CHAPTER TWELVE

When I introduce Dr. Wells to Mr. Velés the next morning, Juliette is sitting with him at a makeshift breakfast table outside the wagons.

“This is my grandfather,” I say, introducing the older men and meeting Juliette’s gaze over the rim of her coffee mug. She narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t say a word. I’d hoped she wouldn’t let a little white lie get in the way of her own goals, and it seems I was right. It isn’t until after the two older men are deep in conversation about some place they’d each been in upstate New York that Juliette sets down her mug and addresses me.

“Chandler, would you mind walking with me to fetch a fresh bucket of water?”

“Sure, sure.” I smile and tip my hat to the other men, who hardly seem to notice us, they’re so deep in their conversation.

“Do you really mean for me to believe that Dr. Wells is your grandfather?” she hisses when we’re out of earshot. I have to hurry to keep up with her.

“No, actually, I thought that once we were on our way, he could pose as yours. Isn’t a chaperone supposed to be a relative of the woman’s?”

We’ve reached the water pump at the edge of the fairgrounds, and Juliette scoffs as she places the bucket beneath it. “Chaperones. I appreciate Mr. Velés’s concern, but it’s an outdated notion. I’m a working woman, not some delicate heiress.”

“Still… you don’t mind if Dr. Wells comes along, do you? Pretends to be your grandfather, for the sake of appearances? Here, let me pump that for you.”

She sighs and steps to the side, still holding the bucket as water gushes into it from the pump. “No, I suppose that will be fine, since it seems everyone’s insistent. Besides, I’d love to hear more of his ideas of science and time travel and what the future might hold. I wonder what he’d think of that journal I found?”

The journal. I have to get it from Juliette before Dr. Wells discovers she has it. Once he gets his hands on it, I’ll have no bargaining chip to ensure his continued help.

“I don’t think I’d mention it to him,” I say slowly. The rusty pump handle creaks to a stop.

“Why not?”

Think, Chandler, think. I scramble to come up with some excuse. “Well, it’s not really yours to share, is it?”

Juliette looks away, her cheeks reddening. “You think I should return it. Put it back where I found it.”

“I’m sure Mr. Velés wouldn’t mind you borrowing it, but some of the information in it seems rather important. It might be better if fewer people knew about it.”

“You’re probably right.” Juliette picks up the bucket. “It’ll just be our secret then.”

“You do plan on bringing it with you to Chicago, though, don’t you?”

“Do you think I ought to? I’d hate for anything to happen to it. And what if Mr. Velés goes looking for it and finds it missing? I ought to at least ask him if I can borrow it.”

“I think he’s got plenty of other things to worry about right now. Here, let me take that bucket.”

Juliette considers the offer, then passes the water to me. “I’m glad you’re coming with me. It makes me feel safer. You make me feel safer.”

A lump forms in my throat. Regardless of what happens in Chicago… No matter what it takes… I can’t let her down.

The train pulls out of the Michigan Central Railroad depot early the next morning.

I can’t take my eyes from Juliette, who’s practically luminous, nearly bursting with excitement as the engine picks up speed. It’s the happiest I’ve seen her since Viggo’s death, and I’m relieved that that part of her hasn’t been destroyed by all that’s happened. She leans out the open window to wave goodbye to Mr. Velés, who’s seeing us off from the platform. On the seat beside me, Dr. Wells unwraps a candy, pops it in his mouth, and settles back with his hat pulled over his eyes to doze.

“I’ve never been on a train before,” Juliette confides when she catches me staring. “It’s fascinating, really, how quickly one can travel nowadays from one part of the country to another. Have you ever been in a more wonderful contraption?”

Dr. Wells chuckles from beneath his hat’s rim, and I can tell he’s thinking of how much faster travel is in his time of racecars and airplanes and space shuttles. I smile, imagining what he’d say about the travel of the 22nd century, which is twice as fast as that.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “It’s amazing, all right.”

Juliette smiles her brilliant smile and turns back to the window. She rests her arm on the sill and—with wide, dreamy eyes—watches as we flee from the cornfields, from the recent tragedy, from the time traveler who wishes to do her harm. I fight the urge to reach out and grab her hand, to reassure her that this time… this time I’ll make certain she’s safe.

The brand-new, nine-story Central Station glimmers before us as the train slows to a stop. Even though I’ve seen plenty of impressive buildings in my day, I’m drawn to the shining structure and the clock tower that rises proudly over it all. “ILLINOIS CENTRAL,” the signs declare brightly through the early evening gloom, and all around us, the city bustles in gas-lit activity.

“It’s gorgeous,” Juliette breathes, and though I’m not sure if she’s referring to the station itself or the city in general, I have to agree. I grew up here, but still, the city is new and unexpected. This skyline is small and unfamiliar, devoid of the Sears Tower (I’ll always think of it as that, regardless of what other names it goes by), the John Hancock Center, or any of the other notable sights I’m used to. What would this strange, diminished city look like from the air, flying into the not-yet-established O’Hare Airport?

Of the three of us, Dr. Wells seems most at home in this strange city, and thus is the first to pick up his bags, make his way to the aisle, and say, “Well, come on, then. Let’s find our lodging before it gets too late.”

Fortunately, Mr. Velés knows people in Chicago and sent us with a letter of introduction to a boarding house to the north, in what, in my early life, was known as Old Town, but which is in this time referred to as “The Cabbage Patch,” thanks to the fields of potatoes, celery, and cabbage planted by the German immigrants who settled there. It’s a fair distance from Jackson Park, but everything in closer proximity to the fair was already booked well in advance. Night is falling as we hop two street cars to get there, breezing up Lake Shore Drive, past what will someday be Millennium Park and Navy Pier.

“This is where you grew up, isn’t it?” Juliette leans in and asks. “How long has it been since you’ve been back?”

Considering there’s a hundred eighteen years between then and now… “About ten years.”

“Is it the same as you remember?”

How can I answer a question like that? There’s nothing familiar, nothing that resembles this city in my time. All my old familiar landmarks are gone, though not in the way things are in the future—replaced by something better, brighter, shinier, newer. No, here they’re simply erased, rewound. Dr. Wells watches me, as if he, too, is wondering how I’ll respond.

“The lake is the same,” I say, though even that isn’t necessarily true. The lake of my childhood was full of ships and yachts and glimmered in the night with the reflection of city lights. This one seems so empty, its shores relatively unadorned, and I’m suddenly filled with longing for people I haven’t thought about in years: Grandparents, long dead, who walked me down to Navy Pier to ride the Ferris wheel. My mother, who worked in a building that looked out over the lake and would let me sit in her office and stare out the window on summer days when I was off school and my usual babysitter was ill. Childhood friends whose names I can’t even recall, running through the blue-tinged corridors of the Shedd Aquarium on school field trips, making faces at the sharks and jellyfish.

And I want to share these things. I want to tell Juliette. But I can’t.

It’s a life I left behind, a world I deserted without a second thought, and it’s taken coming here to make me realize that I’m never going to find anyone I can really talk to about all I’ve been through. Anyone who’d understand.

“There,” I say, nearly leaping to my feet as I spot something familiar. It sends a strange thrill through me, like I’ve run into an old friend, and I laugh. “The Water Tower! It’s still here!”

It stands there on the street, just like it did in my own time: a limestone structure with Gothic battlements, parapets, and spires that, as a child, I’d always thought made it look like a tiny castle huddling in the shadows of the modern giants of Michigan Avenue. Now, however, it’s the tallest structure on the street, making it stand out all the more.

“It’s one of few buildings that survived the Great Fire,” Dr. Wells explains to Juliette, who nods politely. Her gaze, though, is fixed on me, rather than the building.

“Are you all right?” Juliette whispers, as if sensing something more in my sudden outburst. She tucks her hand in the crook of my arm, and I cover it with my own.

“It’s nothing,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just nostalgia.”