CHAPTER TWELVE: April 28, 1914

Nearly a week passes before I hear from Madeline. By that time, I’ve read a dozen novels, given myself a sunburn from falling asleep out in the garden, and written three letters to Dodge and one to each of my former roommates on the California Limited out of sheer boredom. So when Hugh knocks on my door that morning and hands me a message from Madeline that says she’s finally arranged me a meeting with her organization, I nearly scream with pent-up anticipation. Finally, I can stop sitting around eating bonbons and actually do something.

I dress in one of the everyday dresses that Madeline’s seamstress supplied me with, hide my PVD away in the bodice, and hurry out to the waiting car. The Rolls Royce rumbles along the road at a pace that feels achingly slow, considering how anxious I am. Miles and miles of country roads stretch onward, and I feel like I may never reach the city. Finally, the buildings grow less distant from one another and rise skyward. The car pulls up before a building that is either the residence of someone just as wealthy as Madeline is, or else some sort of museum.

“Miss Argent!” Madeline bursts from the building’s front door as the driver lets me out, and she descends the stone steps as if she’s surprised to see me—despite being the one to arrange all this. “Come in, come in. We’ve all been awaiting your arrival. How was your trip?”

“It was fine.”

“Good, good.” She pulls me alongside her up the steps, chattering brightly. “Everyone else is already here, and they’re eager to hear from you. Just follow my lead, and don’t worry about a thing. Oh, did I tell you that news has arrived from Ludlow?”

“Ludlow?” I stop midstride. “You mean the National Guard—”

“Yes,” Madeline says. “It happened just as you said it would.”

“That’s awful!”

“It is. Truly tragic.”

We enter the front hall, where a cluster of hats sit on a hat rack and the décor, though somewhat less opulent than at the Barker manor, still doesn’t give me any clues about where we might be.

“This way,” Madeline says, leading me toward a sitting room where I can hear overlapping voices speaking enthusiastically.

“Wait,” I say, placing a hand on her arm. “What happens if they don’t believe us?”

“If they don’t believe us?” Madeline looks at me, puzzled. “Why, of course they will.”

I open my mouth to protest—why should they believe me when no one else has?—but then bite it back. After all, Madeline believed me, and according to her, the whole organization is based on knowing the unknown, explaining the unexplained. If anyone’s going to listen to me, they will.

“Now, you’ll want to pay special mind to the gentleman in the green cravat,” she whispers. “He’s the nephew of the Secretary of Defense. And the woman next to him is the First Lady’s cousin. Twice removed.”

“I thought these were people who knew the president. Who could get us an audience.”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Madeline says, leading me through the doorway. “I warned you that there were certain channels that we must work through.”

In the parlor, a dozen armchairs, settees, and sofas are set about in a wobbly circle, and on those seats are perched a range of people who look up at us as we enter—from a young, wide-eyed man in a scholarly looking jacket to a white-haired woman with a set of knitting needles clicking in her lap. There’s a pair of gentlemen in stark, black suits and a woman no older than myself who glares up at me over the rim of gold-handled spectacles.

“Everyone,” Madeline says, sweeping me into the center of the circle. “I’d like to introduce Miss Cassandra Argent.”

“Cass,” I say, though I suspect no one’s listening to me. A flurry of whispers encircle me and, not knowing what else to do, I dip into an awkward, one-legged curtsy.

“Have a seat, dear,” Madeline whispers, gesturing me to a low bench.

A maid in a black dress and white apron offers me a delicate teacup on a saucer with poppies painted along the rim and I thank her quietly, my mind suddenly and unexpectedly turning toward the Harvey Girls on the California Limited. I wonder how they’re doing, if they’ve received the letters I sent yet.

“Let’s see the watch!” one of the older gentlemen calls out, and others nod and mutter in agreement.

My hand automatically goes to my wrist, but before I can say anything, a woman sitting beside me—who seems old enough to be my mother—grabs my arm and begins to study the watch. I try to pull back, but she frowns at me and grips it tighter, pressing her nails into my skin.

“It looks real enough,” the man beside her says, leaning in.

“No, no. It’s all wrong,” the first woman argues. She presses the buttons, but nothing happens, which only seems to irritate her more.

“Tell me, girl,” one of the black-suited men says, “where did you get this watch, and what is its purpose?”

“I… My brother gave it to me.”

“See!” The woman who’d been holding my arm releases it. “It’s not even hers!”

“Who’s your brother?” the knitting woman demands.

“Yes, where did he get it?”

“Ladies, gentlemen,” Madeline says, holding up her hands to try to calm the crowd. “Please, let Miss Argent tell her story. Go on.”

My mind goes blank. Every one of the people in the room, save for Madeline, is looking at me with such hostility and skepticism that I don’t even know where to begin.

“Start with where you’re from,” she says.

“I… I’m from the year 2133,” I say quietly.

“What city?” someone shouts.

“Yes, what city? And who’s the president?”

“Those are absurd questions,” the woman beside me argues. “She could make up any names at all, and how would any of us know the difference?”

“Tell me, is your brother an extraterrestrial?” one of the men asks.

The knitting woman leans in over her yarn. “Can you read my mind?”

“No! No, he’s not an extraterrestrial, and I can’t read minds.”

She shakes her head, looking back to her knitting. “Everyone in the future can read minds.”

I don’t even know how to respond to such a false statement, so I leave it hanging and look to Madeline for help instead. She’s still standing in the center of the room, her arms crossed and a frown deepening on her face. Obviously, this was not the reception she expected, either.

“Please,” I say, finally finding my voice. “I’m just here to help. I want to help make history— that is, make your future better than the one I learned about in school. Better than the one that will come if we just sit back and refuse to do anything.”

The room is silent for a moment, and then the voices overlap again. I can see the frowns, the scowls, the head-shaking, even before their words of derision and skepticism reach me.

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“But the Ludlow incident—” Madeline argues.

“Everyone knew that was about to blow up. It was only a matter of time.”

“She probably stole that watch.”

“Bet you anything Madeline put her up to it.”

“Girl, did Madeline put you up to this?” the woman with the gold-handled spectacles asks me.

“No,” I say. “I never—”

“Come on, Madeline, if you’re going to try to convince us your theory is correct, you’re going to have to do a lot better than a facsimile watch and an actress who can’t even remember her lines.”

One of the men grabs my wrist and twists it around, working at the clasp on the watch. “Here, let’s examine it.”

“No!” I shout, pulling my arm away.

“Give us the watch, girl,” the knitting woman says.

“No. It’s my watch, and I’m not an actress,” I protest, but Madeline’s already grabbed my arm and wrenched me from my seat, away from the eager hands of the others in the circle. Her face is flushed with embarrassment or anger or some combination of the two, and I can hear the others’ arguments rise as she quickly ushers me to the door.

“What happened in there?” I ask when we step through the foyer and down the front steps to the waiting car.

She turns on me, gripping my arm so tightly it hurts. “What happened is that you made me look like a fool.”

“I did?” I pull my arm away and gesture back toward the building. “Those people in there are the ones looking like fools. Extraterrestrials? Mind-readers? They’re nothing but a bunch of crackpots and conspiracy theorists. They don’t really want to know the truth at all.”

“Get in the car,” Madeline says, her voice like a sharpened sliver of ice.

“No.” My voice is just as firm. “You promised me these people would get me an audience with the president. You promised they’d believe me.”

Madeline sets her jaw and shoots a glance back up at the building. Her brow furrows in concentration, but when she turns back to me, any sign of hesitation is gone. “Fortunately for us, there is more than one way to get a man’s attention.”

“What do you mean?”

“Get in the car,” she says, and when I hesitate, the chauffer grabs my arm and guides me firmly into the seat. Madeline closes the door behind us and lowers her voice. “I need some information from you.”

“About what?”

“You are from the future, aren’t you?” She looks to me as if for verification, and I nod numbly. “Then it should be no problem at all for you to find for me the most devastating scandals, secrets, and confidential information you can about President Woodrow Wilson.”