Time's Edge

“Katherine didn’t even have cancer in the other timeline,” Kiernan says. “Maybe we could go forward, get some better drugs.” His eyes shift down to my jawline for a split second, and I know he’s thinking about the hydrogel he used after I was splashed with the acid in Hotel Hell. I don’t even want to think about how badly I would be scarred if he hadn’t.

“Maybe,” I say. “Katherine and I talked about it before, but she said it was something they have to catch early. I don’t know if it would just be a matter of pills at this stage of the game, but they might have something that would buy her some time. I’m not sure how I’d convince some future doctor to help. How did you get the hydrogel?”

“Swiped it from the medical center at Nuevo Reino.”

“So . . . do you think you could get in there and snag an anti-cancer drug from . . .” I stop and think for a minute. “Katherine said around 2070, I think?”

“Nope.” Co

“What do you mean nope?” I ask after he sits down.

“It’s not going to happen, Kate. You cure her, and you risk screwing up any progress we’ve made thus far. Katherine and I have discussed this many times, and I can’t budge her on this one. It could change too many variables. So, nope.”

He reads my expression and says, “I don’t like it either, Kate. But we both know she’s right. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re skating on ether each time you grab a key. It’s like that Kerplunk game—eventually you’ll pull out a straw that brings all the marbles tumbling down.”

I doubt Kiernan even knows what Kerplunk is, but he nods and takes a sip of his beer. “Last time the final straw was 1938. I don’t know why. Maybe one or more of those keys ends up with people in the i

I turn toward Co

“I know there were three historians stranded there, all embedded with the FWP—the Federal Writers’ Project. That location was used frequently by CHRONOS, because it was a sweet setup. The project hired thousands of unemployed people to record the life stories of average people. In places where jobs were scarce, if you could write a coherent sentence, they’d put you to work.”

Co

“Slavery?” I ask. “It’s 1938.”

“So? Someone born in 1855 would be in his mideighties in ’38, likely to have some pretty solid childhood memories about living under slavery.”

“And,” Dad adds, “they’d have even better stories about the Reconstruction era. Your mom used FWP interviews in one of the classes she taught.”

“Yeah,” Co

“I think it was Grant,” Kiernan says. “Although I don’t know if that’s a first name or a last name.”

“Well, this jump worries me,” I say. “We save it for last. But I want to do at least one trip ahead of time to get my bearings. I can observe Delia’s crew from a distance, maybe, but mostly I just want to get a feel for the time and place.”

“Okay,” Co

“Yes.” There’s one last question on the list, so I turn to Kiernan. “Do you have any idea how many medallions the Cyrists have in total?”

“No. Simon and Prudence always have one. And I’ve never seen Saul without his, although that’s clearly a power thing, since he can’t use it. I thought that each of the regional leaders had a medallion, but if they do, then the numbers you mentioned earlier don’t add up.”

Kiernan stares at his bottle for a minute. “If I’d had to guess before I heard Co

“Have you ever been in a group of them?” Dad asks. “A meeting, maybe?”

“Yeah.” He tallies something up on his fingers and then says, “Six. I think. Counting mine. That’s the most I’ve seen in one place. So, even if we don’t count the Houdini key, it means at least one of the five keys we’re going after on these three jumps is one currently in their possession. One they’re go

“All the marbles come tumbling down,” I say. “Kerplunk.”

∞8∞

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

July 29, 1905, 9:58 a.m.

My 1905 dress is on top of the faded quilt that covers Kiernan’s bed. I don’t see him at first, and then there is a slight movement in the periphery as he walks into view and crosses over to a small mirror on the wall next to the red curtain. He’s wearing the white shirt and black pants again¸ although I don’t see the tie.

He catches sight of me in the mirror a few seconds after I blink in. I expect his usual grin, but this time his face is troubled.

“What’s wrong?”

He runs his tongue across his teeth and shakes his head. “I’ve just . . . I’ve decided this isn’t a good idea.”

Okay, if someone had told me yesterday that Kiernan was willing to call off this trip, I’d have been relieved. My experience with his field trips hasn’t exactly been positive. I guess I’m just contrary, however, because now I don’t like that he’s canceling it, especially since he didn’t bother to ask my opinion on the matter.

But mostly, I know that Kiernan was looking forward to this. I glance around this room, this bubble he lives in where he can still imagine that his Kate exists. I don’t know if it’s because this project was something he shared with Other-Kate or because it’s something concrete that he’s doing on his own to fight the Cyrists, but when he talks about it, that tiny, fluttering spark of hope in his eyes flares into a flame. And though I really shouldn’t let myself care about that, I do.

“What about getting Houdini’s key?”

“He won’t be there today. I don’t know when or even if he’ll take the bait and . . .” He sits on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said before. About how if there’s even a tiny risk, it’s not worth it.”

“So, when Houdini does show up, are you going to need my help?”