Chapter Five
Nolan
Her hand is warm. Soft. Small in my tight grip.
It’s all I can think about as time starts to spin around us.
I told her traveling to the past was like falling into a dream, but it’s more like being tossed into a storm.
A tide that comes in far too quickly. It whips at your hair and pulls at you like it’s trying to figure out where, exactly, you belong.
I’ve done this more than a hundred times, and I’m still not used to it.
But it feels fucking terrible isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, so I bent the truth. I don’t know what happens if I don’t pass Harriet on to her next ghost, and I don’t intend to find out. I’ve spent enough time waiting. I need to finish this assignment. I need to move on.
Harriet’s hand tightens around mine on a particularly rough tug and I squeeze, holding her steady. Not much longer now.
The pressure lessens, flashes of colors settling as we skid to a stop in the middle of what looks like a fancy lobby. Time deposits us with the same lack of grace it gathered us up in, Harriet stumbling into my side. I grip her elbow as she finds her footing.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. “Oh my god. You weren’t kidding.”
“About what?”
“About what? About time travel. About—about the magic.” She makes a complicated, fluttery gesture with her hands. “You used magic, Nolan.”
“I’m aware.” My hand slips from her elbow to her forearm. I resist the urge to shout I told you so like a petulant child. “And technically it’s not time travel.”
“Whatever.” Harriet shakes off my grip and bends at the waist, her hands on her knees. “What the hell did you mean, it’s like stepping into a dream? What sort of dreams do you have?”
“I haven’t had a dream in over a hundred years,” I answer, distracted.
This place feels cold, and it’s not just the marble.
There are massive, ornate columns anchored on either side of the room, a wreath the size of a small aircraft hanging between them.
An elevator bank is on one side, a desk with no one behind it on the other. “I needed you to agree,” I add.
“Yeah, well, now my stomach feels like it’s trying to climb out of my eyeballs, so thanks for that.
” Harriet squints at me. Her hair, if possible, is even more wild than it was at her little antiques shop.
Blond corkscrew curls fly every which way, half of them in her face.
She pushes them back with her palm, straightening slowly. “You don’t have dreams?”
“Another ghostly side effect, I’m afraid,” I offer. I sleep, but I don’t dream. I eat, but I don’t taste. Everything comes in vague imprints. Like breathing against cold glass, tracing a picture, then watching it fade away.
“That’s sad,” she says with a frown.
I shrug. “No harm, no foul.”
It used to bother me, back in the beginning. Existing without living. Going through the motions without the satisfaction. Spending my time watching the very worst of humanity with no redemption whatsoever.
But I’ve had time to adjust. I know what to expect now.
Harriet looks like she wants to say more, but her face pales and she doubles over. She makes a sound like a foghorn.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice thick. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
I pat her back awkwardly while she deep breathes through the worst of it. Her back heaves and I spread my fingers wide, slowing my touch. She releases a shuddering breath. “I can’t believe you used magic,” she whispers to herself.
I finally give in to the urge. “I told you.”
“Yeah, but—” She dry heaves. “I didn’t believe you.”
I rub another path across her back.
“You’ll be grand. Just give it a moment, yeah?”
She’s wearing a thick green sweater that’s just as soft as it looks.
My hand continues its circuit without my explicit consent.
Up and down. Across and back. Between her shoulder blades and down to the small of her back.
On the third pass, my thumb brushes the top of her spine at the delicate, hidden spot beneath all that hair.
I linger there, tracing over soft, warm skin.
I haven’t touched anyone in reassurance for decades. No one has touched me for even longer. I’ve had only sharp edges and curt words. I’ve forgotten what softness feels like.
Her breath hitches and I pull my hand away, embarrassed.
I shouldn’t be touching Harriet. I shouldn’t be comforting her.
I should be paying attention to my surroundings. I should be trying to uncover her secrets. Harriet could be an especially earnest con woman, for all I know. I need to crack her open, reveal the skeletons in her closet, and send her on her way.
I need to keep to the plan. I need to move on.
I shove both of my hands in my pockets, looking around the room.
The memories I typically land in aren’t usually so … empty.
“I’m never listening to you again,” Harriet grinds out, slowly reclaiming her upright position.
“We’ll see. Bound to you, remember?” I tip my head back to study the ornate ceiling. There’s gold filigree up there. A giant glass dome that’s shaded and dark. Rich people.
“Do you recognize this place?” I ask.
“Vaguely,” she answers, her attention catching on the train garden set up around the base of the large reception desk. A sleek black engine chugs around, pulling six or so colorful cars behind it. Harriet steps closer.
“That train,” she says. “There’s something about that train that I recognize.” She pauses. “I think.”
Good. If she recognizes the place, then she’ll be able to recognize whatever it is that brought us here. Maybe this will be a short assignment after all, despite my initial misgivings.
I wander through the possibilities while Harriet studies the train. Perhaps this is the start of an elaborate bank heist. Perhaps she has taken a lover and we’ll watch as she’s discovered by his wife. I’ve seen all sorts of transgressions. The very worst of people. I doubt much can surprise me.
Harriet takes another shuffling step closer to the empty desk, her face set in concentration. “I remember the sound,” she says. “The whistle.”
On cue, the train lets out a high-pitched whistle, picking up speed on the turn. From the other side of the lobby, a bell chimes at the elevator bank. Anticipation pinches between my shoulders.
But the shiny gold doors don’t reveal a spurned lover, or a disguise, or anything remotely interesting. Two small children spill out from the elevator, laughter bouncing between them.
“Be careful, girls!” a woman’s voice drifts from behind. Small shoes clap against the marble, and two figures dash around us. “Mind the floors!
“Harriet!” the woman calls again. “Don’t run!”
A little girl with tight, blond curls giggles madly, reaching for the girl struggling to keep up with her. They’re wobbly reflections of each other. A stone thrown into still waters, their similarities rippling until they become differences instead.
Next to me, Harriet makes a soft sound.
“My sister,” she says, her voice hushed. Like we’re in a church or a museum. Someplace worthy of reverence. “That’s my—that’s my sister. We’re children.”
Her eyes find mine, shiny and wide. “I think I believe you now.”
“Finally,” I say, but she pays me no mind. Her attention is elsewhere, watching the little girls bound their way across the lobby. “C’mon, Sammy,” the miniature version of Harriet calls, a slight lisp in her voice. “Let’s look!”
“I’m coming.” The other girl laughs. “But slow down, okay? I’m not as fast as you.”
“Not true! You’re faster and stronger and smarter and way, way prettier.” Next to me Harriet huffs a watery laugh. The little girl with the curls spins on her heel, arms splayed wide. “You’re the best big sister in the whole world!”
They collapse to their knees at the edge of the train set, their hands clasped tight between them. Two adults follow slowly behind, heads bent close in conversation. The woman’s face pinches. Whatever they’re discussing, they’re not happy about it.
“It was Matilda, of course,” the woman says with a sneer. “She always has something to say.”
“Just jealousy,” the man replies, looking bored. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, actually. “Simple as that. Ignore her.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” she snaps back. “You wouldn’t understand.”
They continue arguing, drifting across the lobby after the girls.
“Your parents?” I ask.
Harriet nods, her eyes flicking up to her mother briefly before drifting back to the two little girls whispering in front of the train. The engine zips around again, and little Harriet claps her small hands together in delight.
Their mother approaches. I can see the similarities in the hair coloring, a dark blond that looks more like spun gold in the artificial light.
But that’s where the similarities end, their mother’s expression carved into something severe and unforgiving, even as she watches her girls delight in the trains.
She presses her palms over the skirt of her red velvet dress.
It’s a match to the outfits the girls are dressed in, yet she somehow manages to make it look austere rather than festive.
A crystal glass swan, set on the highest shelf.
I’ve observed enough questionable people with loose morals to recognize a bad apple when I see one.
“Harriet,” she snaps again, and I don’t miss the way adult Harriet straightens her spine next to me.
I watch her carefully, cataloging the details of her response.
There will be clues in her reaction, perhaps something for me to use later.
My job is to be observant and convincing, and I do both things well.
“You’re too old to be playing with trains,” she says. “It’s not appropriate.”
“I’m just looking, Mother,” the little girl says, glancing sheepishly over her shoulder. Her cheeks are pink, her hands buried in the tulle of her skirt. “It’s so pretty, and they move so fast, and look! They added a harbor this year with little boats—”