48. Chapter 48
Chapter 48
N othing could’ve prepared Brayden for the scene in the bedroom. The small space was crowded with people—a few generals, the Secretary of War, Lincoln’s son—all gathered around the bed. The pungent smell of blood and sweat welcomed them, evoking memories of a hastily drawn-up field hospital. Only, instead of groans and cries, there was an almost eerie silence.
The bed was comically small compared to the man lying on it. How strangely vital Lincoln still looked, with large arms and a body of a man with much less years and grief behind him. No wound was immediately visible, but the pillow and the sheets, soaked with blood, left no doubt as to what had happened.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” a man holding a long, silver instrument addressed them. “What are you doing here? No one’s allowed—”
A round of explanations followed, with Rumley finally slipping into his medical tone. “What are the vital signs?”
“He’s breathing,” the man who presented himself as Dr. Cobert said. Rumley and Brayden exchanged a nod. As long as Lincoln was alive, they had a chance.
“Spasmodic contractions of the arms, with dilated pupils, around one o’clock,” the doctor reported. “We’ve been relieving pressure and cleaning the wound, but it stopped bleeding about an hour ago.”
“No time to lose,” Donnovan said. “Rumley, if you will set up?”
“What exactly are you planning to do?” one man asked.
“It’s a form of an experimental treatment—”
“ Experimental? ”
“We cannot allow you to use experimental techniques on the President!” One of the other men objected.
Donnovan seemed to be a second away from stomping his foot. “You don’t understand the urgency of the situation!”
“Sir, I assure you, I understand the urgency very well,” Dr. Cobert said. “I’d be most grateful if you could leave the room and let me continue my work.”
“If you’ll just let us—” Donnovan started.
This isn’t going anywhere. “Doctor.” Brayden tried to keep his voice calm despite his wildly pounding heart. “We’re merely trying to help. We have a medicine that hasn’t been made known to the public yet.”
“A medicine the medical community knows nothing about?”
“I know we’re asking a lot, but we only have the best intentions.” He glanced over at Lincoln’s unmoving body. “Would you not have us try anything?”
The doctor’s pursed lips released. “I have sworn to—”
***
The only sound, as Fabienne progressed through the boardinghouse, was the strange, elongated rustling of her skirts, and the dull thuds of her boots on the wood.
She passed an open parlor: inside, several women gathered around one in the center, a bloodstained cloak trailing behind her. The immovable scene looked almost like a painting. A Wife, in Mourning.
No. No time to think about that.
Focused and determined, she strode into the small bedroom at the back, eyes solely on the bed and her quarry.
No time to think. No time for hesitation.
You’ll find Mr. Lincoln in bed. Your job is simple. Administer him a spoonful of the potion from the second bottle.
So simple. A spoonful of poison to end his life. She fumbled with the bottle, trying not to look at Lincoln. The President looked to be in a desperate condition already. Couldn’t they just wait for him to die? It seemed like a certainty at this point.
It is, a voice inside her head reminded her, because you’ll do it.
A sudden shiver ran down her spine, a feeling of being watched. Impossible—freezing time would’ve stopped everyone.
Except for him . Henson’s executioner. He had his freezing tricks. Could he be here?
Holding her breath, Fabienne turned, half expecting to see the man hunched near the ceiling like a demon, his face concealed not by a hood, but a dark mist.
No demon. Just normal people—and in front of them—
Her knees buckled.
Brayden. Frozen, like the rest, one hand outstretched in a negotiating pose. Hair still rumpled from sleep—like she’d seen him so many times in the morning—no shirt collar, no tie, not even a waistcoat. He’d come here in a hurry.
A little moan escaped her, and the bottle slid from her fingers. It landed with a dull clang , and rolled away in a semi-circle, ending at some man’s boot.
Why, oh, why, did he have to be here? The little strings she’d tore melded back together, latched onto her soul and reached for him. She planted her feet down. A wife in mourning… I can’t accept that.
Precious seconds ticked away, the statue-like company silently judging her. She tried to ignore them, ignore Brayden, but it felt as if his pleading look was meant solely for her. Please, don’t look at me that way. Say you’d understand. I have to do it. I have to.
But if she did, who would she become? There was no way to make it out unscathed—not with her soul. Henson’s executioner had already planted a shadow in it. This was not a life worth living—for her, or for Brayden to live beside her.
This wasn’t a mission; it was blackmail. And there was only one way to victory that was worth any damn: to stop participating. Brayden had to be here for a professional—time travel—reason. Why else would Henson need to go to such lengths to kill a man already dead?
Brayden was good. He didn’t deserve her foiling his plans. And she didn’t deserve him.
Today, she was saying no.
The little string pulled her to Brayden. Her hands hovered above his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll find another way. I promise.”
She removed the dragonfly pin from her hair and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. She brushed his arm in a goodbye, turned, and ran from the room.
***
“—do no harm,” the doctor said. “I don’t know this medicine. However, in these extraordinary circumstances—”
“If you were to do this,” one general said, “The decision shouldn’t be made by a single individual. At least Mr. Lincoln’s family must consult on the matter.” That, with a nod to Lincoln’s son.
An invisible force pressed on Brayden’s chest, brushed his arm. The sway was enough for him to lose balance; he extended an arm to catch himself on the table, only to knock a few vials off it. “I’m sorry. I don’t know—”
With a muttered curse, the doctor brushed off his apology. Brayden bent to help him gather the scattered vials, only to have the doctor shoo him away.
“Just get out, all of you! Out!” He hastily dumped the vials back into his bag, keeping one in his hand. “The President needs another dose of medicine. Proper medicine.”
“But—” Donnovan began.
“Gentlemen,” the general said, “You’re welcome to remove yourself to one of the adjoining rooms while we discuss your proposition.”
“Fine,” Donnovan ground out. “But be quick.”
Brayden and Rumley followed him to the hallway.
“How long do you two need to set up the device?” Donnovan asked.
“A few minutes,” Rumley said. “But the wound is severe. We might have to repeat the procedure several times.”
And pray and hope that it works.
The minutes dwindled. Donnovan paced. Brayden leaned on the wall and stared aimlessly at the floor, the worn wood blurring before his eyes.
“No. No, I won’t allow this,” Donnovan finally said. “This is the Leader’s life we’re talking about. I don’t care what moral dilemmas they have. We—”
Brayden shuddered as a sudden gust of wind—almost like an invisible wave—chilled his body, all the way to the core.
“Did you feel that?” Rumley asked.
The three men shared a confused look.
Then Donnovan hissed and retrieved his watch out of his pocket. “What the hell… it’s heating up.” He yelped and tossed the watch like a hot potato, until he caught it on his sleeve. The watch made a hissing sound, like liquid being dropped on heated metal, and tendrils of smoke rose from it, followed by a few sparks.
Donnovan looked up from it. “Yours are fine?”
“I didn’t bring mine. Only the serum,” Rumley said.
Brayden felt for his waistcoat and touched only his shirt. Damn. In a bout of optimism, he checked his jacket pocket, not believing his luck when he encountered something hard. But as he pulled it out, he realized this wasn’t the smooth, round shape of his watch.
Down the hallway, the door to Lincoln’s room opened.
Brayden stared at the intricate dragonfly pin. Drawn in by those color-shifting wings, his world shrunk to the tiny object on his palm, the voices around him condensing and blurring.
As if in a dream, he reached for it—with a click of a button, it transformed into a clasp. One of a kind; the same one he’d bought months ago at Mr. Wallace’s shop.
Fabienne’s.
Something rattled the wall beside him: Donnovan had punched it.
“I had to call it.” Dr. Colbert stood at the door, his exhausted face crestfallen. “The official time will be 7:22 in the morning. It was—we had no…” He disappeared back into the room.
Struggling to understand the new sequence of events, Brayden followed Donnovan and Rumley into the room, his legs carrying him on their own. A deathly silence had fallen; no more whispers, no arguments.
They were too late.
“It can’t be. It can’t be,” Donnovan repeated, pulling on his hair. “Nothing else happened?”
“He simply slipped away,” the doctor said quietly. “After I gave him the last dose of laudanum.”
“And right before we could do something,” Donnovan muttered.
“What could have happened?” Rumley whispered to Donnovan. “It’s not like a ghost could come in here and, well…”
A ghost.
“Our men have already tried all they could.”
Not our men. A rogue agent. Brayden opened his fist; the dragonfly pin had left red marks where he’d squeezed it.
When did he last see it? Fabienne had worn it last evening, at supper. She was still wearing it when she came over with the tea. It was all fuzzy after that; he must have fallen asleep soon after—no, he remembered her leaving with the pin in her hair. How did it end up here? He was certain it hadn’t been in the jacket when he got dressed.
Where was Fabienne this morning?
Voices buzzed past him. “… move him over to the White House for autopsy…”
Cries and wailing came from the outside; a woman burst into the room and fell to her knees beside the bed.
It didn’t make any sense.
The shouts, the crying, the doubts screaming in his head, all boiled into one clear thought. Brayden looked up.
“I have to go,” he told Donnovan and Rumley, and was out of the door before they could respond.
***
Resting on the wall behind the nearest corner, Fabienne waited for the world to come back in motion. It was over. She quit, once and for all. Now, she had to devise a new plan.
She started walking with no particular destination in mind. Keep moving. Get away. The nausea overwhelmed her, forcing her to rest on the side of a building in an abandoned alley. Her stomach twisted in knots, and bile rose in her throat. Can’t stop. Can’t give up like that.
She had to—what was she to do? Can’t go back to Brayden. Being in his proximity was possibly the most dangerous thing she could do—the easiest way for Henson’s executioner to invoke his punishment.
She couldn’t tell him anything for now, but she had to do something, notify him somehow. With trembling fingers, she pulled out the watch and set it back a few hours, to the time when she was wasting away in her bedroom. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and paused for a moment. What to say? A few drops of ink splattered on the pristine white sheet. Finding her first words, she bent down and scribbled a note, then placed it on the bed. He’d connect that to the dragonfly pin. He’d find her out.
He’d forgiven her secrets once. But this was bigger, and so much worse. He’d probably come after her—or try. But would he understand?
Her mind reeled. If she could, she’d grab his hand and they’d run, hide, live out a life free of everyone else. But that was just wishful thinking. A fantasy. She was still trapped here.
But she had her watch, and the almonite in her blood wouldn’t pass out for a few more weeks. Once she calmed down, she’d figure something out. She’d fix this.
It was her last thought before a shot sounded, and pain exploded in her skull.
***
Emily ran past the crowd at the Petersen House and dove into the alleys surrounding the area. The wonder of being in another time, of smelling and feeling a past era, was left behind in the wake of other concerns.
How was she to find Fabienne in this labyrinth? In their debriefing, Will had said ‘one of the streets’. She’d thought it easy. Now that she was here, and each mud-covered alley was less attractive than the last, it seemed impossible.
She zig-zagged, peering down dark passages. She paused, listening for voices, or scared by her own splashing steps, but there was nobody close by. She turned into another alley; far down, it opened into the light and busy Pennsylvania Avenue.
How much time had passed already? Had she missed her chance of finding Fabienne?
She took a break and leaned onto a cold brick wall.
Footsteps.
Quick, light—one person. Air caught in her lungs, she sneaked along the wall, glanced around the corner, and almost let out a yelp. A woman appeared on the other end of the alley. Her skirts and cloak fluttered around her as she marched right toward Emily. The woman glanced behind and the voluminous hood of her cloak slipped back, revealing a pale face and black hair escaping from confinement.
Fabienne. Emily froze, not sure what to do. Fabienne stopped and leaned on the nearby building. She fiddled with something in her hands, and suddenly, her form went limp.
Did she time travel? Seriously, Fabienne? Your life’s in danger!
After a few seconds, Fabienne stirred again. Okay. Go for it. Emily would pretend to be a concerned citizen and ask Fabienne if she needed help. Surely, she wouldn’t find a girl threatening.
Steadying herself, she pushed off the wall and stepped into the alley. Fabienne hadn’t noticed her yet, still looking down at the watch. Emily swallowed, preparing her greeting. Another step. Ready to go, now.
A loud bang echoed through the narrow passage. A spray of blood burst from Fabienne’s temple. She didn’t get to scream; she just collapsed, limp as a rag doll.
Dead.