CLAIRE. April 1945.
"Ms. Foley?"
What?
I stood in the middle of the fixated tube that occupied the time machine's interior. The stationed pilot was only visible from the small glass window, placed just near the edge of the launch post a few feet away from where I stood. I squinted into the window, and signalled that I didn't get the message.
"Headgear on, please, Ms. Foley."
"Oh." I released the helmet from its lock and put it on. I reclosed the clasp and from there I began feeling nauseous. The machine seemed to sway, and sure enough, it did.
"Initial motor check, with the passenger."
I shook my head. The voice was obscured by several beeping noises coming from both outside and inside the machine. Eventually they clashed and began reverberating painfully in my head. The engines from behind me whirred restlessly—bronze gears screeched as the several exterior locks clattered into place.
"Motor check . . . successful. We're just making . . . safety tests before launch."
What?
The longer I wore the helmet, the more difficult things became to hear, thankfully it also covered most of the machinery noise. I stood as firm as I could, desperately trying to slow my heartbeat down my putting my hands over my chest in hopes to ease my breathing. I was given a medical run-through just before the test, including all necessary stabilization processes. I couldn't help but wonder if this might have been worse if I hadn't gone through those . . .
Breathe, Claire. Breathe.
Another beep coming from the inside, this time so loud it pierced right through my helmet, trumping all the other noises. My ears buzzed and my hands trembled. I felt the hair on my skin raising. My chest tightened even more. Perhaps it would be better if they gave me anaesthetics instead?
"Launch . . . two minutes. Begin . . . countdown."
Two minutes? That seemed enough time to calm myself down as I needed to, so I did exactly that.
". . . Claire. Be safe."
Hmmm? Was that . . .?
"Initiating launch."
I heard the propeller whirl, and the world around me spun just as so. Everything else was a blur of black and white, made worse by a burning smell that eventually grew too strong that my tongue got numb from its taste and the ear-splitting rattling of the engine just below where I was, making my legs tremble. I held the rails inside the launch tube and closed my eyes.
Glass began shattering, first bit by bit, then shattering all at once. It was the observation window. Smoke coming through it from the outside caused me to choke and cough. I couldn't get even a glance of what was outside—everything was moving too fast, and the rest of my body was numbing itself down. My head throbbed harder and my legs barely held up.
My ears rang once more. More wind and smoke rushed into the machine, filling it almost completely. I didn't dare open my eyes. I couldn't. But I didn't need to—that is, to know that a door had been flung open by the force. Another beep cut through all the noise.
I gasped, and quite painfully.
No.
The shutdown valve had been triggered.
HERSHEL. April 1945.
"Oh, good afternoon! That is a lovely hat, Mr. Layton," the jeweller greeted. "Hmm . . . or should I say, Professor Layton?"
"Good day, lad. Thank you. . . Well, I suppose word does travel quickly." I turned in a subtle smile. "But it seems too early for formalities."
The young jeweller shrugged. "Still, it has a nice ring to it."
"Ah! Ring . . ." That, I found, was a really clever coincidence. I suppose it isn't so bad to just cut to the chase every once in a while. "Yes, a ring, speaking of which," I told him, hovering over the rows of precious jewellery encased in glass.
He glanced intently at the top hat. "Did I hear right? A ring?" He asked, looking quite delighted, grinning at me. "So you've made up your mind about this, sir? When would this be?"
"Actually, I was planning later at dinner. . ."
"Ahhh . . ." He squinted. "Well . . . I suppose I know one . . ." The lad began skimming the displays and before I could even respond he was already holding a quaint velvet box. He set it down before me and opened it—and inside was an intricate silver ring, molded with detail along the outside, and decorated with a tiny pink pearl in the center.
I held the ring and for a moment I knew I felt a familiar warmth buzz through.
How the young lad managed to pick a piece spot on in such little time was beyond me . . . I supposed he knew me too well. Perhaps he already knew the lady I would be giving it to. I looked at it once again. My God . . . It's perfect. Too perfect . . . perhaps even too good to be true. But, dear me, was it really the time to be cynical of things?
"What do you think, sir?" He grinned once again.
"Why . . . I think that's it, lad."
"Excellent!"
He took the box and wrapped it in a sheet of patterned fabric. A white silk ribbon sealed the package. Before I paid for it, he asked, "Well, I hope you don't mind me asking, dear sir, but did she like the pocket watch?"
I nodded. "Oh yes, she did indeed."
"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, handing me the small wrapped box, in which lay another gift for her—for Claire.
"I suppose I should go now. Thank you so much. Until next time, my boy."
"I'm honored . . . Professor."
I walked back to the house, gift in hand, and top hat on. Like a true gentleman.
The weight of the ring was light, but a pang of uncertainty made it feel heavier than it was. This gift was different. I might have argued with myself saying it was just another small token, but a token nonetheless, and . . . a symbolic one, just like the pocket watch I had given her. It wasn't so puzzling, not as puzzling as before, thanks to the good lad, who caught on quickly enough.
Well, the real puzzle, it might seem, did not lie in the ring itself, but how Claire would take everything. What could she possibly say? We had talked about this, somehow, although quite shyly, a few weeks ago.
"Hmm . . . you mentioned something about plans, Hershel?"
"Plans! Ah, of course. . . Plans . . ."
"Would you care to tell?" She gave me a sweet smile once again.
"I was thinking, perhaps, after I get into the university . . ."
We hadn't talked about this; the topic of . . . marriage came about in subtle hints, like stray puzzle pieces. We only managed to discuss my admission into the Gressenheller faculty, her pursuing a medical degree, and . . . today's experimental run.
From there my thoughts lingered. I thought of where Claire could be right now, or even when. My heart beat grew faster. I glanced at the little velvet box in my hand, and held it tight. I adjusted my hat, a gift from Claire when she visited earlier this day, as I thought of her and what she had told me: "Very dashing, Hershel. The picture of a true gentleman."
Oh, what I'd do, to make sure my dear lady is safe. Right now, more than anything, I wish for her safety.
Be safe, Claire. I whisper to the wind.
Although lost in a vast sea of thought and possibility, I proceeded to stroll along the London streets, praying and hoping.
