32. Chapter 32
Chapter 32
F rom the moment Ross pulled out the derringer, Will was done for. The déjà vu of every single moment like this before, every moment that mattered, slammed into him, its weight rooting him to the ground. Emily’s voice— You have to do it—You froze—Will, why didn’t you do it? —echoed in his mind. The sudden weight and heat of the watch seeped through the layers of his clothing. Yet, when Will reached inside his jacket, and Ross was still pointing the gun at Sylvia, he didn’t go for the watch.
Why didn’t you do it?
Instead, he grabbed the box of almonite and handed it to Ross.
And he’d watched through the scuffle, the voices in his head yelling over each other, mixing with the screaming and grunting from Ross and Sylvia, and then Ross was over the edge, and he grabbed the trail of Sylvia’s skirt and pulled her after him, and Will stood, glued to the ground, and his heart hammered a hole in his chest, and the last voice— Do it, do it! —dragged, and …
Everything fell blissfully silent. No breeze stirred. Nobody yelled .
Will released his breath with a cry that finally pushed his body into movement and ran to the fence. Beneath, Sylvia and Ross were frozen in air, eyes wide in fear, arms stretched out, grasping nothing. Will tucked his feet into the holes in the railing to stabilize himself, then bent over and grasped Sylvia’s arms; he could just reach under her armpits.
With another deep breath, he let the freeze go.
“Will!” Sylvia screamed, a light of relief shining through the fear in her eyes.
“Hold on! Grab my arms. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He squeezed his leg muscles and pushed up as hard as he could. Sylvia’s foot caught a metal beam, and she used it for support as he slowly dragged her up. They fell to the floor of the gallery, panting and sweating.
James would have an innuendo for this situation. Will laughed at himself. He did it. He froze, but in the end, he won. He did the right kind of freezing.
“Sir Richard!” Sylvia shot up. “Oh, God!”
They didn’t wait for the elevator; instead, they descended the narrow spiral staircase. Will nearly flew over it, using the railing more than the stairs to propel himself.
It was easy to see where to go. A small crowd had gathered at the feet of the tower. They squeezed toward the center, Will holding Sylvia in front of him, securing her with one hand on her waist and another clutching her arm. Suddenly, she whimpered and hid her face into his shoulder.
Will’s stomach turned at the sight of Ross’ broken body lying on the gravel. The ground had absorbed the blood, leaving behind a circular dark stain. One of his hands still clutched the empty syringe of almonite; the box lay open at his feet. No signs of the other syringe .
People around them chattered, speculated that he must have dropped from the tower. Somebody called for the police; a woman at the back fainted.
“Wait here,” Will whispered to Sylvia. He let go of her and stepped toward Ross, prying the jacket open with his foot.
The almonite vial. It’s gone, too. Could Ross have lost them during the fall? Will scanned the area; no broken glass, no other puddles that would indicate a spilled liquid.
Ross’ face, while squashed on one side, still showed signs of the almonite injection, although the blue spreading through the veins had stopped and was slowly dissolving.
“No, no, he’s my—he was my husband,” Sylvia explained, in a broken and sniffling voice, to a man next to her. Will returned, and she slipped back into his embrace. He kissed the top of her head.
“He’s gone. You’re going to be fine now.” He took a deep breath. While he was not happy to see a man die, especially such a gruesome death, he couldn’t deny the weight that lifted off his chest. Ross was truly gone. “You’re free.”
By the time they returned to the hotel, Sylvia had calmed down but also closed up. She insisted she take care of Ross’ business herself. Will understood she needed time to digest the events and didn’t poke and prod; instead, he took care of his own business. He sent a message to James in Boston and, the next day, checked on Dr. Deniau.
The doctor greeted him with a bandage covering half her head and a displeased expression on her face. “Look at what he’s done.” She shook her head, gesturing around the lab, which had been turned on its head. “He’s lucky some reaction didn’t go off! Pfft, Englishmen.” Muttering under her breath, she strolled into the examination room.
“How are you? Did he hurt you badly?”
“The doctors are exaggerating with this.” She motioned to the bandage. “I’m fine, Monsieur Marshall. A closed head injury. But look at what he’s done to my lab!”
Will suspected if Ross were still alive, he wouldn’t remain so for long.
“I’m sorry. This happened because of me. I led him here. If you let me know of the damage, I’ll compensate you …”
“Nonsense. I can take care of it myself. Tell me, the almonite. Did you retrieve it?”
Will bit his lip. “The vial and one syringe have disappeared. I looked around and saw nothing, but anyone in the crowd could’ve picked them up, or, more likely, they bounced away when Ross fell and landed somewhere around the tower. I’ll do another search today. The second syringe was … injected. Into Ross.”
Dr. Deniau leaned forward. “And? How did it affect him?”
“Well, he … fell.”
“Yes, yes, but any other signs?”
Will explained in as much detail as he could. Dr. Deniau seemed somewhat disappointed that Ross could not live longer to provide a better test subject.
“In any case, all is not lost.” She crossed over to a cabinet and unlocked a drawer. She held up one vial of the dark blue liquid. “I hid it inside my corset. That’s where Ross made his mistake.” She raised a smug eyebrow. “If he were French, he would’ve found it.”
Will stayed for a few hours to help Dr. Deniau tidy up the lab. In the end, she insisted he take the remaining vial. When he resisted, she pushed it into his hand and closed his fingers over it.
“Time travel is not inherently evil, Monsieur Marshall,” she said. “Like any other scientific discovery, it doesn’t care whether it’s used to destroy humanity or save it. It does not feel . That’s the beauty of it.”
“But I can’t …”
“What you do with it depends only on yourself. If you are anything like your father—and from our short acquaintance, I believe you are—then you needn’t be afraid of it. Nothing bad will come of using what was given to you as long as you control it. Control yourself .”
“But we’re all just people. We make mistakes. The stronger we become, through things like time travel, the worse the mistakes.”
Dr. Deniau shrugged. “Though I will not admit to making any mistakes, you are right—they are human. People like you and me, we strive for perfection. ‘No mistakes from now on,’ no? I imagine that would lead to a rather dull existence. Now, take the vial.” She waved him off. “Let me know what you find out. Enjoy your time travel. After all, you are a Leader.”
Another trip and an investigation at the site of the Eiffel Tower cost Will a few more hours, and he returned to the hotel late in the evening. He was already at the foot of the stairs when he caught a flash of Sylvia’s light blue skirt in the crowd. She stood next to a middle-aged, elegant woman and a waiter, who shortly nodded and left. Will approached carefully until Sylvia spotted him.
“Mr. Marshall! I was wondering where you were. ”
She sounded strangely polite—was that because of Ross’ death? Or did she digest the words they’d said to each other yesterday, before the Ross debacle, and decided to pull back?
“May I introduce my mother, Lady Haverston?” Sylvia turned to the other woman. “Mama, this is Mr. Marshall—Sir Richard’s colleague I told you about. He was very kind to help me in these”—Sylvia’s eyes flicked once at Will, flashing a warning and an apology at the same time—“trying times.”
Now that his attention had been brought to it, the family resemblance was clear. Lady Haverston had the petite frame of her daughter and shared the darker red hair with James. If she’d arrived so fast, she must’ve set on the way as soon as she received Sylvia’s message and traveled with the fastest train. She mustn’t have had time for rest—and yet, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a bandbox.
“Mr. Marshall.” Lady Haverston offered a hand and watched him with narrowed, cold blue eyes as he bowed over it. “My daughter and I have booked a private parlor for our dinner. You may join us.” She swished her excessive skirts of forest green silk and headed for a door. Sylvia followed, flashing Will a tiny apologetic smile.
“My daughter tells me you were a business associate of Sir Richard?” Lady Haverston asked as they sat down at a round table in the small room at the back. She wrinkled her nose, a gesture reminiscent of Sylvia, as she inspected the loose threads of the padded dining chair.
“I suppose so.”
“You suppose? Then what were you doing?”
“I was. I was in the same business as Sir Richard.”
“Strange that I’ve never heard of you before.”
“Mama,” Sylvia said gently, “must we talk about this? ”
“I received a message, out of nowhere, that your husband is dead, and now I find you here, in this hovel that dares call itself a hotel, with an unknown man! Not to mention the state you’re in!” Lady Haverston clicked her tongue. “We’re going shopping for mourning clothes tomorrow. We need to wait for the transportation arrangement for your poor husband, anyway. And I am not staying here. I’m going to a better hotel. You too, darling.”
“Mama, this is not—”
“I cannot understand how Sir Richard could’ve brought you to this place. I hope you had not suggested it, Mr. Marshall?”
Lady Haverston turned to him with judging eyes, Sylvia with alarming.
“I believe Sir Richard found the place … charming,” Will tried.
“ That I cannot believe, and I dare say I knew him well.”
Sylvia coughed.
“Good Lord, darling, you’re not ill again, are you?”
“No, Mama. I’m fine. As fine as I can be.”
Food was served, and after turning her nose up at a soup of dubious origin, Lady Haverston tried it nonetheless. Will suspected she kept pestering him with questions to forget what she was eating.
“And your business is here? Or in Boston?”
“More in Boston.”
“Hmm. Marshall. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of them. You are one of the Boston Brahmins?”
“No, milady. My family is from Connecticut. And I’m French on my mother’s side.”
“French. Delightful.” Lady Haverston sipped her soup through almost closed lips.
“Mr.—ah—we’d been to the Universal Exposition,” Sylvia spoke up. “It was most exciting.”
“I sure hope it was not too exciting. An exposition that celebrates the overthrow of monarchy!” Lady Haverston shook her head. Then, as if she realized in whose company she was, she curbed her frown. “I do apologize for your country, Mr. Marshall.”
“Which one?” Will asked.
Lady Haverston nearly choked on her soup.
“Do be careful, Mama. There you go.” While her mother was distracted, Sylvia offered Will a shy little smile. Hold on , it seemed to say.
Too bad Lady Haverston caught the end of it. “And your parents, Mr. Marshall? Who are they?”
Will restrained himself from sighing in frustration. He hadn’t felt as interrogated and looked-down-on since his school days. “My father runs a clockmaker’s shop in Hartford. My mother’s family has a wine-making business in Provence.”
Lady Haverston let out a short huff.
Sylvia said nothing. Will searched for her eyes, trying to pack all the questions into one wordless glance. Why was she not telling her mother what had truly happened? Why was she acting as if everything was fine? The Sylvia he’d known at the start had been like this: cold and haughty and withdrawn from fear. Not his Sylvia—not the one who wanted to come to Paris, chose the riskiest extraction procedure because she knew it was needed; not the Sylvia who had dared to ask Edison himself for a favor, and the Sylvia who fought with Ross instead of giving in.
“Well, I do not think I will be waiting for dessert,” Lady Haverston proclaimed. “Come, darling. You’ll pack what you need”—she critically examined Sylvia’s dress—“and we’ll be on our way. Should you need us, Mr. Marshall, we’ll be at the Continental.”
Sylvia only tossed one glance back—apologetic again—as her mother herded her out. Will waited to pay for the meal, then headed upstairs. He opened the window to let in some air and, in the darkness of his room, tossed his jacket and vest on the chair, heedless of the crinkles.
Lady Haverston’s tone at her last words left no doubt. He should not call on Sylvia at the Continental.
As if he’d want to suffer through another audience with Lady Haverston. No wonder James went all the way to Richling Creek to avoid his family.
Unfortunately, no Lady Haverston meant no Sylvia.
And unfortunately, Sylvia appeared not to mind all that much.
Will grunted and punched the wall.