I had not liked losing my break Tuesday evening. Over the next two days, I strived to be the most pleasing servant possible, lest my master find some excuse to deny me more hours of peace.
I made it to supper of yet another day with no corrections.
The Pratts lingered over their meal. Sitting in my corner, I stitched buttons to my master’s green waistcoat and swallowed my sighs of impatience. When my master finally retired to the parlor with his family, I collected the dishes and hurried to the kitchen.
It took little time to complete my chores. After scraping the excess stew onto two trenchers, I washed the dishes and swept the floor. Once I gave Hector his half of the supper, I would be free to go. I peered from the back door in the direction of the barn, but there was no sign of him.
I carried the trencher to the slave’s shack. It was empty. After setting the wooden dish on a stump inside the door, I strode to the barn.
“Hector?” I called.
“Yes?” He backed out of the horse’s stall and latched it behind him.
“I left food in your room.”
He nodded. “Going for a walk in the woods?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?” He smiled, one eyebrow arched.
“Yes. Jedidiah is too busy to follow this evening.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Hector didn’t get an evening break, although I had never heard him complain. Perhaps he didn’t share my need for solitude. Hector spent most of his time alone already.
I slipped unseen among the trees at the rear of the property and strolled along the banks of Rocky Creek. Would the stranger appear tonight? Would such a gentleman want the company of a girl in the laborers’s class?
Spurred on by a mixture of curiosity and excitement, I stopped at the falls and climbed down the cliff. When I reached the cave, I looked across the creek to the other side. Mr. Lewis’s side. The woods were dark and dense.
Crouching, I ventured into the cool, shadowy depths of the cave. My heart settled into a gentler pace as I perched on a mossy boulder and waited.
There was much to love about my hideaway. In front of me, the waterfall murmured, lulling me with its song. For a brief while, I could sit without moving, without talking, without doing anything for anyone.
Time passed. He didn’t come.
As the light faded, my disappointment grew. I hadn’t realized how much I hoped he would come until he did not. It robbed the evening of its pleasure.
It had been the same yesterday. For two evenings now, I had sat alone. I must accept what this meant. His reason for coming the first time had passed, and there was no further purpose to bring him here. Mr. Lewis would not return.
Upon reflection, I had to conclude this to be a fortunate circumstance. Truly, the young man and his odd machine didn’t exist. My imagination had taken flight. Or perhaps it had been spoiled chicken.
I rose to leave.
A flicker of movement appeared at the top of the slope. I hesitated, hope blooming.
Mr. Lewis rolled down the path, tied the machine he called a “bike” to a tree, and picked his way across the boulders. As he drew nearer, he peered through the falls.
Today he wore different clothes. Trousers of a heavy, blue fabric. A yellow shirt with a row of buttons and sleeves stopping high about the elbows. He looked fine.
“Susanna?”
I stepped forward, schooling my face into calm welcome. “I am here.”
He smiled. “Hey.”
A simple word. Hey. I was unaccustomed to it. Might it be a shorter version of hello’? Perhaps it was a new greeting they used in our state capital. “Hey.”
He extended his fingers to the waterfall, but couldn’t pierce it. Withdrawing his hand, he met my gaze. “Are you real?”
“I believe so.”
“Will your hand go through the water?”
“I shall try.”
Creeping as close as I dared to the rock’s edge, I held my fingers under the flow. It was the same as Monday. A warm glove bubbled around my hand. For yet another meeting, the falls would serve as a barrier between us, as surely as if they were made of liquid glass. It was a reassuring prospect, for now.
“Okay, I have some questions for you.” From his pocket, he drew out a flat piece of black slate, no bigger than a folded letter. He stared at it with a frown. “Who is the current governor of North Carolina?”
“Mr. Ashe.”
“When was North Carolina admitted to the Union?”
“I was eleven. 1789, perhaps.”
He nodded. “How many states are there?”
“Fifteen.”
“Sixteen.” His gaze flicked up to meet mine. “Tennessee was admitted in 1796.”
“I have not heard this news.”
He touched the slate. “Yeah, it was admitted on…June first.”
“And today is June third.”
“Right.” His lips twitched. “News travels much faster in my world.” He slipped the slate into his pocket. “I’m glad you showed up.”
His statement filled me with a pleasant glow, even as I marveled at its honesty. In my village, people rarely spoke so openly. I never did. A frank opinion could become a weapon in the wrong hands.
It must be quite lovely to say whatever he wished without caution. I wanted to try. “Do you truly accept that we are separated by over two hundred years?”
“It’s either that, or someone slipped me some really good drugs.” He studied the falls, starting at its top, along its arching path to the creek below. “Nobody I know could’ve passed that quiz. It was too random. I don’t think we have the technology to fake the water—not yet, anyway. And I’m pretty sure I’m not crazy. So I’ll just have to go with ‘Whisper Falls is a portal to the past.’ For now.”
His words made no sense. This undoubtedly strengthened his case. I gave him a nod. “I want you to be real. Therefore, I shall question no more.”
“I like your logic.” He laughed. “Do you come here every night?”
“As often as my master permits.”
“Your master?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you a slave?”
“Indeed not.” How curious. He knew little about our laborers if he could mistake me for a slave. “I am bound.”
“What does bound mean?”
Even more curious. Perhaps they no longer bound children when he lived. “I’m an indentured servant.”
He looked down, as if to ponder the tips of his odd black shoes. “Indentured? I thought that was only for criminals.”
Did he think me a criminal? The comment prickled. I couldn’t let it pass. “No, indeed. Indentures are for anyone who…” I paused. Indentures were a common way for parents to reduce the number of children in their household. My stepfather had had no interest in the expense of feeding me. Five months after their wedding, my mother’s husband bound me to the Pratts. It was one of the last things he ever did, for shortly thereafter my stepfather died. It would embarrass me to admit to this gentleman that my mother had married someone who gave me away. “An indenture may be signed for anyone who wishes to learn a trade.”
“Like an apprentice?”
“Indeed.”
“What trade are you in?”
“Housewifery.”
His brow creased. “Why did you choose that?”
“Mr. Crawford, my stepfather, chose for me.”
“Did he ask your opinion?”
“My opinion didn’t interest him in the slightest.” I made no effort to keep the disgusted edge from my tone.
“How long do you have to stay in your trade?”
“Until my eighteenth birthday.”
“Which is when?”
“October first.”
One corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile. “You’re two months older than me.”
“Or two centuries.”
“True.”
We watched each other warily. I wondered if our discovery would prove to be a blessing or a curse.
He gestured at my rock. “Want to sit?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Lewis.”
“Call me Mark.”
His request made us equals. The sin of pride swelled within me, but I tamped it back, not ready to reflect on the emotion or its consequences. Instead, I merely nodded and lowered myself to the boulder with an inelegant plop.
He sat, too, his movements quick and graceful. “I came out here the other day to look for evidence of someone playing a joke on me, but I couldn’t find anything.”
“Who would play this joke?”
He shrugged. “My girlfriend. Ex, actually.”
Girlfriend? I wanted to be clear about this word. “You have friendships with girls?”
“Yes. Well…” His lips puckered as he thought. “Guys and girls can be friends in my century. But when I say girlfriend, I mean the person I’m dating.”
“Dating?”
“Sorry. Dating means a guy and a girl are interested in each other.”
“Like courting?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Or maybe not. I’m not sure.”
“Do you plan to marry this girlfriend?”
“Marry Alexis? No.” His eyes widened with horror. “Besides, she ended the ‘courtship,’ I guess you’d call it.”
“Are you distressed?”
“I was, but it’s okay now. Dating isn’t about getting married any more. We have fun. Break up. Do it all over again with someone else.”
“In my century, courtship has too many rules to be fun.”
“Like what?”
“The gentleman must approach the woman first. Most unfair.” Mark nodded, as if in agreement. “Do you have this rule, too?”
“Sort of. Girls can do the asking, if they want. But usually the guy asks.”
“I see.” In two hundred years, girls would have freedoms they didn’t use. How extraordinary. Perhaps this freedom wasn’t as enjoyable as it seemed. “The couple may not touch or be alone.”
“We don’t have those rules. We can be alone. And as far as touching goes…” He stopped and looked at his shoes.
“What about touching?”
“There’s plenty of that.” His face reddened. “Have you ever been courted?”
I nodded while noting his blush. I would like to know more about the touching. “Two gentlemen courted me. I rejected one. My master rejected the other.”
“Your master did?”
“Until I’m eighteen, I can marry only with his permission.”
Solomon Worth and Reuben Elliott had each offered for me. Mr. Pratt had refused to release me early from my indenture to marry Reuben. My master had, however, made an exception in Solomon’s case. Truly, Mr. Pratt had had no choice. Solomon’s father was my master’s uncle. Mr. Pratt would never do anything to offend the Worth family. I was the one who refused Solomon. I had known him from childhood. My father had been his tutor. Marriage to Solomon Worth would seem like indentured servanthood—except there would be no end.
“How many girlfriends have you had?”
“Alexis was my first.”
“How many more girlfriends will you be dating before marriage?”
“I don’t know. Ten. Twenty.”
“Do you pick unwisely so very often?”
He laughed. “I guess so.”
The lightness of his tone bewildered me. Choosing one’s husband or wife should be treated with gravity and respect. “Why did you choose this girlfriend?”
“Alexis picked me.”
“Why did you agree?”
His brow creased in concentration. “At our school, everyone thinks she’s amazing. When she asked me out, I was seriously flattered.”
“I do understand. It is indeed flattering for someone to want you, even if you don’t want them back.” There had been a moment—a brief moment—when Solomon’s attentions had filled me with pride. “What makes her amazing?”
“She’s smart. And she’s hot.”
I frowned. “Does hot mean feverish?”
“No, it means pretty.”
“Why does hot mean pretty?”
“I’m not sure.” His face flushed crimson. He brushed at the laces of his shoes. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Certainly.”
“Cool.”
It was most perplexing, the number of words he used that made no sense. “If hot means pretty, does cool mean ugly?”
He laughed. “No, sorry. Cool means very good.” He peered at me through the dark brown hair hanging over his brow. “I looked up your town. It really did exist.”
“What a comfort, since it is where I live.”
“The web didn’t have too much information, though.”
“The web?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how to explain that. It’s…” He shrugged. “The web’s like a huge library, full of books, maps, and pictures. Sometimes lies.”
“Where is this library?”
He paused, as if my question were hard to answer. “We have special machines to see inside the library. I have one of the machines at my house.”
“What kind of books are in the library?”
“All kinds.” He looked thoughtful. “Do you go to school?”
“I cannot. I have too many chores.”
“Do you know how to read and write?”
I snorted. “Of course. It has fallen to me to teach Dorcas.”
“What kinds of things do you read?”
“The Holy Bible.”
“Anything else?”
“No.” Perhaps that wasn’t precisely true for me. My father had taught me to read when I was a little girl. As the town’s tutor, he’d owned many volumes. Papa had encouraged me to study geography, history, and natural philosophy. He often claimed I was his best pupil. Even now, hidden in my corner of the attic, I had two of his books—my much-loved legacy from Papa. “The only book my master owns is the Holy Bible. He will not allow novels in his home. He calls them the devil’s missives.”
“You never read fiction?”
“I do not.” I frowned, taken aback by Mark’s tone, as if he couldn’t imagine anything more barbaric. “How many books are in your web?”
“Billions.”
I shook my head in confusion. “Billions?”
“It’s a huge number, like…” He paused, rubbing his temple. “It’s like counting the stars.”
Stars? I glanced up at a sky of blue-black velvet, decorated with a sprinkling of stars and a tiny sliver of moon. How had night fallen without my notice? Startled, I rose. It wouldn’t go well for me if my master saw me return after dark.
“I have enjoyed our conversation, but I must leave.”
“I’ve enjoyed it, too.” He stood as well and extended one hand through the falls. This time his arm slid through, all the way to his elbow. “Hey, look. It let me through a little farther.”
“Indeed, it has.”
“The waterfall thinks I’m safe. And it should.”
Dare I rely on its judgment, too? Of course, it only deemed him safe to his elbow, a simple enough part to trust. “It has proven to be an excellent chaperone.”
“More like a bodyguard.” He smiled. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Perhaps.” I took his hand in mine and squeezed it lightly. It was most improper of me, but Mark Lewis was used to plenty of touching.
“It would be easier if you lived in my world. I’d just friend you.”
I dropped his hand as if it were a live coal, the simple word reminding me of my real life in Worthville—a world where there were rules and a rule maker I had to obey for another four months. “Do not call me a friend. It’s forbidden.”
“You’re forbidden to have friends?”
“Yes.” I fumbled for the granite ladder. “Mr. Pratt says I shall become careless if I focus on anything besides his family and my chores.”
“Mr. Pratt sounds like a major control-freak asshole.”
I didn’t know the meaning of the phrase, but I suspected I would agree if I did.
After crawling over the rocky ledge guarding my cave, I turned. He stood where I had left him, visible through a veil of water. “Good night…Mark.”
“Your master doesn’t have to know about us, Susanna. I can be your secret.”
I lifted a hand in farewell and turned to run home—except this time, I ran with a smile on my lips, for I had a secret friend. Mark could be someone with whom I talked and laughed. Someone with whom I could be equals—if only for an hour at a time. Someone Mr. Pratt could not take away.