8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
F abienne had been preparing the sitting room for Caddie’s visit when she discovered the roller skates.
The wooden sole had a strap to attach it to the shoe, and two pairs of wheels. Fabienne spun a wheel, a bubble of laughter escaping her. Roller skates. She looked at the door. She couldn’t. She shouldn’t. It would not befit a mistress of the house.
Oh, but she longed to try them. Antoine used to own a pair when they were little, but only once did Fabienne escape Maman’s clutches to try them on.
The rooms were carpeted, too cluttered, or both, but the hallway…
Sporting a mischievous smile, Fabienne slipped into the hall. It was a good spot—long with even floors. She sat on the stairs to fasten the roller skates, and hiked up her skirts below the knees.
A bit wobbly when she first stood up, she tentatively rolled down the hallway, holding on to the wall. Three rounds later, she let go of the support. In another four rounds, she was practically flying, her giggles drowning out the steady scraping of wood. Funny, how such a simple thing could bring back that feeling of wonder. Like when she was little and Papa would lift her up and whirl her around and each time she’d say, “Again!”
“Again,” she said to herself, and lunged from the wall. In the middle of her race, a door creaked, and she jumped. The wheels twisted, and she flailed her arms, mentally preparing herself to meet the hard ground and—
She crashed against something warm. A pair of arms caught her around the waist, securing her in an awkward half-standing position. She scrambled to gain her footing, then turned around to find herself face to face with Brayden.
“May I ask what you’re doing?” His tone carried a hint of amused curiosity.
He was holding her. Was this the first time he’d touched her? That she could remember, at least. His hands were warm, firm and steady against her waist, and her reaction caught her by surprise. This was… nice. Even though she wasn’t in danger of falling anymore, she didn’t want to be released.
Actually, the only danger she was feeling right now was that sentiment.
“Are you all right?” Brayden inspected her with a slight frown between his eyebrows.
“Shouldn’t you… shouldn’t you have led with that?”
“Just fine, I see.”
His hold had brought her closer to him than she’d ever been before. Her hands hovered a few inches above his arms, as if she was afraid to touch him.
A few freckles adorned the bridge of his nose. Not freckles that would be there naturally, but a result of spending a good amount of time in the sun. And his eyes… she thought them brown before. Now, caught in his gaze, trying to figure out what she should be feeling, she realized they had a rim of dark green, and little golden specks. Like a forest in early autumn, sprinkled with bits of gold and brown—
Those golden-specked eyes turned downward as Brayden looked at her feet. “So this is what all the ruckus was about.” He let her go, and she chastised herself for both regretting the loss of contact and giving his eyes descriptions such as forest .
“What ruckus?”
“The strange noises. I’ll admit, I didn’t expect this.”
“I found the skates in the sitting room.”
“I know. I bought them.”
“These are yours?”
He gave a sharp nod. “They’re a new model.”
“I thought so! You can do a curve with them—”
“Without having to lift your feet, like the older models.” He stared at her, mouth hanging in surprise, then cleared his throat. “Apparently, they’re becoming quite popular. I got them in New York on the way back. I… I don’t know why.”
“I suppose it has something to do with wanting to use them,” she said in a cheeky, but not mocking tone.
“I don’t think I’ll have many opportunities for that. Perhaps it was just nostalgia. We used to skate around town when we were little. Jim, Jared and I.”
“They gave you a feeling of wonder. You wanted some of it back.”
He looked like he was choosing between several answers, and went for none.
“I like them,” she said. “It’s too bad you need an even floor—imagine how great it would be if you could do this everywhere. You can move as fast as when you’re running, but with less force. A definite improvement upon walking.”
A corner of his mouth curled up, ever so briefly, before it was back to serious. “If you find it so entertaining, by all means, continue.” He turned away.
“Well, I couldn’t. They’re yours—”
“And by that definition, yours,” he said with a dismissive wave of a hand before he disappeared into the study.
She followed him, rolling slowly. The pulled curtains made the space bright, friendly. The birdcage lay on the window shelf. “I don’t think you’ve got that definition right. It’s the other way around.”
“Take the roller skates, Fabienne.”
She should’ve been happy with that outcome. She’d found something to help with boredom, and once again, Brayden didn’t care about her. She got the best out of her circumstances.
Firmly reminding herself of that—and not how it felt when he’d held her—she nodded. “Thank you.” And she skated away, suddenly feeling undignified.
***
Forcing himself to look away from his wife, Brayden returned to work. Lowe had brought him various reading material, but after he’d made a plan for his research, he also retrieved some reports from the Watchers’ office in Hartford. These were his best shot, since he couldn’t time travel to test any theories.
Not that Brayden had done a lot of time travel for those purposes. Travel, especially to the future, was a touchy subject—something you saw could easily influence your actions in a bad way. In the Legislative Division, he only scheduled travels and analyzed the results. But nowadays, there was little to do even there. When a routine trip to the future a few years ago brought the shocking news—their own country was at war—the American branch of the Watchers immediately evoked Edict 11. That meant no time travel until the event was cleared; that way, no one could gain information and use it against the other side.
It also meant all time travel info Brayden could get was the one already acquired. Luckily, he’d found an interesting report—one that could help him crack the ability of healing wide open.
The project, done a few years ago and led by one G. P. Henson of the Science Division, dealt with examining different kinds of almonite—raw almonite that was used to inject people to turn them into time travelers, fiber almonite in clothes, crystalized almonite in the watches. Brayden was especially interested in the last one, because they’d also examined Lincoln’s watch, to see whether the almonite in the watch owned by a Leader could gradually change its abilities.
Judging only from the conclusions in the report, the project uncovered nothing monumental; even worse, five vials of raw almonite were destroyed in the experiments. A little strange—similar experiments were done before and almonite should be more durable than this—but currently, not Brayden’s concern. He needed to review the numbers and see if he could find something useful for himself, something the others weren’t focusing on.
He shifted to an appendix at the back and smiled at the pages, filled with tables upon tables of data. This was the real meat, not the abridged version in the report. He located the table for measurements of Lincoln’s watch and took a piece of paper to write them down. Halfway through the second column, he stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Something was wrong. Yes, his head hurt slightly from combing various reports all day, but there was something else. The numbers.
On a hunch, Brayden shifted to the main findings in the report. There—the shortened table for Lincoln’s watch. The numbers didn’t match. He checked the appendix, and again the report. Different measurements. Someone must’ve made a mistake, maybe put the measurements into the wrong table. It wasn’t a huge problem; the Watchers kept records of each watch, independent of reports such as this, so he could get the correct one. But he’d have to go to Hartford to request the files, again.
He leaned back and sighed. Well, he needed a break, anyway. As he tried to rest his eyes, his gaze landed on the broken birdcage, and his thoughts flashed to Fabienne. So much for wedding gifts.
Still, he packed a briefcase and grabbed the cage on the way out.
After a visit to the Watchers’ Hartford office, Brayden headed down the street until the ornate, faded letters of Mr. Wallace’s Clocks and Curiosities shop came to view. A ding announced his presence as he entered the dim interior.
“I’ll be right there!” An older man emerged from the back room, putting a pair of round spectacles in his waistcoat pocket. His face lit up. “Young Mr. Marshall!”
“Mr. Wallace.” Brayden smiled as the man stepped forward and clasped his hand. “You’re doing well, I hope?”
“As well as one can, considering the times. And what happened here?” He directed his attention to the cage.
“A slight accident. I can fix it, but I’ll need the parts.”
Wallace inspected the broken drawer, stroking his white mustache. “I should have some in the back. Let me see…” He wandered off. Brayden deposited the cage on the counter and looked around, bittersweet nostalgia overtaking him.
Once, what felt like ages ago, he dreamed of working here as Mr. Wallace’s apprentice. He didn’t remember how it started, but he had a clear memory of himself—perhaps ten years of age—watching the shopkeeper assemble a mantel clock, a myriad of little pieces scattered across the table, seemingly in no order at all. But Wallace knew exactly where each piece was and could find it in a second when needed. Wallace also showed him illustrations and descriptions of great automata in French and Swiss design. To little Brayden, it was fascinating how something made out of gears, strings, and screws could appear alive.
But those wishes did not conform to his father’s standards. Marshalls were not shopkeepers.
He was drawn to intricate pieces of jewelry on the new glass display by the wall.
“One for your lady?” Wallace had returned, and pointed to the jewelry. “Yes, yes, you didn’t tell me. I won’t hold it against you. Who am I but a simple shopkeeper? Saw the announcement in the papers—what was it, a year ago?”
“A year and three months.”
“A belated anniversary gift, then. Go on, pick one.”
“Mrs. Marshall is not the jewelry type.” That wasn’t strictly true—as far as he knew, Fabienne displayed no aversion to jewelry. But she would likely display an aversion to jewelry he gave her.
“Nonsense. There’s isn’t a woman who wouldn’t like at least one of these pieces. Simple, ornate, I have it all.”
It would be fair to support Wallace’s business. Brayden skimmed over the pieces. There . A brass dragonfly brooch with delicately shaped wings, filled with a semi-translucent material in the shifting colors of green, blue, and purple.
Fabienne’s voice from long ago played in his head. In the summer, I liked going to a pond buzzing with dragonflies…
“You like that one?” Wallace lifted it from its velvet nest. “Excellent choice. It’s special—I toyed with its functionality. If I turn it around and twist this little button, it becomes a hairpin.”
“Clever. And beautiful.”
“One of a kind. Probably couldn’t replicate it if I wanted to.”
And Brayden knew he didn’t. Wallace was very proud of his unique pieces.
“Found your mechanism, too. Now let me get some nice packaging…” Wallace wandered off again.
Glancing around the shop, Brayden could almost see the lost years. He remembered where Wallace’s other creations used to stand, now gone—sold, he hoped, but maybe just moved to the back, to make room for more popular pieces.
Before the Edict had been evoked, he could’ve gone back for a visit. He’d done a few personal travels to the past, but they turned out strangely unsatisfying. Memories changed over time and rediscovering them often diminished their glow. He could relive the experience, but it never felt the same again.
“Here we go!” Wallace returned with a small velvet-lined box. “Anything else?”
“That would be all, thank you.”
“She’ll love it, you’ll see.”
Oh, well. At least he made Mr. Wallace happy.