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October 25th, 1918 Midtown Manhattan
MATT woke with a crick in his neck and a beating in his head. He pried his eyes open and found himself lying in a damp bathtub and covered with a wet towel. He thought he’d been too delirious to get out of bed even, but apparently he’d managed to make it into the bathroom, undress, and soak himself. And now his fever had broken.
Climbing over the edge of the tub, he groaned as his muscles protested trying to stand upright. Then he looked around. He saw his watch lying on top of the chest against the wall and was relieved that he’d thought to take it off before immersing himself. He couldn’t see his clothes anywhere around though.
Matt must have shed his clothes in the bedroom before staggering in here. He took a clean, dry towel and wrapped it around his waist before going to see in what state he’d left the rest of the suite. The outfit he’d been wearing wasn’t there, but a whole new set of suits hung in the closet—the hotel staff must have let in the delivery of the new garments he’d ordered and hung everything up for him. They had probably taken his old clothes to be laundered. Now that was service.
The pounding came again, louder, and he realized it wasn’t in his head but at the door. He hadn’t checked the time on his watch, but the sun was shining through the window so it must’ve been morning. He didn’t know how long he had been out of it. Nor could he recall how long he’d paid for when he had checked in. Maybe they’d come to chuck him out.
The knocking came again, more insistent. Matt yelled out, “I’m coming.” But first he had to dress, and he didn’t have time to put on a suit. Despite his aching body, he stumbled back to the bathroom and grabbed the fuzzy robe that hung there and hurried back to the sitting room. But someone was already inserting a key and opening the door.
A man who must’ve been the manager pushed it all the way to the wall and then stepped back, allowing two other men to enter—or try to.
Matt stood in the way. “What’s this about?”
The bigger of the men swiftly brought a mask to his mouth and stepped forward into Matt’s personal space. “I’m with the New York City Health Department. Are you aware that if you’re sick you are required to be checked out to see if you have the Spanish flu? But you haven’t reported your illness.” The bureaucrat turned his head to look at the small man standing behind him and carrying a black bag. “He looks red and flushed, doesn’t he?”
Matt bristled. “That would be because I just got out of the bathtub and ran in here to get the door—because someone was pounding on it. I’m not sick.” At least, he was pretty sure he wasn’t ill anymore.
“The doctor will still have to examine you. We had a report.” That must’ve been whoever brought those new clothes to his room. “If he certifies you as not contagious, fine. Otherwise we may have to isolate the entire hotel.”
Standing behind the two men, the hotel manager blanched. Even the doctor looked uncomfortable about it. And then into that sudden silence, a familiar voice rang out. “If he’s looking flushed, it must be because he’s running late.”
Page appeared in the corridor behind the three men, looking amazing in a vivid blue dress that only highlighted her glorious red hair. Which made Matt remember a fever dream he’d had—of Page kissing him, at length. He blushed, but you couldn’t hold a man responsible for his dreams—especially if they’d been fever-induced delusions. She ignored the others and squinted at his bathrobe. No doubt she disapproved.
Matt grinned. “Talk about a sight for sore eyes.” But the rest of him was still sore.
“And you promised to take me to tea, but look at you. You’re not even dressed yet.”
“Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be downstairs in the dining room, looking sharp.” He glanced at the men standing between them and sighed dramatically. “Actually, you’d better make it twenty. I have to satisfy the doc I’m not sick first.”
Page glared at him. “I’ll give you five minutes.” Then she swept her glare over the other three men. “You gentlemen had better not cause him to be one minute late.” With a nod to herself, she turned and disappeared down the hall.
With a sigh, Matt backed up to allow the doctor and the bureaucrat into his rooms. The hotel manager, meanwhile, had discreetly faded away—to placate Page if he was smart. The doctor, now donning his own mask, maneuvered Matt down into a sitting room chair and began taking his temperature—this he followed with listening to Matt’s heart and lungs, staring down his throat, and peering under his eyelids. The examination took more than five minutes, and Page would blame Matt.
The doctor turned to the bureaucrat, who stood behind him and had been looking over his shoulder. “He might’ve been up all night, partying. He’s worn out, but he’s not sick. He certainly doesn’t have the flu.”
The health department official clenched his jaw. “You’re sure about that? If you make a mistake with a thing like this...”
Now it was the doctor who turned beet red, but with anger, not embarrassment. “Are you questioning my evaluation? You’re the one who dragged me here on a wild goose chase.” The doctor proceeded to bundle his stethoscope and other equipment into his black bag and walk out, without another word to the other man. The bureaucrat followed him out, in similar silence.
Neither of them had bothered to even glance at Matt again, much less apologize, but he didn’t care. He just sprang into action and dressed as fast as his aching muscles could move. Hurrying back into the bedroom, he selected a lightweight blue pin-striped suit and put on the loafers he’d managed to take off before he’d fallen into bed last night. He forsook the tie, but darted into the bathroom to grab his watch. And when he looked at the time, he realized that it had not been the previous night he’d fallen sick, but the night before. Page must’ve visited the bank yesterday and found out where Matt was staying.
It was a good thing Page hadn’t gotten herself in some kind of trouble while he’d been sick. But the important thing was that they’d found each other—no more frantic, frustrated searching. If they landed into any more adventures now, they’d at least be in them together.
Matt ran down the stairs to the lobby, enduring the pain, because it was faster and he was late. But when he trotted into the hotel dining room and saw her sitting at a table by herself, when she looked up and scowled at him, what he felt was relief. A part of him must’ve been worried she’d disappeared again, and he was delighted to lock eyes on her. Their eyes met, and he grinned.
He walked over to the table, shaking his head as he looked at the delicate china tea set and the silver tray and the multilevel platter with its vast assortment of cookies and cake slices. She hadn’t waited for him to order.
As he took his seat across from her, she gave up glaring and started pouring him a cup of tea. He’d have preferred a mug of coffee, but he didn’t think it was a good time to make an issue of that. He’d just enjoy the tea, watered down as it was with milk.
He looked her in the eye again as she passed the saucer and cup over. “You would not believe what I went through looking for you.” Why hadn’t she just waited for him in San Francisco?
Page gave him a blank look. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. Some other time.” And she took one of the slices of cake onto a little plate and cut it with her fork. “Right now we’re supposed to be enjoying morning tea.” And she stuffed that bite of cake into her mouth.
Matt shook his head. “Looks more like dessert to me, but I suppose you got them to do all this anyway.” She had her fixed ideas about history, how it should be—like being courted by gentlemen in fancy dress who swept women off their feet with ballroom dancing. It might have been like that, but Matt preferred the more casual and real present that he was used to.
At that moment, a tall man in an exquisitely tailored navy blue suit came and stood over their table—with thick, slicked-back hair and a tiny little mustache, he looked like a lothario. The smooth operator ignored Matt and concentrated on Page, glaring at her with narrowed eyes.
“I believe we had a date to go dancing yesterday evening. Not only did you stand me up, but I understand you’ve been shamelessly cavorting with some strange man. You were correct to name yourself an adventuress—you’re no better than you should be.”
Page frowned up at him as she chewed her cake and washed it down with a gulp of tea. “You’re mistaken. We didn’t have any date.”
Matt was glad she was reacting so calmly to the man’s attitude, but he wasn’t going to stand for her being insulted in that snide manner. He caught her eye and asked, “Has this guy been bugging you?”
She nodded slightly. “He seems to be under the delusion that I’m enamored of him, or that I would be, given half the chance. But I’ve been too busy to consider how best to disillusion him. Circumstances, though, seem to have done that for me.”
Standing up out of his chair, Matt automatically began to growl, but his throat was still sore. “I know you can take care of yourself, Page, but I would love to defend your honor.”
The man drew himself up to his full height, then turned his attention to Matt. “I would answer your challenge with a duel, if you dared.”
“With swords, or do you mean pistols at dawn?” Matt shook his head. “I’d rather just beat you to a pulp right now for besmirching her honor.”
“I am Henry Riggleston, the Second. You would not dare lay hands on me.”
Page cut another hunk of cake with her fork and looked at Matt. “Alright, go ahead and thrash him within an inch of his life, if that will satisfy your conception of chivalry. But do you mind if I keep eating while I watch?”
Riggleston sputtered and his lower lip quivered as he spoke. “If you lay even one finger on me, I will see you thrown in jail—into the deepest dungeon for the rest of your life. I have powerful friends in positions of influence in this city.”
Matt grinned. “I do believe it would be worth it to give you a good pummeling. The police just took the cuffs off and let me loose a couple days ago, you know. My wrists are still chafed. Even so—”
“You’re insane. I’m going to see someone now, and I’ll make sure they arrest you if you stay in New York.” Saying that, he backed away from the table, turned, and almost ran out of the dining room.
Looking at all those cookies and cakes still to be enjoyed, Matt shook his head and looked at Page. “I think we’d better eat up—they’ll probably come toss us out of the hotel soon.”
Page washed down her last bite of cake and took a couple cookies. “They may throw you out—acting that way. But they won’t make me leave.”
“You’d stay here without me?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Matt grinned. “Then I guess I’ll have to fight all of them off until you’re ready to go. But remember, we may have found each other, but we still have no idea what happened to Turner and Verity. Without knowing their frequencies, I can’t locate them with the temporal tuner. And if we’re headed back to the twenty-first century, we’ve got a long way to go, and we can only Travel safely three years at a time.”
Page nodded. “It may take a while, so there’s no rush. And I don’t just mean for finishing our tea. I came back to your time to study twentieth-century dating customs, and here we are, right at the beginning. Or close to, anyway. So I want to take the opportunity to do some proper research.”
“What about Turner and Verity?”
“We can keep an eye out for them, and for Sam and Bailey, as we work our way slowly back toward two thousand twelve. If that’s how far we have to go to find everyone. But since we’re all time-travelers, why should it matter how long we take?”
He thought it might matter a lot. They each existed in their own separate but relative timestreams, which should mean a month for them would also be a month for Turner and Verity. If they took a whole year to get back—but he’d spent three years on the slow path from nineteen twelve to nineteen fifteen, and it clearly hadn’t been three years to Page.
But he couldn’t tell her that. “You’re right. We should take our time and see the sights. I’d like taking in some history, and we wouldn’t want you rushing your research.”
Page paused with a cookie halfway to her mouth and smiled. “We’ll start now. I haven’t even withdrawn any of this year’s stipend yet, nor had time to do any proper shopping. And you shouldn’t worry about Riggleston.”
“Alright, I won’t. You know, in just a couple of weeks now they’ll be signing the Armistice. And all that fighting will stop, and everyone will be coming home, and there’ll be a lot of celebrating going on. It would be a shame to miss that.”
“Indeed. I understand the tango is popular, and that will give us two weeks to learn it.”
Matt gulped. He was still recovering, and from what he understood, the tango was rather demanding. “I’m looking forward to the twenties. Prohibition and speakeasies, gangsters and Tammany Hall, flappers and the foxtrot.”
“Is that what the twenties are really like?”
Matt finally took a cookie for himself. “I’m not sure, but I guess we’ll find out.”