The air around them was thick, swampy; like being inside a giant's mouth. Her blood tingled beneath her skin. Sam blinked and observed her surroundings. She was sprawled out on damp grass, which tickled her chin and ears. To her left, rows of tall oaks lined a path that stretched far into the horizon. The sun bobbed low in the sky. Autumn-dipped leaves sprayed from the branches—bright greens melted into fiery crimsons. JB crawled to his knees beside her.
So much for an easy landing.
He scrambled to his feet and lowered his arm for her. "Sam, are you okay?"
Sam took his hand and let him pull her upright. She shook out her limbs and the pins and needles sensation dissolved. "I'm fine. Did I get dirt on my dress?" She craned her neck to check for signs of damage apart from the broken sash.
"Sam, look at me," said JB. She obeyed. "Could you forget about your clothes for one second and tell me if you really are okay? I almost lost you."
"Really, I'm fine," she insisted. "A bit of a rough landing, but we made it, didn't we?"
"But you're shaking." He rested his hand on her forearm, which she realized was indeed trembling. "I'm so sorry for letting go of you."
"It was an accident."
"I shouldn't have been goofing around. It was stupid of me."
She took a deep breath and exhaled her leftover adrenaline to ease the shaking. "I'm okay, JB," she assured him. "You don't need to beat yourself up—" she glanced down at her dress again— "unless there's a stain on this nice fabric."
"Your dress is fine," he huffed. "And you're incorrigible."
She suppressed a grin and scanned the landscape for signs of human life. Nothing at the moment. Still, she felt out of place. "I'm going to have to change before we meet our new hosts. Can't walk into 1849 looking like it's 1817. Any idea where our trunks landed?"
JB pulled something out of his coat—a silver pocket watch on a chain—and flipped it open. "Elucidator, show me where the trunks are." He waited for a second, nodded, and shoved the watch back into his coat. "Follow me."
He led her down the tree-lined path as the sky dimmed and blinking fireflies played hide-and-seek between the trees. Sam fanned herself in the dense humidity. Hopefully some nice lightweight linen garments waited for her closeby.
She was not disappointed. Two trunks were stacked in a little wooden shed on the side of the path. She dashed inside and dove for the largest one. "I assume this one's mine," she said as she unfastened the buckles. "Petticoats take up a lot of space. I'm honestly surprised Cira was able to fit everything in just two trunks."
"Oh, she wasn't," said JB. "These are for show. Look." He pulled a brown drawstring purse out of his own trunk and held it up for her to see. "This is a nifty little bag we like to call a stuffer-sack. Whatever you put inside gets sent to a designated time hollow as soon as you pull it shut. When you need it again, you tell the bag what you want and it gets summoned back when you open it."
"Like Mary Poppins's bag?" said Sam, delighted. Where had this stuffer-sack been all her life?
"No, Mary Poppins had a magic bag," said JB. "This is science."
"But it works the same way, right? It holds an infinite amount of stuff."
"No, it holds one item at a time and stores the rest in a time hollow." Sam blinked at him and he threw up his arms in surrender. "Okay, sure. For all intents and purposes, it's like the bag from Mary Poppins."
Satisfied, Sam flung open her trunk and dove for the treasures inside.
They took turns changing in the shed. The delicate linen drawers and chemise felt heavenly against her skin compared to the taffeta of her Regency dress. Even the three layers of petticoats were stiff enough that they hardly touched her legs and rather shaded them from the remaining sunlight. The dress itself was made of sheer lilac muslin with a pleated bodice and sleeves that widened into narrow bell shapes at the elbows. The outfit came with a matching straw bonnet, which she hastily plopped on her head before rushing out so JB could have his turn.
JB changed quickly and emerged in an elegantly understated getup with a snug jacket and trousers, and a wide-brimmed felt hat. In his right hand, he held a black walking stick.
Now properly dressed, they continued down the path as sunset beld into dusk. Soon, the path came to an end at a majestic wrought iron gate sandwiched between walls of cropped bushes. A large brick manor in a circular courtyard waited quietly beyond it.
JB slipped his hand into his breast pocket and retrieved the envelope Cira had left for them. "Remember," he said, "we stick to the story laid out in this letter and the family living here should let us stay with them."
Sam squared her shoulders and nodded. JB pushed open the gate and led her around the marble fountain at the center of the courtyard, up to the manor's white front door. They got into position—JB straightened his walking stick and gripped it with confidence; Sam rested her hand on his forearm and tied the bonnet's loose ribbons under her jaw.
JB knocked.
Within seconds, a light pattering sound rippled from inside the home and the door swung open. A tall middle-aged woman stood in the doorway.
"G-good evening?" she stuttered. Her brows were raised in surprise, but her expression was friendly. She wore a plaid green dress with her auburn hair looped behind her ears into a bun.
JB removed his hat and bowed. "Forgive us for the intrusion, Mrs. Hart," he said. "My name is John Blythe, and this is my wife Caroline." Sam curtseyed. "We call upon you on the advice of a friend. You see, our train to Philadelphia was stopped unexpectedly in Richmond. Now our quickest way home is on a steamboat that does not leave for Philadelphia until Thursday. A relative of yours with whom we'd become acquainted on the train has written this letter and instructed us to bring it to you." JB handed her the letter. "He told us that you and your husband were kind people who would take in some stranded travelers for a few nights while we await our boat."
Mrs. Hart quickly skimmed the letter and offered them a warm smile. In a cheerful drawl, she said, "Ah, I am glad to hear you've befriended my cousin Robert. It seems you've had a tiresome journey and I am happy to host you, but allow me to confirm with my husband. For now, please come in and wait in the foyer. There is tea on the little table if you would like." She stepped aside to reveal a lavish entry hall with a pristine white ceiling, carved all over with flourishes. In the center, a crystal chandelier shed glittering flecks of light everywhere. Portraits in golden frames hung on each wall, and a pair of sweeping wooden staircases wrapped around the room from an upper balcony, like giant outstretched arms. Sam held her breath as she followed JB and Mrs. Hart over the threshold onto sleek wooden floors. Incapable of words, she simply nodded in thanks as Mrs. Hart sat them down at a small wooden table in the right hand corner, where a silver tea set awaited them.
"This is the most beautiful house I've ever seen," said Sam once Mrs. Harty was upstairs and out of earshot.
JB cocked his head. "You said the exact same thing about the last two places we've stayed." He was eyeing her in that strange way again, just like he had at the market in Gévaudan and at the Daley's piano and when she first stepped into Tyburn House for the dance. She wondered what thoughts lingered behind those pensive green eyes.
"I can't help it if I have a natural appreciation for the extraordinary," she responded finally. "I mean, look me in the eye and tell me you're not a little bit enraptured by this incredible architecture."
"Believe me, I am enraptured."
Ha, right. He'd hardly even glanced at the room.
There was no time to decipher his meaning because they were interrupted by a hairy blur of pure energy that raced down the stairs, followed by a red-faced boy. The boy scrambled after the creature and yelled, "Pip, give that back!"
The animal stopped at the stair landing just long enough for Sam to identify it as a medium-sized mutt with short brown fur and a boot clamped between its teeth. The boy, who looked about ten, lunged forward and clutched the boot with both hands. The puppy's tail flapped wildly, apparently delighted at the prospect of tug-of-war.
Sam's heart lunged into her throat, and she sprung out of her seat. "Oh, he's so cuuuuuuute!" she cried in what most certainly was not a historically appropriate manner. The look of horror on JB's face made that very clear.
Sam had only seconds to collect herself before Mrs. Hart came charging back down the stairs with a lanky, gray-haired man close behind her. The man chased the dog down the hall and pried the boot out of its mouth before nudging it out the front door. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hart embraced the agitated boy.
"My deepest apologies," Mrs. Hart panted, shaking her head. "I had hoped to introduce my family under more dignified circumstances."
"Not at all, Mrs. Hart," Sam said. "I find dogs simply delightful!"
"Pip is my dog," the boy blurted, "but he don't listen to me."
The man returned to the stair landing and bowed to JB and Sam. "If I may introduce myself, my name is Bertram Hart, and this is my son Tom. I would welcome you to stay in my home, but I fear you may no longer wish to associate with us brutes." His smile was humble, but there was a hint of laughter in his eyes.
"It would be an honor to stay in your beautiful home," said JB. "We are so grateful for your kindness."
They recited their introductions and Sam made sure to nod and curtsey when appropriate, but Tom must have noticed her eyeing the front door because he said, "Pip's not supposed to come inside."
"I see," said Sam, hoping the dog at least had a comfortable barn to sleep in. "Do you play with him in the yard?"
"Play?" Tom grimaced as though offended. "Pip's a hunting dog. Pa says he'll be useful if trained right. But he ain't trained right yet."
Sam shrugged. "Well, he's still a puppy. He just wants to be loved right now."
Tom nodded, but it was clear he'd stopped paying attention, as he'd wandered to his father's side and tugged at Mr. Hart's sleeve. "Pa, I need my boot." Mr. Wesley knelt down and placed the boot in Tom's hand, saying, "Go put that upstairs and come back down in an hour for supper."
That night they dined on sweet corn and tender pork. Sam, who was typically a slow eater, found herself struggling to maintain a polite pace with her meal. Compared to the mild taste of Birmingham's English cuisine, dinner at the Harts' was an eruption of flavor. She made sure to praise Mrs. Hart.
Mrs. Hart laughed. "That is very kind, Mrs. Blythe. I'm quite happy with our new cook."
Tom crossed his arms and pouted at his mother. "Cook Nellie made it better."
Mrs. Hart's smile stiffened and she froze in her seat. At the same time, Mr. Hart coughed suddenly, as if taken aback by the remark. "Cook Lucy is perfectly fine, Tom," he muttered finally.
Sam caught JB's eye. That was weird, right? she tried to convey, but JB quickly looked away, as if to say, Not now.
"There's an apple tart for dessert," Mrs. Hart declared abruptly. "Do tell me when to fetch the dessert plates."
They finished the main course free of further awkwardness and Sam refrained from complimenting the dessert, though it was just as delicious. Mrs. Hart kindly mentioned that JB and Sam were free to choose any books from the library to enjoy while they stayed at the house, which evolved into a jovial discussion of Charles Dickens's best works. Luckily A Christmas Carol was published in 1843 because Sam could hardly resist a long chat about her favorite holiday story. She reeled it in, however, when JB nudged her ankle with his boot after she'd ventured down a long tangent regarding her favorite holiday customs. "And I would say Christmas Eve is the superior holiday because by Christmas morning, all the carols and festivities have come to an end and frankly, I find it rather sad…" From the scandalized looks on the Harts' faces, she knew JB had made the right call. She'd forgotten that Christmas Day, in particular, was a sacred holiday to many people. Thankfully, it was at that moment that the grandfather clock in the parlor struck midnight, and they all migrated upstairs.
In the privacy of their guest room, Sam snatched a pillow off the bed and groaned into it. "Ughhh, now they probably think I'm the devil's spawn who hates Christmas. And that's not even true! I love Christmas, it's my second favorite holiday!"
JB snorted. "Second to Christmas Eve?"
"Yes, exactly!" She lowered the pillow just enough to peer out at JB. "Okay, maybe Christmas is my third favorite. Halloween is second."
"Ah, there it is. Satan personified."
She tossed the pillow at him. "Well, I'm glad my humiliation amuses you." She sighed and let herself fall backward onto the bed. The ceiling in here was ornately carved, just like in the entry hall. The cornflower blue walls were striking against the red Turkish rug on the floor and the burgundy quilt under her back. The furniture was made of rich mahogany and upholstered with plump brocades and velvets. Sam suddenly felt exhausted. She closed her eyes.
"Get some sleep," said JB, and she felt the gentle brush of his fingers on her cheek. "You'll feel better in the morning."
...
At first, she thought it was the sun, that red glow that shone through her eyelids. Had she slept so late that it was already mid afternoon? But when she opened her eyes, darkness was all that greeted her. JB was across the room in a velvet armchair, his head lolled sideways as he slept. Behind him was a window, where slits of weak light shone through dark curtains. There was no way this was the source of the bright light that had awoken her.
She realized she was still wearing her clothes from the previous night, and considered stripping down to her chemise, when a golden orb materialized in front of the bedroom door, emitting a familiar, inviting glow.
And suddenly, she was out of bed, making her way across the room, reaching for the doorknob. It was like time had turned to liquid, and she was floating down a river toward the unknown. The current swept her downstairs, through the foyer, out the front door, into the courtyard…
Stop. The voice in her head was soft, but insistent. Don't follow the light.
But why not? The light was comforting, friendly. It was calling to her for a reason.
It's a trick. it's always a trick.
Always? Why did that word make her shiver?
Because this is not the first time. Because somewhere, deep down, you remember.
Remember what?
Sam dug her heels into the grass and squeezed her eyes shut. Her head was full of stardust, and it clouded her consciousness. Something was terribly wrong.
But the warm glow felt terribly right.
Stay put. Don't follow.
The light bled through her eyelids, but she willed herself to ignore it. It swelled—orange blended into red and brown and purple.
Just a little longer.
She held her breath, clenched her jaw, turned her thoughts toward anything and everything but the siren glow. She thought of Tony and his goofy dog grin, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. She thought of Abby pounding on the piano, of Sarah and Mary laughing in the market square. She thought of JB and his kind eyes, and the way his face softened every time he talked about those kids he loved so much.
Finally, the dreamy fog cleared from her mind and birdsong pierced through. Cautiously, she opened her eyes and peered through her lashes until she was sure the orb was gone. Dewy grass grazed her ankles and dampened her stockings. The house was yards away and she realized the orb had taken her to the edge of a field behind the house. Crops with large leaves and small pink blooms stretched across the field, and in the middle, Sam spotted a row of wood cabins. She wondered what they were for, and then decided to save the thought for later. She needed to get back inside and tell JB what she'd experienced.
It was only when she turned around to face the house that she realized she was not alone. Crouched behind a tree trunk was a frail-looking girl dressed in a simple calico frock and apron. She was black, with a heart-shaped face and long, pretty eyelashes that framed a pair of frightened brown eyes. Sam could see the outline of bones in the girl's trembling limbs, and she suddenly understood. It was like waking to a gallon of ice water being poured over her head. How had it not occurred to her until now? All the signs were there—The grand architecture, the massive grounds, the time period, the location…
She felt sick to her stomach and ashamed for not realizing it before. She'd just spent the night on a slave plantation.