10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
F ollowing the session, Fabienne’s mood lifted. True, she knew frighteningly little of time travel, but now, she had hope. The whats and whys were momentarily trampled by the pure joy of knowing there was a solution to her situation.
Led by her mood, her mouth watered as she approached the house and noticed the ripe, yellowish-red apples in the orchard. Mrs. Tatham seemed to like apple sauce a lot, but Fabienne was imagining a dessert. Armed with a wicker basket, she went to pick the fruit.
She wasn’t of small stature, but the most delicious-looking apples were out of her reach. With a bit of jumping and tip-toeing, Fabienne had filled up most of the basket when she spotted the perfect specimen right above her head.
“You’re just waiting to be eaten.” She extended her hand but came a few inches short. She leaned back to grab a lower segment of the branch. Her heel squished something soft and slippery, and the next second, she lay on the ground in a pile of leaves, the apples from the basket scattered all around.
“Wonderful,” she grumbled at the untouched apple still on the branch, swaying lightly in the breeze. Mocking her.
She rose to her knees and began collecting the scattered fruit. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been gree-dy.” She sang out the last word.
“I probably shouldn’t ask what’s going on,” Brayden’s voice came from the direction of the house.
“Good idea,” she agreed, but he approached anyway. “Why do you always have to see me in some ungraceful moment?”
“What’s so ungraceful about this?”
She swept her arms wide. Brayden smiled, kneeled next to her, and picked up a few apples.
“I slipped on one,” she explained. “I wasn’t rolling around for the fun of it.”
Their eyes met. Besides the laughter, his were hiding something else—something intense and… feeling warm all of a sudden, she looked away, focusing on the apples.
“What were you going to do with them?”
“Consult Mrs. Tatham to bake something. Do you like pies?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“There are a lot of varieties. I suppose not everyone likes all of them.”
“But, considering the wide selection, it would also stand to reason one would like at least one kind of pie.”
More apples joined the basket. Fabienne swept her skirt, looking for stowaways. “The important thing here is whether you like apple pie.”
“That wasn’t your question.”
“I thought the fact that we’re swimming in apples implied it.”
“Are we swimming? It looks to me like we have the situation well under control.”
Fabienne tried in vain to suppress her grin. “Are you sure you’re not a lawyer? You certainly know how to dance around the issue.”
“Lawyers get straight down to the issue. Mine is the politician’s way—redirect the question to something else.”
“Do you, then?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you like, very specifically, apple pie?” She stuck out her chin provocatively.
Brayden answered the challenge by drawing closer. “Yes, I do.”
The exaggerated seriousness of the moment was ruined by the perfect timing of a leaf landing on top of his head. Fabienne laughed.
“I was under the impression this is a serious matter,” he said.
“It is, it’s just…” She brushed the leaf off.
“That was distracting?”
She nodded.
“You have no idea how you look, do you?”
“I thought we’d moved past me appearing undignified.”
“I wouldn’t say undignified.”
“Oh, please…” She forgot the rest as she realized how close he was. When did that happen? First he scooted closer as they were picking the apples, and maybe she did, too, and now she could see the little golden flecks in his eyes—eyes that penetrated hers—
He leaned in, their foreheads and noses almost touching. His breath teased the corner of her mouth. He paused, waited, giving her the chance to move away. She could, but something was holding her in place, preserving the magic of the moment.
The air changed, charged with expectation. Fabienne made a slight nudge, not away, but toward him. With a breath of relief, his mouth closed over hers, and she let out a tiny moan at the gentle brush of his lips. She relaxed, leaning into him, one hand sliding to the back of his head. A strange feeling flared up deep inside, a ball of intensified emotion. It spread in her chest, filling her with shivers and expectation, turning her brain into mush and directing her thoughts toward one thing: keep doing that . It was so easy to give in, to part her lips when he nudged her to do so, to revel in the scent, taste and feel of him, to return what he gave.
Slowly, he stopped, lingered over her lips, then pulled back. She tried to catch her breath. Should she say something? Should he say something? Definitely. Something like—
“Excuse me.” He steadied the basket and stood.
Well, not that. Fabienne had expected something more along the lines of “that was nice”. Unless it wasn’t, and she was a terrible kisser. Granted, she didn’t have a lot of practice, or she didn’t remember having it. They had to have kissed before—did it go horribly? Was this one horrible as well? She didn’t think so—in fact, she liked it a lot—but maybe it wasn’t the same for him.
“I should go,” Brayden said. “I have business. In Hartford.” He walked away.
Breaking out of her stupor, she called after him, making him turn back.
“I was wondering…” What was she going to say, ask for his feedback? Excuse me, husband, was this experience satisfactory? “Would you like to help me with baking? Once you get back?”
After a momentary hesitation, he gave a nod. “The kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there.”
***
In the Watchers’ offices in Hartford, Brayden met Lowe to deliver his research. Lowe sat behind the desk and shuffled through the thick report, mouth pursing approvingly. Brayden didn’t mind that his superior didn’t dwell on the details or even read anything—Lowe was just the manager; high up in the Legislative, not Science. But he could surely recognize a good report when he saw one.
“Commendable,” Lowe said and slapped the folder closed.
Brayden knew Lowe couldn’t answer this yet, but since the man seemed pleased, he had to at least ask. “Do you think there’s a good chance the project will move forward?”
“Ah, yes. That.” Lowe stapled his hands on the desk. “I’m afraid there have been some developments… or rather, the opposite. We have to focus our forces on winning the election. It’s better for all of us if Lincoln stays president. For now, project SP-59-02 has been postponed.”
“But nobody has even checked my report yet.” And winning the election had nothing to do with Science—but Brayden held that back, in a desire not to appear defiant.
“They will check it.”
But it’ll make no difference.
“You seemed reluctant to stay here, in any way,” Lowe continued. “Now you have the chance to go back. We, of course, would rather see you don’t, as we’ve lost enough members to war these past years… but the decision is yours.”
Brayden struggled to maintain a polite face—and shut mouth—above the disappointment boiling inside. A month ago, he wanted to go back. But the last few weeks, and today especially, had swung the scale to the other side. There was something about Fabienne; he still wasn’t sure if the change was real or another one of her ploys, but it had felt real. That kiss had felt real—and amazing. Being assigned to the project would make the choice easy for him: stay, of course. Having that fall through meant he’d willingly leave his friends back at the front had he decided to stay… but on the other side, he’d leave Fabienne just as their relationship may finally be on the mend.
“Let me know of your decision.” Lowe tucked the folder under his arm and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Brayden said. “There’s something else.”
Slightly annoyed, Lowe slowly crossed back to the desk. “Yes?”
Brayden hesitated. In theory, it wasn’t his place to say this—he wasn’t the project's supervisor, not responsible for its data. But a rule had been broken, perhaps many. “I suspect Lincoln’s watch isn’t his real watch.”
Lowe sat, not taking his eyes off Brayden. “And you suspect that why?”
“There’s a science project, led by Gideon Henson, which measured the data in the Leader’s watch. There was a mismatch, so I asked for the independent measurements—the ones we all get yearly when we put our watches in for maintenance—”
“Yes, I know which ones you mean.” Lowe’s tone was strict, but not angry.
“They matched the table in the main report but not the extended table in the appendix. Since the table from the main report should be based on the one from the appendix, it can only mean someone altered it afterward.”
“Perhaps the appendix table is wrong. A transcription error.”
“No, I’ve checked, and those measurements have all been performed correctly. Besides, there’s more. I examined other data from Lincoln’s watch, to see if there are more anomalies. You know how the numbers from the watches usually look like? You measure the wear on the barrel and dependent on the travels the watch had been used for, you get a constant to form—”
Brayden stopped as the look on Lowe’s face began to drift back to annoyance. “The numbers in the maintenance logs for Lincoln’s watch—well, they’re the wrong kind of random. The pattern is too clean, and that pattern changed fourteen years ago. Which leads me to believe…” Brayden took a deep breath. “That something happened to Lincoln’s watch fourteen years ago, and since then, some of our members have been working on covering it up.”
Throughout his explanation, Lowe had slowly inched forward in his seat. Brayden, far from being relaxed, was already as straight as a stick. Long moments of silence passed as Lowe stared somewhere behind Brayden’s shoulder, and finally— “We know.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re right. Lincoln, ahem , lost his watch. He’d been given a replacement, but because the almonite used for the watches is strictly controlled, we couldn’t give him a real one. So the maintenance logs have been falsified.”
“But that means…” Brayden shook his head, struggling to grasp the new information. “The Leader, the most important person in our organization, couldn’t time travel all this time?”
“That’s a minor problem. He’d do little travel, anyway—we have our members in the Executive for that.”
“And you’ve done nothing. You covered it up. What about the watch? Someone could have it—”
“Marshall.” Lowe stood again. “You’re worrying too much about this. I assure you we have everything under control. The watch has been lost, and we never found it. But since only our members would be able to use it, that’s not an issue. It’s useless to whoever found it or stole it in the first place—probably some urchin on the street.”
“And the cover-up?”
Lowe weighted his head. “It’s embarrassing, that’s all. Imagine telling everyone that our cherished Leader has lost the watch. So we keep it quiet. And so will you. You understand what’s at stake here, don’t you? The election? The very future of our branch? We’re going through tough times as it is. We can’t afford a scandal like this.”
“Yes.” Brayden lowered his gaze to the floor. “I understand.”
“Good man.” Lowe patted him on the shoulder. “Let me know about your decision. If you stay, we can still find you some work.”
“Yes,” Brayden said, just for the sake of responding. At the moment, it was hard to sort through all the thoughts, especially in the light of this revelation.
Besides, the decision wasn’t all his.
***
Fabienne was in the kitchen, explaining her idea for a dessert to Mrs. Tatham, when Brayden arrived.
“I was told I could lend a hand,” he said to the cook, “if that’s allowed.”
Mrs. Tatham looked stunned from having both employers in her sanctuary.
“That’s on me,” Fabienne said. “But if we’re bothering you…”
“No, not at all.” The rotund cook smiled and waved her hand.
“How can I help?” Brayden’s gaze flicked between Fabienne and the cook.
“I suppose we should get started on the apples.” Fabienne’s cheeks grew warm as she met his eyes, and she busied herself with a knife search.
“Here.” Brayden handed her one. “How many are we going to need?”
“Knives?”
“Apples.”
“Uh… to cover a pan.”
“I’ll get some things and start on the dough.” Mrs. Tatham quietly retreated out of the kitchen.
“So, what exactly are we making?” Brayden asked as they went to work on the apples.
“It’s a kind of pie, or tart, that I used to have at home.”
“In New Orleans?”
“No… France.”
“Right. I thought, because you spent so much time there—”
“Apple pies aren’t exactly the staple of New Orleans.”
“And they are of France?”
“We have many interesting foods,” Fabienne said, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to list them. Her mind was drawing a blank. Her eyes followed the swift, precise movements of his fingers as he peeled the apple. Bon sang , what was going on with her? It was just a hand, but it brought back the memory of him touching her waist, and—
“Including this pie?” Brayden asked, blessedly forcing her to focus on the conversation.
“Our cook used to prepare it. I was never present for the exact procedure, but I think I can figure it out. The trick is you build it upside down, then flip it.”
“Sounds needlessly complicated.”
“You could say that about a lot of dishes.”
“True,” he agreed. “Well, I never ask Mrs. Tatham to make them complicated. She does what she wants, and I go along with it.”
“No, wait, don’t cut them like that!” She reached for his hand. “We need them in slices, shaped like half-moons.”
Brayden sent her a silent look that emphasized his “needlessly complicated” point, and she stifled a laugh.
“I want to do it justice.” She prepared a pan and some sugar. She had a general idea of how to make caramel, but maybe she should wait for Mrs. Tatham. Where was she, anyway?
“I won’t object. Pies aren’t my specialty.”
“And what would that be?”
“You know, the regular. Hardtack softened in fat until it’s just right, add a side of salted pork, and you can’t forget good old beans with a coffee aroma.”
“A coffee aroma? Is that a dish?”
“It is if you have to prepare it all in the same pan.” He turned over the sliced apples. “Approved?”
“Perfect.” She gathered what they had in a bowl, but Brayden snatched a piece.
“Mmm, good. Don’t know if they need to be in a pie.”
“They’ll be even better with caramel. And no coffee aroma.”
“Do you have something against coffee?”
“No, but I am partial to chocolate.” She took a slice, too, and slowly munched on it as she figured out what to do next.
Brayden moved behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Do you miss it? Your home?”
“I do.” She fixed her gaze on a faraway point outside the window. “How could I not? At this time of the year, all the vine leaves turn yellow, and the vineyards make it look like the hills are painted gold. I had a view of them from my room…”
She closed her eyes. Gently descending slopes, lightly obscured by a row of cypress trees, sprouted into existence. Mon Dieu , how long had it been? Almost five years. She didn’t even know what home looked like at this moment. Everything could be going terribly wrong, and she… Made-up images of Antoine and Marion, bleeding out on the damp, muddy ground of some forgotten alleyway, flashed in her mind. They changed to a smoking barrel of a pistol, Slick’s face behind it—the dark blue uniform peeking from under his coat, the shine of the brass buttons—just like—
“Fabienne,” Brayden whispered, turning her to face him. “I… we could…”
The warmth of his touch turned into skin-crawling dread. Her hands trembled. “How many have you killed?” she whispered.
A shadow crossed his face. “I don’t know.” His volume matched hers, but his voice was filled with terror. Sadness.
She pushed him back. “You should go.”
He drew his eyebrows together. “Fabienne—”
“I can finish this myself.” She turned his back to him, though not fast enough to miss a flash of hurt in his eyes.
“I see.” His voice had turned back to that of the withdrawn husband. “I have work to do, anyway. I hope your little project succeeds.” He left the kitchen without another word.
Three minutes later, Mrs. Tatham returned, arms full of kitchen appliances. If she was surprised about Brayden’s absence, she didn’t show it. Fabienne kept her eyes down, fueling her shame into slicing more apples.
After a night spent tossing and turning, Fabienne approached the dining room the next morning as if walking on broken glass. To her relief, the dining room was empty, the table cleared save for a small box, placed by the chair where she liked to sit, with a piece of folded paper beside it. Fabienne opened the lid and gasped. Laid on velvet was a gorgeous pin shaped like a dragonfly with delicate, colorful wings.
Well. Brayden surely took a rejection in a strange way. She unfolded the note.
Picked this up in Hartford, so you might as well have it. Have returned to my regiment for an indefinite amount of time. Perhaps you may yet get your wish.
Get her wish. He thought she wanted him dead. Fabienne swallowed the lump in her throat. No, no, she couldn’t start feeling sorry now. She had a mission, and she had hope. Yesterday was a momentary lapse in judgment. Better to think of him as she had before. Another Yankee to be wary of, another enemy.
Another obstacle on her way back to the life she wanted.
***
Gideon Henson stared out the window into the gray, foggy Washington morning. His office still held a slight herbal smell; good old Mama Livonia’s ‘health mixture’. Gideon was no longer a silly young boy who believed his grandmother could mix herbs that would heal the dying, bring luck, or bestow misfortune upon enemies, but he still fondly remembered the days his mother took him down South. He didn’t need magic anymore. He had time travel. He’d already gotten one victory today: a friend at the Approval Committee told him SP-59-02 had been successfully delayed. True, he had to make up the whole thing about the election, and in turn, it would only make Lincoln win, but Henson was playing the long game.
It mattered little if their dearest Leader won now, if he’d be dead in half a year.
A knock sounded on the door, and Henson checked his watch—the regular one. Right on time. “Come in.”
Robbins entered, removed his hat, and took a seat.
“And? How is she doing?” Henson returned his gaze to the window. People hurried by on the street, worrying about insignificant problems. Are the prices of goods going to jump? Will I get a letter from my husband today? Should I get out of the city if the enemy tries to occupy it again? He smirked. They had no idea what was truly important. What awaited this country.
“She’s doing well, sir. She succeeded in her first travels, and appears eager to continue.”
“Good.”
“When should we proceed to the next phase?”
“Give her time. She needs to stabilize.” If he was going with this plan—with her—he had to be certain of her abilities. He couldn’t afford to send another person to the morning of April 15 and lose them before they’d finish the mission.
No. This time, he would succeed. Fabienne Marshall would be the one.
After all, she had the watch.