History is supposed to be dull. Who knew it could also be dangerous?
Time-travel should be a fun adventure... right? And yet Kristen and Brad find that being stuck in the past is anything but. Scary? Duh! Confusing? Definitely. But fun? Not so much.
Can the two squabbling teens work together to survive their unexpected adventure?
(Recommended for ages 12 and up.)
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Author Note
PROLOGUE
Philadelphia, 1777
The dull murmur of voices could vaguely be heard as they drifted up from the floor below. The woman eased herself out of bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband. It was a wonder she could hear anything over his cacophonous snoring, but after living with the man for twenty years she’d learned to ignore the noise.
Her soft-soled slippers were silent on the hardwood floor. She eased the door open and moved quietly down the hall. At the top of the stairs she paused, and determined that the voices were coming from her kitchen. All the better, as these stairs did not lead to that room, but to the front of the house.
She slipped down the final steps to the ground floor, and padded quickly toward the door leading to the kitchen, whence the voices came. There was a linen closet next to the doorway, where she kept her tablecloths and other household fabrics. Quietly she opened the closet door, and folded herself under the shelf, carefully closing the door as best she could.
The darkness in the small, confined space didn’t bother her; instead, she reached up until she felt the edge of the small hinged door. The access door was built to be opened from the adjoining kitchen, for easy access to cleaning cloths and such, although it was rarely used; in fact, from the kitchen the small door was somewhat hidden behind clusters of dried herbs hanging on the wall.
With the small door ajar, even only an inch, the voices from the kitchen were much clearer, the words easy to discern. She listened, hardly daring to breathe. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes—she didn’t know how much time had passed. Her toes began to tingle as her cramped position cut off their circulation; if she wasn’t careful she’d have trouble walking when the time came to leave. By now, however, she’d heard enough.
Pushing the closet door open carefully, she gingerly set a foot flat onto the floor. At first there was no feeling there, but her leg held the weight. Exiting the closet completely, she eased the door closed behind her and quickly made her way back to the stairs. She flew up the steps, instinctively avoiding the places where they creaked. Padding back along the hall to her bed chamber, the woman slipped back into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. She took a few deep breaths to try to steady her breathing and climbed gingerly back under the thick, plain quilt.
With the coverlet pulled under her chin, she turned her face from the door. Her husband barely stirred, and his snoring continued uninterrupted.
Good thing, too, she thought. Not twenty seconds after the woman settled herself in the bed, the door of the bed chamber opened—quietly, yet still audible to her alert ears. Through one open eye she saw shadows dance on the opposite wall as a candle was held aloft from the doorway. Her breathing now returned to a regular rhythm, she waited for the light to be withdrawn and the door to close.
With a sigh, she listened as footsteps receded down the hallway. She had no idea what time it was, but the hour didn’t matter—she wouldn’t sleep much in any case. She had to come up with a plan, which had to be put in motion as soon as the sun came up. There was less than 48 hours to avert disaster.