25. February 2, 1814 London, England #2
Beatrix takes Oliver’s hand, and his fingers tighten around hers. When she was a thief, she always went for single marks. They were easier to predict than pairs or groups. “Mind your pockets,” she says under her breath.
When they reach the counter, Oliver buys them each a slice of gingerbread and a drink, even haggles the price down to something less outrageous, a far cry from the man she saved from the gutter.
They find a seat on a pair of overturned crates.
Beatrix takes a bite of her warm, spiced cake. Oliver passes her a drink.
“What is it?” she asks, taking the mug from him.
“Gin. It will warm you up.”
Beatrix takes a swig of the clear alcohol. She pulls a face that makes Oliver burst out laughing, and he nearly chokes on his gingerbread.
“It tastes like pine needles,” she coughs. “How can you drink this?”
Oliver takes a swig of his own and coughs into his elbow. Beatrix raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s stronger than what I’m used to. Maybe try it in, say, fifty to a hundred years?”
Beatrix shakes her head and hands him her mug. “No, thank you.”
Her gaze falls to the page in her lap. The ink has dried and only slightly smudged. She hands it to Oliver and rests her chin on her hand. “What does it say?”
He holds the page close to his face so he can read it in the dim light.
“ ‘This frozen clime, and endless track of snow, the northern blast some streams forbid to flow. This was printed on the ice of the River Thames, on Wednesday, February 2, 1814, opposite Queenhithe Stairs, for Miss Beatrix Lancourt, born July the 19th, 1790.’ ”
When he’s finished, he offers her the page.
She doesn’t take it. “You keep it.”
“Don’t you want it as a souvenir? It has your name on it.”
Beatrix shrugs. “It’s not like I can read it.”
He looks down at the poem in his hand, thoughtful. “I could teach you. I mean, I’ve never taught anyone to read before, but I can try.”
Beatrix’s heart skips a beat. “You’d do that?”
“Come on.” Oliver takes her hand.
She follows him out of the dark tent and into the glittering night, her heart threatening to burst.
Oliver rents a room at an inn near the river. It’s nothing fancy—a full bed, a small round table, and a faded armchair that’s been stuck in the corner—but it’s warm and it’s dry. It takes only half an hour for Beatrix to feel her toes again.
She lies on the worn floral rug, propped up on her elbows in front of the fire, kicking her stockinged feet in the air as she studies a page in Oliver’s journal.
She barely registers him lying on the floor across from her, all her attention focused on the words printed in his neat, blocky handwriting.
“The great what?” She points to a long word scrawled across the top of the page.
Oliver glances down at it. “ ‘Exhibition.’ ” His brow furrows. “You know what? Maybe we should start with something easier.”
He takes the poem from the Frost Fair, flips it to the blank side, and pulls the stub of a charcoal pencil from his jacket pocket. He starts at the top, filling the page with the alphabet—in upper- and lowercase letters—her name, and a list of words.
“Do your name, too,” she urges. He does.
He turns the sheet of paper to face her. “You should probably learn to read ‘cat’ before ‘Great Exhibition.’ ”
Beatrix sighs. “ ‘Great Exhibition’ sounds more interesting.”
“I’m sure it is,” Oliver says. “But ‘cat’ is more useful. At least for the next thirty-seven years.”
She returns her gaze to the page. Her finger traces along the shape of his name, letter by letter, her lips forming silent sounds.
He leans closer. She catches the scent of ginger and gin, lavender and apples. She looks up from her words. She can’t tell if the shine in his eyes is a trick of the firelight or something else. “What?”
“You are trouble, Beatrix Lancourt.” He whispers the words, a secret he doesn’t dare speak too loudly. They wrap around her heart like a serpent, squeeze it so tightly she swears it stops beating. She jerks away, his notes forgotten.
Oliver sits up, confusion etched across his brow. “What’s wrong?”
She shivers, despite the heat of the fire. She hugs her arms tightly around herself, as if it will hold her in the here and now. “Sometimes it’s like I’ve already lived a moment and then I live it again.”
“You mean déjà vu?” Oliver asks.
“Déjà vu?”
“It means ‘already seen,’ ” he says. “A French philosopher coins the term, and it sticks, even in English. Lots of people experience it.”
Beatrix shakes her head. “You know the strangest things.”
Oliver grimaces. “Philosophy trivia courtesy of Luke. He’s a friend of mine.”
But Beatrix can’t shake the feeling. “Do you think your whole life can become déjà vu, if you live long enough? Your entire life, already seen?”
“Déjà vu is just a coincidence,” he says gently.
Beatrix scrutinizes him. “You said I was trouble.”
He gives her a wry smile. “I’m sure lots of people have told you that.”
She doesn’t laugh. “If I’m trouble, what does that make you?”
“I don’t know.” Oliver shrugs. “What does that make me?”
Beatrix shakes her head and waits for a proper reply, waits for him to tell her he is doomed. To find out if she is.
Oliver studies her face. “A fool.” He says it as if it has only just occurred to him.
His words break the spell, ease the tension in her chest.
“Every day is different, Bea. Even if you’ve seen a lot of them.” He reaches for her. Tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve never danced on the Thames before, have you? Or watched an elephant cross it?”
“Never.”
“You won’t believe how much the world changes,” he says. “I don’t think even you could do it all.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” She has started over so many times, has lived so many different lives. Surely it will all blur together until even the déjà vu becomes unremarkable. An “already seen” that is seen again and again and again.
Oliver jumps to his feet and offers her his hand. She takes it, and he drags her to the window beside the bed. The panes are edged with frost, but she can still make out the darkened London street below them, the faintest graying at the horizon. Oliver points up. “What do you see?”
“The sky,” Beatrix says. “A few stars. The moon.”
Oliver grins. “Hypothetically speaking, what would you say if I told you we’d be up there someday?”
Beatrix laughs. “Hypothetically speaking, I would say you’re mad.”
He leans close. “July twentieth, 1969,” he says, his voice low in her ear. “Man walks on the moon.”
She doesn’t pull away. “Hypothetically?”
Oliver shudders, as if he’s caught a sudden chill. He steps away from her, frowning.
“Are you all right?” Beatrix asks.
He sighs. “Time’s up.”
“Oh.” Her heart sinks, but of course the night has to end. It always does.
His frown grows deeper. “I don’t want to go. You know that, right?”
She looks up at him. “You’d stay if you could?”
He nods.
“Then I suppose you’d better go.” She forces a smile. “So you can come back.”
As if it were her choice, a decision she has any power over.