Cairo 1925
The ride home from the bazaar had been a quiet one. Halima thought taking a horse-drawn cart would distract Tater—and Ella too—but it only seemed to make things worse.
Ella’s eyes scanned the streets and shops as they passed through the old marketplace of 1925 Cairo.
“But it’s such good news, darling,” Halima said, rubbing a hand on Ella’s shoulder. “Effendi lives.”
“I know, I know,” Ella said. “But you’d be surprised how quickly the joy of learning that was replaced with the agony of knowing when he lives.
“It was a shock.”
“You could say that. He might as well be dead.”
“Shhh Ella. Stop that.”
“Stop that, Mommy!” Tater squirmed down from the seat between the two to get a better look out the window. Ella caught him and held him by the window.
“Thanks. I needed that,” she said. But her voice was devoid of humor.
Halima refused to give in to the anxiety that had threatened to engulf her ever since the word had come about Effendi.
“It’s just so hard to believe, looking out onto the world, seeing the blue sky, the birds, hearing the noises of our daily round…” Ella paused. “It’s just unimaginable to think that he’s not in this world.”
“But not dead,” Halima said firmly.
Ella turned to her. “I see what you’re doing, Halima,” she said.
“That is good, dearest. It makes doing it a little less difficult if you work with me.”
Ella looked back out the window and her eyes filled with tears. “Nowhere in this world,” she said softly. “Nowhere alive in this world.”
Halima took a breath and forced herself not to speak. She would allow Ella her indulgence for at least the time it took to ride back from the Old Cairo Market to their townhouse. She would grant her dearest friend at least that much time to grieve before being forced to act.
“You think I’m being melodramatic.”
“Of course I do not.”
“Something bad must have happened to him to have him…move out of our timeline.”
“He fell over the side of a ship.”
“Yeah. That would do it, I guess.” She paused. “Fell or was pushed.”
“In any case.”
“Olna said she saw signs that would place him in the eighteen hundreds. And since she already said Rowan and I tend to land in exact one-hundred year increments, that means July 10, 1825.”
Halima nodded solemnly, but inside she smiled. Her dear one didn’t even need to take the full time of the carriage ride to shake out of her dejection. Already she was putting the pieces together and thinking about what she must do.
“Where did they say they thought he went over?”
“Somewhere off the coast of Libya.”
“And that’s a huge area, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Ella pulled Tater up onto her lap and frowned. “What if he’s on an unchartered island? Olna said she saw a beach in her dream.”
“Did she see people?”
“She wasn’t clear about that.”
“A beach sounds like an island.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Tater was growing restless and Halima wanted Ella to focus on her burgeoning plan—and the future. She reached out to the child and he eagerly scrambled into her lap.
“I have to find out exactly when the lifeboat—and Rowan—was noticed as being missing,” Ella said. “That’ll at least give me a searchable area to work with. Were there any storms during the time he jumped ship?”
There was that nascent dry humor Halima had missed so much this last week. “Not that I know of,” she said.
“Olna said he’s in distress,” Ella said, looking back out the window as the carriage stopped to allow a motorized taxi to push ahead.
“That would not be surprising,” Halima said softly.
“No. I know. It’s just that…thinking of Rowan…you know…in distress…”
“It’s alright, dearest,” Halima said. “It’s going to be alright. Rowan is going to be alright.”
Ella turned to look at her for the first time since they’d climbed into the carriage. “Thank God for you, Halima. I don’t know how I’d get through any of this without you.”
Halima squeezed her hand and smiled. As the carriage pulled up to the townhouse, Halima noticed a look of resolution come into Ella’s face.
“He’s alive. I know when he is and I know roughly where he is.” She turned to look at Halima and her expression was replaced by a mien of growing panic.
Halima gathered Tater into her arms and wrenched open the carriage door. “I’ll make us a nice cup of tea, shall I?”
The tea helped. Tater agreeing to go down for his nap and then actually falling asleep helped even more.
Ella stood by the tallest window in the library’s townhouse and looked out onto the residential street. They missed the worst of the day’s heat. On a day like this, Ella often thought of the daily summer rains back home in Atlanta. She heard Halima reenter the room and turned toward her. “I can’t waste any more time.”
“You’re not. You’re thinking.”
“Processing, we used to call it back in 2013. Is there any more tea?” Ella walked to the coffee table but Halima was already pouring her a cup.
“In order to avoid mistakes,” Halima said, handing her the teacup, “it will be important for you to process all the facts before you act.”
“Olna said she can come up with forged documents for me,” Ella said, sinking into the couch cushions with her tea. A little spilled on her fingers but it was no longer hot. “She can give me forged entrées into 1825 society to help explain the fact I’m an unattached woman traveling alone.”
“That is good.”
“I’m guessing I have less than a month before the Americans come and escort me and Tater to the Cairo airport.”
“I believe they intend to return you home by ship.”
“My point is, it’s not just Rowan who’s pressed for time. If I’m going, I need to go now. God, Halima. Am I crazy?”
“No. But I fear we do need to talk about the main impediment to all of this. Before we can arrange your costumes for 1825 or sort out which jewels you’ll pawn for money...”
“Tater.” Ella set her cup on the coffee table. “You’re right. How the hell can I leave him? What’s the point of talking about this? I can’t leave him.”
Halima pushed a plate of date-nut cookies toward Ella and said nothing.
“But if I don’t go and at least try to get him back, then Tater goes forward in life without a daddy. And if I leave and something happens, he’s an orphan.”
“It is a very big decision.”
“I can’t go. I can’t not go. How can I leave him?” Ella stood and began pacing. “Like my mother left me?”
“It’s not at all the same.”
“Maybe Rowan is trying to get back here, you know? What if I leave—risk everything—and then he shows up here at the townhouse next week?”
“Makes one wonder why he hasn’t done it already.”
Ella chewed a fingernail and turned back toward the window. “The only thing that has made me feel less like killing myself is making plans to go find him,” she said. “But when I think about all that that entails—abandoning my child—I feel worse than before. But what else can I do?”
Halima moved to Ella’s side and put her arms around her. Ella clung to the older woman. Her familiar scent, the solid, unyielding set of her shoulders seemed to give Ella strength. “What can I do, Halima?” she murmured as the tears trickled down her face.
Halima pulled a folded square of laundered linen from her pocket and dabbed at Ella’s face before pressing it into her hand. “You’ll do what you have to, dear one,” she said.
A moment passed and Ella said quietly, “I left word for Marvel about what’s happening. She’ll be cool with you staying here while I’m gone. When the Embassy comes for me, tell them that Tater and I are already gone and then make sure you don’t take Tater to the park after that, or any place else public.”
“I will, Ella.”
“If…if I don’t return…”
“You will.”
“But if I don’t…”
“I will surrender the child to Mrs. Spenser to be raised by her and Effendi Spenser.”
“No, Halima. I know Marvel and Josh will help you all they can but I want you raising Tater—even if you have to take him back to your village to do it. I’ll tell Marvel in a letter what I want. My will is going to leave everything to Tater, with you as his legal guardian.”
Ella watched Halima’s eyes fill with tears. She tried to remember the last time she had seen the woman moved so emotionally. She hugged her tightly. “I couldn’t ask for a better, more loving mother for him.”
Halima sniffed and reached into her pocket for a handkerchief for herself. “Does this mean you’ve made your decision?”
“What else can I do, Halima? I have to find him. I have to at least try. I just pray, like I’ve never prayed for anything before, that I come back to Tater. I will not do to him what my mother did to me.”
“You will come back.”
Two days later Ella stood at the Cairo Airport with Halima and Tater. In her valise was a selection of outfits and jewelry. The jewelry she intended to sell as she needed money. After two more visits to confer with Olna on the specifics of deliberately crossing over to 1825—and then back again to 1925—Ella wore her mother’s necklace, which had propelled her on her two previous trips through time. The flat gold medallion of the necklace was no bigger than Ella’s thumbnail and featured a unique insignia of two hearts intertwined with what looked like the letter V. Ella had been told it was designed by a long-dead ancestor. It was all she had of her mother.
She also packed Rowan’s uncle’s dog tags, which had special significance for him and would help in his return to 1925. Olna believed that for those individuals who had a propensity for traveling through different times a sacred or beloved talisman coupled with strong emotion was the key to managing it.
The plan was for Ella to fly to Casablanca, where she would immediately change into period clothing and, clutching her valise and wearing her mother’s necklace, transport herself to 1825 Casablanca. If Rowan washed ashore anywhere nearby—Algiers or even Tripoli—or if he was rescued or shanghaied, word would eventually come of it to Casablanca. Rowan was a handsome, six-foot-four white man with crystal-blue eyes. He stood out in a crowd—especially in 1825.
“I worry about your accent.”
Ella turned to Halima who, for all her assurances that everything would be fine, had clearly been secretly weeping all morning. “I’ll be fine. It’s not my American accent so much as forgetting to use formal speech. It doesn’t come naturally to me.”
“Please be careful.”
“I will.” Ella knelt to give Tater a kiss on the cheek. “I won’t be gone long, little guy,” she said, forcing her voice to sound light. “You’ll be a good boy for Halima, right?”
“Musket-turds!” he crowed.
“Yeah, well, I’m working on that.” She tried to memorize his features and burn the image of them into her brain. “The Three Musket-turds.” She stood and scooped him into her arms, holding him until he began to struggle to be put down. “I’ll be back, darling,” she said, her voice starting to choke with the urge not to weep.
“You must board, dearest,” Halima said, tears streaming down her face.
Ella set Tater down and, still holding his hand, hugged Halima to her. “Thank you, Halima for everything,” she said. “Take care of my boy. Take care of yourself. I love you.”
“I love you too, dear one.”
“Love you, Mommy!” Tater called as he grabbed Halima’s hand and began tugging her away.
“Love you, too, baby,” Ella said as she collected her valise and walked to the waiting plane, her throat tight and aching with emotion.
After ten hours and one stop to refuel and pick up mail, the flight to Morocco was sufficiently terrifying enough to comfortably distract Ella from what awaited her on the other end. During their brief stop in Tunis to refuel, Ella excused herself from the confines of the small aircraft long enough to empty the contents of her stomach in one of the handy airsickness bags—something she’d never come close to needing to do in her entire life.
So relieved to finally alight safely in Casablanca, Ella bolted from the airplane, her valise clutched to her chest, and began plotting the return trip to Cairo by car. (Halima had regretfully informed her there was no train service as yet serving North Africa.) The airport, while small by London or Paris standards in 1925, was bustling and crowded with Europeans and Muslims.
Ella straightened the heavy cotton peplum of her summer suit with a sharp tug and focused on finding a taxi to the Majestic Hotel. The idea was to be near one of the luxury hotels that had been there in 1825 so that she didn’t cross over only to find herself waking up in an opium den or someone’s living room. As soon as she stepped out of the airport and felt the heat of the city street blasting her in the face, she felt herself wilting. She needed a bath, a fully functioning ceiling fan and, ideally, a vodka tonic.
She wasn’t ready to visit 1825 just yet.
The thought came to her that Rowan probably wasn’t ready for 1825 either. She stiffened her spine and waved to the first taxi she saw. A black Ford screeched to a stop in front of her.
“Where to, Mademoiselle?” the Arabian driver said as he climbed out of his seat, clearly intent on grabbing her luggage.
“The Majestic,” Ella said, hugging her bag in a clear intention to hang onto it herself. The man shrugged and jerked open the door to the back of the cab. Ella looked around for the first time since she’d emerged from the Casablanca Airport. In many ways, it didn’t look that different from 1925 Cairo. She knew the French were in charge at the moment—part of the main reason she felt comfortable using Casablanca as a jumping off point—but she also knew there were problems.
Problems—as in, an ongoing revolution.
“Things quiet lately, I trust?” she asked the driver, then cursed the fact she’d forgotten the English accent she was supposed to affect.
She watched him glance at her through the rear-view mirror.
“Of course, Mademoiselle,” he said, his eyes darting to her breasts before returning to a view of the road ahead.
As she watched the city streets streak by, Ella tried to will herself to regain her composure. She had spent much of the flight—when she wasn’t willing herself not to throw up—trying to convince herself that everything was going to turn out fine. She would find Rowan. Unhurt. They would return together to their son.
Spit. Spot. No problem.
The taxi pulled up to a huge stone building that showed a strong Arabian design. At first, Ella wasn’t sure it wasn’t a mosque. When the driver didn’t bother getting out to open her door for her she knew she was in trouble. If the taxi driver thought she was a hooker, what was polite 1925 French-Moroccan society going to think?
She paid him and quickly exited the taxi.
She shrugged it off. She wouldn’t be in 1925 Casablanca long enough for it to matter. As tired as she was from her trip, she knew the exhaustion and the emotional upset of leaving Tater could only serve to help her in the process of her upcoming trip to 1825. As much she longed to go inside the Majestic Hotel for a hot shower and a cold drink, she needed to use her discomfort to her advantage.
God willing, there would be a bath and a beer somewhere in 1825.
She walked up the steps of the hotel, nodding at the doorman. She knew there would be toilets for the guests that were separate from their room facilities and she prayed they’d be located in the sumptuous marble lobby. Fortunately, the lobby was busy this afternoon. A family of Europeans sat drinking tea. From the sequined headbands on the teen girl, Ella assumed they were English, although probably the Spanish and the French enjoyed the same fashions in 1925.
She walked purposefully past the ornately tiled walls and stucco pillars in the lobby as if she knew where she was going and expected not to be questioned about it—an old ploy she’d mastered during her time in Heidelberg in 1620—and pushed open the large wooden doors that signaled the entrance to the Ladies room.
Don’t think. Just do it.
She entered the first stall and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. God knows where she’d find herself in 1820, but she could only hope if the area was still used as a bog of some kind that it was at least covered. She peeled off her mid-calf skirt, dropping it on the floor, and unbuttoned her blouse. She’d argued with Olna about keeping her panties and bra and, in the end, had agreed to give up her bra for the corset contraption that would keep her breasts from flopping around—but she’d keep her panties.
Hell, if anybody gets close enough to see my underwear, I’m probably screwed anyway. Most likely literally.
She pulled on the dated underclothes she’d packed, stopping once to allow a patron use the stall next to her without all the grunts and panting she knew she was making trying to pull the corset into place, and then fastened the long cotton dress the best she could in the back. She was already sweating with the exertion and tried not to think of how uncomfortable wearing the gown was going to be in 1825 without ceiling fans to mitigate the swelter.
She stuffed the clothes she’d shed into the trash receptacle in the stall. Halima had cut her hair in a rough shag before she left Cairo. She pulled on a snood to make it look like she had hair, and she had a couple of turbans in her valise that she would wear once she was in place to hide the fact her hair was shorn. She noticed her hand was shaking as she repacked her suitcase.
She turned and sat on the lid of the covered toilet, her small valise wedged tightly in her arms against her chest, and reached into the top of her dress to touch her mother’s necklace.
Use the discomfort, she reminded herself. Use your fear!
The chain and tiny amulet at the end of it instantly felt warm to her fingers and she was gratified. Something was already happening. Somehow, whatever it was that enabled her to do this—to travel among the centuries—was already poised and ready.
She closed her eyes and brought dear Tater’s face to her mind and instantly was stabbed with a longing and a grief that bowed her shoulders. She gripped the necklace tighter and felt her arms and neck begin to hum and vibrate and she concentrated on giving herself up to the feeling. When she did, the vibrations increased and a shrill buzzing sound penetrated her ear and permeated her from her head to her feet. It felt like the floor was moving, buckling, dissolving…
I’m coming, Rowan, was her last thought before the nausea and the darkness came for her.