The Hourglass Door (44 page)

I know you are worried about Zo and his friends. I know you want to protect the integrity of the river. And I know it seems crazy—that the only way to stop Zo is to let him go—but trust me, your choice is the only thing that will give us a chance for success against him.

I knew you had to make this choice on your own. It’s why I couldn’t tell you what I was seeing in the river. It’s why I gave you the key as early as I did. So that, when the time came, you would have everything you needed to make the choice. And I knew Icould trust you to do the right thing—no matter the cost.

I hope I was able to return Valerie to you. The ripples around her are murky and complicated. I hope she survived this intact.

I hope you survived intact as well—your heart, I mean. I know how painful it is to lose someone you love, to let someone go, to leave someone behind. Hold on to me, Abby, to my memory, to the time we spent together and the dreams of the future we shared. That way, a part of me will still be alive with you wherever—and whenever—we are.

I promise you, Abby, I will stop Zo. I’ll protect you. And I know we’ll be together again. I promise.

I take comfort knowing that in all the variations I saw, one thing remained constant—my love for you.

I do love you, Abigail Beatrice Edmunds. I love you through all the twists and turns of the river. I love you beyond the borders of the bank and back.

Do you remember when I told you about the poet Dante and how he survived the circles of hell and the tiers of purgatory and ascended to heaven to catch a glimpse of his Beatrice? When it was time for them to part, he offered one last prayer to his beloved. A prayer that rings true for me as well.

   O lady, you in whom my hope gains strength,

you who, for my salvation, have allowed

your footsteps to be left in Hell, in all

   the things that I have seen, I recognize

the grace and benefit that I, depending

upon your power and goodness, have received.

   You drew me out from slavery to freedom

by all those paths, by all those means that were

within your power. Do, in me, preserve

   your generosity, so that my soul,

which you have healed, when it is set loose from

my body, be a soul that you will welcome.

I don’t know exactly what the river holds for me now, but if this letter is a list of things-Dante-knows, then this much I know for sure: It was worth it to catch a glimpse of you.

All my love,

Forever,

Dante

I read the letter again. And again. The tears flowed faster each time. I could hear Dante’s voice in my head, quiet and confident, and I missed him to my core. I may have made the right choice, but that didn’t mean I felt good about it.

Eventually, I set the letter aside to look at the other papers Dante had left for me in the envelope.

I gasped.

My tears stopped instantly.

The rest of the pages were drawings. I recognized Dante’s strong hand in the delicate lines that covered the paper. My eyes flew over the straight lines, the curved lines. Arrows pointing in all directions. Labels next to everything.

Page after page of illustrated gears, wires, springs.

Page after page of detailed instructions.

Blueprints for a door—one that could be freestanding in its frame.

Patterns to trace—a spiral shell; a half-sun, half-moon circle; a musical staff. A wave, a maze, an hourglass. A heart with a tiny keyhole in the center.

Plans for a brass, three-pronged hinge—three carved notches jutting out from a solid back like a capital letter
E.

I set the papers down on my lap, the pages fluttering around me like angel wings, whispering like wishes.

Here was da Vinci’s greatest and most terrible invention.

I read everything. Every label, every note, every instruction. Hardly any of it made sense. I’d never been good with measurements or visualizing three-dimensional objects from a two-dimensional drawing, but I couldn’t stop looking at the blueprints. I savored every word Dante had written, every line he’d drawn, imagining the pen in his hand, flowing, dancing over the blank pages until they were filled to the edges with his memories.

It must have taken him days to draw these, I realized. Weeks, even. He must have known he wouldn’t have much time to finish them once Zo set his own plans into action. I remembered too that Dante had been working on something the night of the fire—something he’d tucked into an envelope—before he went to the bank to stop Zo.

At the time, I’d thought it was his report on da Vinci’s inventions. I was almost right. I smiled, wondering what Ms. McGreevey would have said if Dante had turned this in as his final paper.

I was running my fingers over the papers, laughing at the idea, when I saw my name in a small note on the last page.

Abby: Are you still willing to live without limits? Will you join me?

I looked up at my empty room in a daze, my heart already answering, not waiting for my mind to catch up.

I had to get out of the hospital.

Now.

~

Mom didn’t want me to go alone. She offered to go herself. She suggested that Dad drive me, even though it was just next door. She threatened to send Hannah with me.

“Mom,” I said, “it’s not that far. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not strong enough. You just got out of the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” I said for the thousandth time. “It’s only seventy-nine steps.”
 

“You counted?”

“Childhood game.” I shrugged and walked out the door.

The sun was bright, the sky clear. It was a perfect spring day. I breathed deeply, enjoying the smell of the flowers. Ever since my return from the bank, I’d noticed my senses were heightened, as though my time away from the world had made me appreciate it all the more when I’d returned. I wondered if it was a temporary thing or if it would last.

As I walked the seventy-nine steps, I was filled with memories. Some good—like all those birthday parties bowling with Jason or the time we got lost in the woods and he held my hand for the first time. Some not so good—like the time I thought Jason had told a lie about me and I’d given him the silent treatment for a month.

I even remembered our first kiss. Maybe not a sweet memory, but certainly not sour anymore.

I carried the papers in my hands carefully, almost reverently.

I wondered if Jason would be able to help. If he’d even be willing to help. I didn’t know what I’d do if he said no.

I knocked on the door and waited, my heart in my throat—and in my hands.

Jason opened the door, and the sunlight turned him golden from head to toe. I blinked in the increased brightness and looked up at my good friend, hoping he would have the power to save me.

“Hi, Abby,” he said, surprise in his voice.

I held out the papers Dante had left for me—the blueprint to his past, the doorway to our future—and smiled my best smile for my childhood hero.

“Hi, Jason. I have a favor to ask. I need you to help me build this.”

Acknowledgments

I remember when I was a sophomore in high school, I had to write a little paragraph for my creative writing class about my goals and dreams. It was easy: I was going to write a book and be published. And now, here it is. Here I am. And what I didn’t know back in high school—what I couldn’t have known—is how sweet a dream realized can taste. It’s delicious. And addicting.

So I would love to take this chance to thank the people who helped me realize this very important dream of mine.

First, my husband, Tracy. It’s funny—I wrote a hundred thousand words and yet I struggle to find even a few words to express how much I love him. I don’t think I could say everything I want to say to Tracy even if I had a hundred million words. That’s okay. He’s always been able to understand the language of my heart.

Thanks to my family—the Gaunts, the Mangums, the Bailies, and the Cookes—a girl couldn’t ask to be loved by a better family.

And thanks, Mom, for always being willing to talk shop with me—including the pros and cons of paper clips and file folders and the proper placement of a semicolon.

And a very special thank you to my niece, Amanda, a talented author in her own right who read my manuscript three times and gave me excellent insight and suggestions I otherwise would have missed. She may be only thirteen, but she is wise beyond her years. I love you, Mandy!

Thanks to my darling friend, Valerie, who has made me laugh since elementary school. She’ll always be Queen of the Prom in my book.

Thanks to all my friends at Shadow Mountain who worked so hard and believed in me from the beginning, including but certainly not limited to Chris Schoebinger, Emily Watts, Tonya Facemyer, and Richard Erickson.

And last, but not least, a heartfelt thanks to my fabulous writing group for the years of Saturday morning breakfasts, good books, and valuable advice: Tony and Rachel, Pam, Crystal, and Heidi. Meet me at the Lamborghini dealership, guys—I’m buyin’ the yellow one!