Time's Edge

“Katherine’s right. But either Pru didn’t know that or at some point she moved past caring. She runs her younger self pretty ragged, tasking her with errands that she won’t entrust to anyone else. I guess, from her perspective, it’s no different from what Saul had her doing when he’d order her to show up in visions or at church events—he didn’t like it when she started to show signs of age, so he’d have someone go back to the middle of the night when she was under twenty, wake her up, make her up, and pack her off to wherever he needed a message delivered.”

“So twenty is old to him?”

“I don’t know. It’s think it’s more that the Cyrists have pitched Pru as ageless. She’s a big part of the whole eternal-life myth for the Koreshan Cyrists, and a lot of Cyrists still believe that. I guess you could say she’s sort of a living trademark.”

“That’s insane. How many times has she . . .”

“No clue. A general rule of thumb I follow is the older the Prudence, the more likely she’s bat-shit crazy. You’ll get flashes of sanity, but they’re rare as she gets older, because so many bits of memory have been overwritten. Do you know about VHS?”

The question is such a total non sequitur that it literally stops me in my tracks, and then I have to hustle to catch up. “What? You mean, like video tapes? A little, I guess. We’ve used DVDs as long as I can remember. What does that have to do with—”

“When you get back, ask your dad what happens when you record over them. I don’t understand the technology, but it helped Kate get a handle on it before. Something about afterimages. Anyway, the more I’ve thought about it, the more certain I am that Pru wanted me to know what they were pla

We’re approaching a crowd of about twenty men, a few with kids in tow, lined up outside a café. Once we’re past the group, Kiernan holds up a finger for me to wait and then steps over to whisper something to a thin man near the end of the line. A boy of five or six, with long blond hair falling down over tired eyes, clutches the man’s pant leg, staring up at Kiernan as they talk.

The guy listens to Kiernan for a moment, then shakes his head and waves him off. He looks back, however, as though he’s reconsidering what he was told, as we’re walking away.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“They’re lined up for the bookie. Told him the smart money’s on the Browns, ’cause Cy isn’t pitching, which actually isn’t true, but they lose anyway. Don’t think I convinced him. Must be a die-hard Americans fan.”

“Is this baseball? I thought the Browns were football, and I’ve never even heard of the Americans.”

He covers his heart in mock pain. “Of course, it’s baseball. The Americans become the Red Sox. The Browns are Saint Louis. Don’t know what they become. You know Cy Young, right?”

“I’ve heard of the award. A pitcher, right?”

“Not just a pitcher. The best pitcher ever, who, even in your day, holds the record for consecutive hitless i

“But baseball’s only nine i

“Yes, but there were eleven extra i

I can’t help but smile, because he sounds as animated as when he was a kid back at the Expo. “You said we went to the game. Was Other-Kate into baseball?”

“Um, not really,” he admits with a little frown. “It was an early birthday present for me. She slept through about half the game.”

The Nationals game I saw with Dad didn’t go into extra i

“The games are a lot of fun, though,” he continues. “The Americans are at home next week. I could get tickets—”

“I don’t think so.”

He grins, and I’m pretty sure he’s making Other-Kate comparisons, but it isn’t worth sitting through a game to prove him wrong, especially when I’d probably end up dozing off and proving him right.

We stroll along in silence for a few minutes. Or rather we’re silent, though I can’t say the same for the city. From what I can tell, there isn’t any order at all to the traffic. Trolley cars, horse-drawn buggies, and the occasional car—all painted black—share the road, but they are sharing only in the loosest sense of the word. It’s more accurate to say that it’s every vehicle for itself. Every few seconds you hear a loud clang from one or both ends of a trolley trying to avoid braking for one of the many carriages, bicycles, or pedestrians wandering on and off the tracks.

Another bell rings out behind us, and I turn toward Kiernan. “Is it always this crazy? I wouldn’t have thought there’d be so much traffic on Saturday.”

“This isn’t busy. You should see this area before the subway is built.”

As I glance away from the traffic and look again at the buildings, I realize that at some point we crossed an invisible culture line. Most people two or three blocks back looked European, but the residents here are almost entirely Asian, and most of the signs appear to be written in Chinese.

Kiernan notices my expression and says, “Yeah, we’re in Chinatown. But don’t worry. It’s safe.”

“Why would you assume that I’d think it wasn’t safe?” I ask.

He looks puzzled. “Well, I don’t know. Because it’s different?”

I raise an eyebrow, but then I realize he isn’t being intentionally racist. It’s like this experiment we did in sociology class last year. Things that are different, things that don’t fit into our own typical surroundings, do tend to set off some sort of subliminal trigger in most people. Your pulse beats faster, you become more aware of your environment, more in touch with your fight-or-flight response. So I just give him a smile and say, “I’ve been to Chinatown before. In DC. This can’t be much different.”

“Maybe not,” he says, sniffing the air. “Do they have bao in DC’s Chinatown?”

“They do. I’ve seen them at dim sum.” I take a deep breath and catch hints of bread, garlic, and sesame. Looking across the street, I locate the source of the aroma—Lock Sen Low Chinese Restaurant.

“I don’t know dim sum,” he says. “But I do know bao. They were breakfast for me and Da most mornings at the Expo. And since I haven’t had breakfast . . .” Without warning, he grabs my arm and executes one of those suicidal maneuvers I’ve seen several other people try in the past few minutes. Rather than cross at the corner like a civilized person, he yanks us into traffic, just before a trolley comes barreling around the bend. So now we’re the reason the conductor is clanging the bell and shouting as the trolley misses us by mere inches.

As soon as we’re on the other side, I yank my arm away. “Have you lost your mind?”

“What?” He looks like he hasn’t the slightest idea what I mean, until I shoot a pointed glance toward the street.

“Waiting politely won’t get you across the street in Boston,” he informs me, “at least not in 1905. There aren’t any of those blinking idiot signs that show a hand and count down the seconds for you.”

“I like the idiot signs,” I mutter. “Your method seems more likely to get me killed.”

Lock Sen Low is apparently on the second floor, but there’s a cart just inside the stairwell. A young Chinese guy opens the lid of the large bamboo steam tray, and Kiernan points to a plain white bun and then to one scattered with black sesame seeds.