Chapter 41
Uncertainty flickers through my mind. I push forward, trying and failing to ignore the voice of doubt.
The one that says, Are you sure about this?
And I’m not. More than anything, I want to ask my dad if I’m doing the right thing.
He would know. He could give me the answer—but this isn’t something I can ask him. I’m on my own now.
I just have to trust myself.
And I can. It’s possible. Hasn’t the last week shown me this? That I have the capability of placing trust in my own choices? And if anyone believes in me, it’s William. He’s given me so much in his short time here. I hold on to the hope that what I’m about to do will fix everything.
I can’t help glancing back. Sumner watches me from the safe distance, but he looks like he’s seconds away from rushing to my side. His restraint wanes, and my panic rises.
The wind is a force. I’m not sure he can hear me, but I try anyway.
“I could never forget you,” I yell, echoing his words he’d whispered to me in the dark.
My shoes tear across the snow-cushioned ground as I sprint toward William.
An ache sears hot in my thighs as I charge up the incline and explode through the clearing.
Icy air turns sharp when it hits my lungs, transforming into loud gasps when I exhale.
I don’t stop. I’m terrified of what happens if I do.
Overhead, the aurora proceeds to rotate into a narrow typhoon. Bright and forever mesmerizing, this display is my guiding force. Adrenaline surges through my veins. And then, up ahead, I see him.
William’s hands are clasped around his hat. His mouth parts in astonishment as I close in. “You mustn’t be here.”
“I’m part of it,” I pant, trying to catch my breath. “This energy—or magnetic vortex—we’re connected.”
He draws a hand over his heart. “You’re certain?”
“I think so,” I get out.
Distress appears between his brows. “Would it mean you’d travel to 1859?”
A gust of wind tears through us. I shiver. “That, I don’t know.”
His face dissolves into an expression of earnest courage. “Whatever’s next, we’ll face it together.”
“We will.” My heart rollicks with unrelenting fear. “I need to see your journal.”
He pulls it from his coat and hands it to me. I use Sumner’s pen to scribble a hasty message on the last blank page, then pass it back to him. As he tucks it into his pocket, I cast my gaze to the sky. Wind tangles my hair.
I move an inch closer. “Did you ever question why you ended up here?”
William tightens his coat around him. “Often.”
“And you know?” When he shakes his head I say, “Ivernia is only here because of you.”
His next word comes out in a delicate puff of air. “Me.”
Suddenly, the spiraling light begins to slow.
Its color drains as if evaporating into thin air, threatening to leave us drenched in darkness.
The wind dies. Before we have a chance to understand what’s happening, there’s a horrible metallic screeching sound.
The isoborometer rattles. The motion is so intense that its outer paneling jiggles loose.
No, no, no.
On instinct I drop to my knees and wrap my hands around the exterior walls, holding the pieces together.
William’s next to me in a heartbeat. My brain searches for an answer, but the screeching stops almost as soon as it began.
The walls thrum with a mystifying vibration beneath my palms. I feel the gears activate. A mechanical whirring sounds.
Slowly, the aurora returns. And as we squint out into the universe, ribbons of color stream against the night sky, twisting downward into the unusual spiral as it follows this energetic pull.
William reaches to help me, but I shake my head. “I’ve got it—whatever I’m doing is working,” I shout above the wind. “Don’t be afraid.”
I’m not sure if I’m saying it for William, or because I need to hear it, too.
Concern creases his forehead. “How should we know what to do?”
The question suddenly feels much larger than this singular moment. The answer seems so obvious.
“Maybe we don’t,” I say. “Maybe we trust everything we’ve already done.”
As my words sink in, his eyes soften. “Though it was through the most peculiar circumstance, I’m grateful our fates intertwined.”
“You know now. You started this—Ivernia, everything. It was always meant to happen this way.” I use all my strength to keep the structure secure. My hands ache from the effort. “You have a purpose. Find it.”
Around us, time happens. Seconds pass. It’s an unstoppable, finite thing.
Substantial and wonderful. And god, I love this place—but I’ve had it all wrong.
Preserving memories and history and moments—that’s what’s important.
The here and now, the intangible bits we claim.
All of it right in front of us. Because change happens.
Places are destroyed and rebuilt and altered and renovated.
And although it may look different, it doesn’t lose its meaning.
Those memories become a fundamental part of us. They make us.
Of course it matters. It all matters. Everything.
My father’s words come to me then, rising from the pages of his journal. But if I had to put my firm belief in anything, it’s that we must know when to relinquish and embrace the unknown.
Our eyes lock. Perseverance floods through William as he places his hands over mine, holding tight in his reassurance.
It happens in an instant. The funnel reaches its brightest apex.
The wind stills. For a brief blip in time, the world freezes.
A slow-motion churn, a hushed, unnatural quiet befalling in the wake.
His eyes pitch toward the sky, lips parting through a gasp, and before either of us can say anything more, a blinding flash floods my vision.
And I embrace the unknown.
My throat opens to release a scream, but I can’t hear it. Can’t feel anything around me—not the cold, not the ground beneath my knees, not my hands fastened around the isoborometer. A warmth strikes my core, a snaking sensation curling outward, and then—
Opalescent sunlight glazes through treetops.
Tall pines loom overhead and offer puddles of cool shade.
A young girl tramples through a dusty trail.
Only, the young girl is me. I’m watching my father join my younger self, pointing toward Ivernia in the distance.
I know where we are. We’ve hiked this trail dozens of times.
It’s the one that leads to the summit. And as he ruffles the top of my head, so full of life, the memory dissolves into a new scene.
This time, he’s sitting on a blanket beside my mother.
We’re enjoying the crystal-blue day on the Ivernia green, and I’m holding Madelene’s hand as she toddles across the grounds.
Jared drives a remote-controlled race car toward us, and I save her by scooping her into my short arms and plopping her beside my parents for safety.
She squeals and darts toward our brother, but I linger behind.
It’s strange to see myself so young. I lie on my back, rolling out of reach when my dad tries to slather sunscreen on my cheeks.
And I blend and bow into a new setting, this time my eighth-grade graduation in Pennsylvania.
I’m in a floral dress I hated—one my mom loved.
Madelene is the first to rush over, smothering me in a hug and tugging my sleeve as she reveals our parents have bought me a stunning yellow bouquet.
My dad tackles me into a bear hug, and I recall feeling like I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t.
Instead, I tightened my grip around him.
I fade into a new memory. My family is in the kitchen, and it’s the day before I leave my suburban neighborhood for a school—one that’s both familiar and unnervingly new.
My dad’s playing eighties music; my mom is making sure I’ve packed everything; and Mads is standing on a chair, belting her heart out, while Jared records her on his phone.
It’s chaotic and loud and I love every second of it, so much so I wonder if I’m making the right decision. And then—
Hazy, fragmented clips of reminiscence flash before me.
Footsteps thundering over rickety wooden planks on the dock.
Peals of laughter after leaving the movie theater.
My fingers braiding Madelene’s hair. The first taste of cold ice cream on a fall day.
Softly chirring crickets as the sun winks out beyond the horizon, forming a silent good night.
The gentle warmth of sun-dried skin after an icy dip in a friend’s pool.
A pale moon suspended in beauty within the night sky.
The scratch of my father’s fountain pen.
The cool AC smell in my mother’s library.
That stomach-sore feeling that lingers after a hard laugh.
Pieces of my life—of me—arranged like an intentional collection of atoms. Each moment mine.
A swell of emotion rises in my chest. Even though I’m desperate to hang on, something tells me to let go.
Not something. Someone.
My father’s voice.
Let go.
And I feel it in an inexplicable way. I’m not letting go of him, not the memories or time, but of fear.
So I let go.
How I release my hands, I’m not sure, but when I do, everything goes dark. My lungs fill with frigid air. Snow has started to fall, cotton-like flakes drifting in the mild wind. Everything is buried beneath a whispered hush. My knees are frozen from kneeling in the snow, and I am alone.
An ache throbs through my hands as I push myself upright, wobbly on my feet. The shifting lights from the aurora begin to dim. The pattern no longer curves and twists. Instead, it fades away.
I spin around, eyes searching across the snow-covered field. “William?”
He’s not here.
“William!”
As I squint toward the school, the lampposts regain their light. The electricity no longer pulses. Darkness creeps in as the last of the aurora fades, leaving the clear night full of winking stars.