill we used to share …”
Philip looked away, but Michele could see that his body had become still. When she finished the song he glanced at her in a way that showed she had moved him.
“That was great,” he said softly. “It’s not what I would have done, but I like it. It fits the song.”
Michele felt her body warm with pleasure. “I’m glad you think so. Should we try it again with the piano?”
Philip nodded. As she sat beside him on the piano bench, she felt her senses heighten. They were close enough to touch—close enough that with just a turn of the head, his lips could meet hers.
Philip leaned over to arrange his sheet music, his hand brushing against Michele’s in the process. He quickly moved it, but she saw that he was breathing faster than normal, his eyes filled with an expression she hadn’t seen in a long time.
He began to play, and as Michele sang along quietly, her words were a seamless blend with his music. She studied him, his forehead creased in concentration, and for a moment she once again felt transported to the previous century, seated beside the Philip who would look at her with desire, who always had just the right melody for her words.
It is you, she thought with amazement. I know it’s you. And suddenly, it felt like the right time.
“What’s wrong?” Philip glanced at her. “You stopped singing.”
“Yeah, I … I need to tell you something.”
Philip’s hands moved away from the piano keys. “Okay.”
“Remember when I thought you were someone else, someone who was also named Philip Walker?”
Philip cracked a smile. “How could I forget a weird moment like that?”
“I feel more sure now than ever.” Michele’s words tumbled out in a rush. “I hate to sound crazy, I know you don’t remember so I must seem like a nut job to you but I swear I’m not, and I need you to know …” She took a deep breath. “The Philip I knew was a musician too. He asked me to give you this, to help you remember.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the music.
Philip hesitated, his expression confirming that he did think she might be a nut job, but still he took the pages. He glanced over the sheet music and did a double take, his eyes widening with shock. The piano bench scratched against the floor as he jumped up.
“How did you do this?” he demanded, shaking the papers in front of her. “How?”
Michele swallowed hard. She had never seen Philip angry. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“How did you do it?” he repeated as all the color drained from his face. “How did you copy my handwriting—and read my mind?”
His panic was starting to rub off on Michele. What in the world had 1934 Philip written?
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” she pleaded. “I don’t read music. What are you seeing?”
Philip stared from her to the sheet music and back again. “It’s the song we were just working on. But—I never played you the bridge. I hadn’t worked it out yet, it was only in my mind. How did you know it?” He backed toward the door but didn’t walk through, seeming to struggle to decide whether to get away from her or hear what she had to say.
Michele’s jaw dropped as Philip’s words hit home.
“I—I had no idea. This is incredible.” She took a tentative step closer to him. “Please—I know it sounds too unbelievable to be true, but try to hear me. There’s someone you used to be. No two people can write the same exact song—you and the Philip Walker I knew are the same. He told me this music would remind you—”
Michele stopped short at a loud snap. She glanced up as the overhead lights suddenly flickered and the room tur
ned black. It was far darker than it should have been for the afternoon, even with the lights out, and the chill running down her spine told her that something was very wrong.
“What the—?” Philip threw open the door, but the darkness pervaded the halls. Suddenly, with a strangled yell, he hurtled back into the choir room, throwing himself in front of Michele. For a moment she was too distracted by his closeness to see what he was looking at, but then her eyes caught a tall cloud of smoke winding its way into the choir room, coming straight toward them. Michele was too frightened to move a muscle as it drew closer, coils of black hair and billowing skirts gleaming through the smoke. Rebecca.
“Get away from us!” Philip growled, reaching back to grasp Michele and hold her steady behind him. What made Philip go from not remembering me to suddenly protecting me? she thought, staring at him in bewilderment. And more importantly … why wasn’t Rebecca’s presence a shock to him? He was no doubt horrified by the sight of her, but something in his voice alerted Michele that he had seen her before.
She and Philip were so focused on Rebecca’s terrifying tower of smoke that they didn’t hear the footsteps behind them. Suddenly Michele yelped as she felt a hand pulling at her necklace, catching her off guard. She grabbed frantically at her neck, feeling nothing but bare skin. The key was gone.
“No!” she screamed, struggling to break out of Philip’s grasp and follow the footsteps she heard clattering out of the darkened room. Rebecca slithered away in her cloud, a sense of victory following her out the door.
“What are you thinking, trying to go after her?” Philip said sharply.
“She took my key! It’s gone!” Michele’s body was racked with sobs as terror seized her. It was one thing to be strong in the face of Rebecca’s threat when she had the key, when she had the power to time travel her way out of danger. But now she was completely on her own—exposed and defenseless.
“She didn’t touch you,” Philip said gently, turning around to face Michele. “I was watching her the whole time.”
“Who else would have taken it?” Michele whispered.
At that moment, a crackling noise echoed throughout the room as the lights flickered back on. Philip awkwardly let go of her, his face a mix of emotions.
“Students, we’ve just experienced a power outage,” came a crisp voice over the school PA system. “All of you in the halls, please return to class at once. Everything is back in order.”
“I have to get out of here. Are you going to be okay?” Philip asked in a low voice.
“Please just tell me—how come you can see her too?” Michele blurted out.
Philip raked his hand through his hair, his expression desperate as he stammered, “I—I can’t talk anymore—I have to go. This is too much—too much.” And after one last look, he flew out the door.
She watched him go, her mind returning to what he had said moments earlier—that Rebecca hadn’t taken the key. Was there any possible hope that, in her heightened state of fear, Michele might have imagined someone ripping the key off her neck? Could it have simply been the case of a loose chain falling off and lying somewhere on the floor? Deep down, Michele knew it was unlikely—but she had to check. Getting onto her hands and knees, she searched the floor and rummaged under the piano and chairs. But there was still no sign of the key, or the chain that had held it.
Michele stood frozen in the middle of the choir room, her stomach churning. The key was everything. Besides being her only possible defense against Rebecca, it was her sole method of traveling through time. The key was her only connection to her father and it was the power that had brought her to Philip. What would she do without it?
The Time Society offers a number of positions for members who seek careers within our world. One of the most important is that of the Detectors, whose purpose is to locate unregistered time travelers. It is a crucial task, for the time travelers who remain hidden are generally those who stay in the past or the future long enough to effect change—and cause considerable damage along the way. By seeking out undiscovered time travelers and introducing them to our Society, we gain valuable members who help us protect the natural Timeline. They in turn receive a wealth of knowledge, power, and membership to a Society that most can only dream of.
—THE HANDBOOK OF THE TIME SOCIETY
5
Michele headed straight for her room after the disastrous day at school, still in a stupor over the loss of the key. Her mind spun as it replayed Rebecca’s terrifying appearance and the moments of hope and confusion with Philip; there was so much that she couldn’t seem to make sense of. She ached with the longing to return to twentieth-century Philip, to confide in him and hear his answers. The thought of never being able to find him again was too much to bear, and Michele had to force it away, along with the dread rising in her stomach.
She curled up on the couch in her sitting room, glancing up at the portraits lining the walls. The subjects of each framed painting were different Windsor heiresses of the past, each painted on the occasion of the girl’s debut into society at age sixteen, from Clara Windsor in 1910 to Marion in 1991.
Thankfully there was no portrait of Rebecca. Michele wondered if her grandparents had it removed.
Michele was always comforted by the painting of her mother, by seeing her smile shine and her eyes sparkle through the canvas. Marion’s far-off voice echoed in Michele’s memory: “Count your blessings, not your worries.”
“If only you were still here,” she whispered to her mother’s portrait. Michele felt a pang of grief thinking about the plan she had come up with the night before to defeat Rebecca. The first step had been to find out every detail of her and Irving’s relationship so she could discover Rebecca’s true motive. The final step would have been traveling back to the moment she and Irving became enemies, changing the past to end her vengeance before it began. The thought of what she might have returned home to if the plan succeeded filled her with such regret, it stung to even think about it. If she could have managed to block Rebecca’s treacherous path before it reached her parents, then she might have had a father and mother—together and alive. But now, without the key … it was too late.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Michele called listlessly.
Her grandparents stepped into the room, Walter carrying a bulky black camcorder that looked like something out of an eighties movie.
“Hi,” she greeted them, fixing a smile on her face. She’d already decided against telling them about the stolen key. Knowing Dorothy’s mental state was dangling by a thread, she feared this information would send her over the edge. Michele also suspected that if her grandparents knew she no longer had the key’s power and protection, they would likely ship her off to hide out as far from Manhattan as possible. Bleak as things looked, Michele couldn’t leave New York. She couldn’t go anywhere as long as Rebecca was still after her family. She owed it to her parents, her grandparents, and herself to end the fight once and for all. But … how could she possibly manage that without the key, when only four days remained before Rebecca reached her full human form?
“How are you holding up, dear?” Dorothy asked, sitting beside her on the couch.
“I’m okay. How about you guys? What are you up to with that vintage video camera?”
Her grandparents exchanged a glance.
“It was your mother’s,” Dorothy said.
Michele’s mouth fell open.
“Marion and Irving met in a photography class. They both loved taking pictures and filming short movies,” Walter explained, smiling sadly at the memory. “Irving seemed especially fascinated by the technology. The two of them liked to use the house and the grounds as a backdrop for their short films.” He drew a deep breath. “We couldn’t bring ourselves to touch Marion’s room after she left, but once a year had gone by, we finally let the housekeeper in and she found Marion’s camcorder. We tried to send it to her, but Marion returned every package and letter we sent, u
nopened. Irving had left by then, and she was no longer speaking to us. There was a tape inside the camera, but we … we couldn’t bring ourselves to watch. It would have been too painful.”
Michele sat bolt upright. “Wait—are you saying there’s footage of my parents together? And I can watch it?” In that moment, all the fear and frustration of the day evaporated. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so excited. “I get to actually see my dad as a real person, not just an old photograph? And Mom—I get to see Mom again!”
“I suppose we should have told you about it sooner,” Dorothy admitted. “We assumed it might be difficult for you too. But now that you know everything … well, we thought it might be the right time.”
Michele reached for the camcorder, smiling tremulously. “Getting to see my parents together, even if it’s just on video—it means everything to me. Thank you so much.”
Walter flipped open the small LCD display screen on the camcorder before handing it over. “The tape is from the early nineties, and we don’t have the right cables for it to play on any of the TV screens in the house, but you can watch it right here on the camera. I charged it while you were at school, so all you have to do is press Play.”
Michele gazed reverently at the camcorder in her hands. Even though she had never seen it until now, a rush of nostalgia flooded through her as she held the antiquated gadget. It was clearly a relic of happier, simpler times. Michele could almost feel her mother’s presence inside the camera; she could practically see Marion running through the Windsor Mansion while peering into the lens, proudly making her own films at a time when home movies were newly in vogue. As she looked at the camcorder, Michele had an uncanny feeling that it had something to tell her.
“I can’t believe I’m about to see my parents,” Michele said in amazement. “Do you guys want to watch with me?”