CHAPTER ONE #2
“As fun as this is, we have to go,” I warn, distracted by a clamor of voices outside the door.
Our poor host must have sought help for the ghost, but I have one less-than-sanctioned task remaining.
Beam, although studying the underwear, will catch me red-handed from where she floats.
I gesture desperately at Ender, looking pointedly between Beam and the window.
“Come on, you slowpoke,” Ender says, comically cross as he holds his arms out. He hates nothing more than having to depend on her, but alas, only ghosts can hold ghosts.
“I am much faster than you,” Beam says, lifting him out of the ground and shooting towards the window.
As they bicker, I swipe the shiny button I’d seen on the bed into my pocket.
The back of my neck tingles, but it’s only Ender studying me from over Beam’s shoulder.
I give him a quick, guilty nod and hurry over to them, the string clutched by Ender and me now noticeably shorter, directing us out of this dimension.
“You know I hate heights,” I grumble at the omnipresent force of time.
The same needling energy from earlier berates me. That’s what you deserve, is how I’d translate it.
The three of us wrap our hands along the same spot of the timeline, which is growing thicker and more taut as it heals.
I’m listening anxiously for the door as I climb onto the window because, surely, we’ve cut it too close; surely, this is when it all goes wrong.
Ahead, the tops of the buildings glow red under the afternoon sun.
People mill about their normal day below; no one looks up to see a five-hundred-year-old woman masquerading as a twenty-seven-year-old with two neurotic ghosts, ready to swing down time like it’s a zip line.
The door clicks; my heart drops. But in the split second before it swings open, I close my eyes and jump.
Instead of falling down, we’re ensconced in a womb of darkness, like we leapt into outer space instead of onto the cold, hard ground. All I hear is a sharp snap that rings in my skull as we detach from the moment in time.
Dust plumes into my face as I hit the ground hard.
It always takes a minute to gather myself after time travel, even though it’s as routine as brushing my teeth.
The landing has never been graceful; I’ve attempted to contort my body into different positions to see if anything would help me not feel like I’ve been kicked in the teeth.
Once, in 1943 Mumbai, the time-swallowed object was a woman’s ring, and the rot in the timeline was under her bed.
You would think that lying down on your stomach while being whipped home would be more comfortable, but that journey ended in a split lip.
I groan from the pain ricocheting through my bones. Next to me, Beam shakes out her limbs, while Ender’s head swivels up from the ground, the rest of his body submerged well into the earth.
“All fingers and toes intact?” I ask, releasing the tight braid that’s been yanking at my skull and combing my fingers through the loose curls.
“That would be quite the miracle, considering the state of you,” says a voice to the right.
My stomach does a traitorous flip as I take in the man leaning by a pine tree. He’s dressed in beige pants, a button-bown vest over a white shirt that looks like it’s been intentionally crumpled, and dirt-clad brown boots. His newly cropped glacier-white hair sparkles like crystals held to light.
I dust off the back of my pants. “You got a haircut.”
He grins, twin dimples appearing on both cheeks. “I was bored. You all take so long.”
“Wonder whose fault that is,” I grumble.
He ignores me. “What lovely little object was the cause of drama this trip?”
“Everest!” Beam cries, soaring over to her second-favorite person – at least until he sneaks her more cotton candy than I’d normally allow. “It was a magical girdle.” There’s undoubtable pride in her pronunciation.
Everest’s eyes widen with amusement. “Do you know what that is?”
“I do,” Beam says, floating to his other side. “It’s underwear. And when we followed the string, it was tangled up in a knot, and Ryka found it in the…”
As Beam babbles on, I take a steadying breath before studying the portal that so gently delivered us back: the carousel.
It never fails to steal my breath. The beautiful mahogany platform is at least five hundred feet in diameter, but its size is the least impressive thing about it.
Magnificent ice horses in shades of blue and green gracefully undulate along silver drop rods.
Up close, you can see the details: the embroidered cloth hanging down their backs, the ornamented bridles running past their eyes, their beaded and braided manes and tails, flecked with gold accents.
The cresting on the rounding board is intricate, shaped into stars and swirls that look like they reach high enough to touch the rapidly dimming sky.
And then there’s the cloud of blue and silver that spins with the carousel, made up of countless strings exactly like the one I just held in my hand.
The strings of time. Except one strand in the middle runs black: the texture of time rot, the slip that alerted us of a mishap in need of fixing.
In this event, a missing girdle of apparently vast importance.
As I watch with bated breath, the rot fades until it’s a darker hue of blue, soon indistinguishable from the rest of the loom.
Order of the universe restored for today.
“If it were up to me, you would have brought the magical underwear back with you,” Everest says, sliding to my right. “Beam says it wasn’t very pretty, but I think the appeal of underwear lies in the person wearing it.”