CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s only a short wagon ride to the show’s next stop. Even in these few weeks, I’ve grown to resent the days of setting up and taking down the stage with its hidden panels and trap doors, not because of the work itself—which, admittedly, has rubbed my palms raw—but because it involves spending time away from Juliette. If that wasn’t bad enough, I also have to be in the company of Viggo, whose father insists he help with the manual labor.

“You boys are getting faster at this,” Juliette says, balancing a lunch tray on her hip. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“Those rye sandwiches and lemonade are plenty help,” I say with a smile. It’d been a long time since I had anything but Punch-In back home; I’d nearly forgotten how good made-from-scratch food could be. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you.” Viggo grabs a sandwich and winks at Juliette. “I always enjoy something sweet with my lunch.”

Juliette rolls her eyes, but not before a smile reaches her lips. “The lemonade was a gift from the farmer three stalls down; I’ll be sure to tell him how much you appreciate it.” She turns to me. “I’m afraid I’ve bent my last mending needle. Would you mind walking into town with me this afternoon to purchase a new one?”

“Of course,” Viggo interrupts, his mouth still full. He sets aside his sandwich and takes her arm. “Why don’t we go now?”

“I…” Juliette looks up in what appears to be genuine confusion.

“I believe the lady was speaking to me,” I say.

“Nonsense. You have far too much to do here in setting up this stage.”

“Juliette?” I ask. As much as I don’t want her to spend the afternoon with Viggo—how am I supposed to keep her safe then?—I won’t force my company on her.

“I assumed you’d want to spend the afternoon practicing the show,” she tells him.

“Nah.” He straightens his hat. “I can take one afternoon off to walk you into town.”

She looks at me apologetically and shrugs. “It looks like Viggo will walk me to town.”

I bite my tongue and try to smile. “Don’t stay out too late, you two.”

“We’ll be back in time for dinner,” she promises, and I know she heard my underlying request: I’d still like to have our evening walk.

As the two start down the dirt road, Juliette’s laughter—high and light—takes a long time to fade into the distance, and even then, I keep looking up from time to time, thinking I’ve heard her return.

Without Viggo’s help, construction takes longer than usual, and with each passing hour, I’m more and more convinced that I was an idiot to let them up and leave like that. It’s like sending a jackal to protect a sheep from the wolves. Though, no, that analogy doesn’t work because Juliette’s no sheep. Still, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just shirk my duties.

By the time I finish constructing the stage, I’m hot and sore and tired and irritable. It’s nearly time for dinner, and I ought to wash up, but I haven’t seen Viggo or Juliette return. When the sun dips low on the flat horizon, I pace outside the wagons, my gaze constantly flicking back to the fence opening that serves as the fairgrounds’ entrance. They’ve got to be returning any moment. Darkness falls with no sign of them, and finally, I can’t hold still any longer. I pat my pocket to ensure that the Wormhole Device is still safely tucked away and set off in the darkness toward town.

I wish I had my personal vision device with its night vision settings. At this point, I’d even settle for a good old-fashioned flashlight. The road’s uneven and I shuffle along slowly to ensure I don’t trip over a rock or a log or a sleeping grizzly. Do they have grizzlies here? I don’t even know. Now’s probably not the best time to start thinking along those lines.

In the distance, coyotes howl and other nighttime creatures wake from their warm daytime slumber. Crickets, owls… I can’t remember the last time I heard the night so full of life. And the stars! They remind me of the flight of the Continuum’s escape pod, with the galaxy whizzing past, looking almost near enough to touch.

I don’t pass any grizzlies or anything else on the road, and when I arrive on the downtown streets, bright lantern light points to the few establishments open this late. I choose the first one—a tavern of some sort—and duck inside.

The establishment is small and noisy, filled with chatter and upbeat music played on a pipe organ. I scan the crowd, craning my neck to spot Juliette’s coiffed hairdo or Viggo’s slick black top hat.

I find them sitting in a corner booth with a man whose back is to me. Juliette leans in, her face bright with excitement, while Viggo fiddles with the empty glass before him, running his finger along the rim and looking utterly bored.

“Chandler!” Juliette waves, gesturing me to join them at the table. “You absolutely must meet this man. He’s a scientist, and we’ve been discussing time travel, and he has the most fascinating ideas! Dr. Wells, this is Chandler. Chandler, I’d like you to meet Dr. Wells.”

I can’t stop staring. I mindlessly swig one glass of whiskey, then another. I’m so engrossed in studying the man across the table that I barely even taste the sharp liquor.

Dr. Wells is younger than I’ve ever seen him—with salt-and-pepper hair and fewer pounds on him—and shows no indication of recognizing me at all. That shouldn’t come as a surprise. After all, this Dr. Wells obviously predates the one I met in 2012 when I worked for TUB. But by how much? How much younger is this doctor? He must’ve discovered time travel already for him to be here, but has he established his time travel agency yet? Has he hired Elise? And more importantly, does he know that it’s Elise’s great-great-grandmother who’s currently sitting across from him, asking question after question about the time-space continuum and paradoxes and scientific theories which at this point in history have no name?

“What about you, Chandler?” Juliette asks, pulling me out of my musings. “Would you rather travel to the past or to the future?”

“Hypothetically, of course,” Dr. Wells adds.

“Right. Hypothetically.” I eye Dr. Wells, searching for some flicker of acknowledgment, some hint that he knows—somehow—who I am, but the older man is inscrutable. “Hypothetically, I think I’d like to travel to the future.”

“Really? Why?” Juliette asks.

I run my finger along the grain of the table. How can I possibly explain to her what a beautiful place the future is, without giving away what I know about it? “It’s… still full of possibilities.”

“So is the present,” Juliette insists, gesturing around to the dim tavern, to all the people around us. “Everyone sitting here is full of potential.”

“I suppose,” I say, then try again. “In the future, anything could happen. Anything could be invented, discovered, explored. And the technology! We can’t even imagine today what things might be possible a hundred or two hundred years from now. Space travel. Communications. Computers.”

“Computers?” Dr. Wells looks up from his ale, startled.

Juliette glances from me to him, and I can almost see the questions forming in her mind. I bite back a curse at the booze that’s loosened my tongue and muddled my brain. Dr. Wells ought to add another Rule to his list: “Don’t drink and time travel.”

I smile at my own joke, and it’s only when Juliette asks me to repeat myself that I realize I’ve spoken aloud.

“Where are you from again?” Dr. Wells asks, his brow furrowing.

“Chicago,” I say, which is mostly true. It’s where I grew up, though I haven’t set foot there in a decade, outside the occasional layover.

“Fascinating…” Dr. Wells says. “I’m from New York myself. Tell me… how old were you at the time of the fire?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. This is 1893, but what year was the fire? Sometime in the 1870s? Recalling historical dates has never been one of my strengths, even when I haven’t been drinking. What am I supposed to do now?

Thinking fast, I spin to face Juliette, allowing my elbow to knock against my half-empty glass. Viggo lets out a shout of dismay and leaps up as the whiskey cascades into his lap.

“You clumsy fool!” Viggo, who’d been dulled to a silent stupor during our conversation, dabs at his shirt with a napkin.

“I’m sorry, old sport,” I say, for some reason channeling Jay Gatsby before realizing I’m decades ahead of that era still. “You ought to soak it before it stains.”

“I’m so sorry, doctor.” Juliette rises to her feet and shoots Viggo and me a scowl. “It seems we ought to be headed back.”

“Yes, yes.” Dr. Wells nods. “I understand.”

“Come on, Juliette.” Viggo brushes past me and heads to the door. She sighs and offers Dr. Wells another apology before following.

I try to follow, but as I pass his seat, Dr. Wells catches my arm. “Just a moment, young man. Tell me, now that they’re gone: When are you from?”