Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (16 page)

“Hey,” Connor interrupts, unplugging the headphones. “You both need to watch this.”

A network logo flashes at the center of his screen—Cyrist International Network’s pink-and-blue lotus with the letters CIN across the center petal. A wire-frame globe spins slowly behind the lotus.

Breaking-news music—a faster, higher-pitched version of Connor’s shark-alert tone—builds the dramatic tension, and then a woman’s voice cuts in. “World leaders discuss global warming in Geneva.” An image of Paula Patterson standing next to someone I vaguely recognize—maybe the British prime minister?—flashes up in a square frame and then shifts to the background as a financial ticker takes the center square. “Making the most of your
Book of Prophecy
forecasts.” A doctor and patient appear next. “Exercising your constitutional right to a Cyrist physician. These stories and more this hour on
Cyrist International News
.”

The newscaster appears, a young Asian woman with carefully styled hair, seated at a curved black desk. “Hello. I’m Mindy Casey, in today for Parker Phillips. Before our featured stories, we have breaking news from Brazil—a rare public appearance by Sister Prudence at Rio’s Templo do Caminho. For details, we go to Alan Mabrey, live on location at Morro da Urca in Rio.”

The picture freezes momentarily on the landscape in Rio. Dark clouds hang in the sky, and there’s a slight drizzle in the air. A mountain with a huge statue of Jesus, his arms spread wide, is in the foreground on the right side. On the left, in sharper focus, is a gigantic temple perched on another mountain. It looks as though a second, higher peak rises from the top of the temple, but I think that’s just the camera angle—it’s probably behind the building. At the apex of that third, tallest mountain is a Cyrist symbol, even larger than the one on the Sixteenth Street Temple.

The camera shifts to a man standing in front of a massive white temple on the middle peak. “Alan Mabrey, at Rio’s Templo do Caminho, the central temple for Latin America and the Caribbean, where we’ve had a weather delay, Mindy.” One bit of hair keeps blowing across his forehead. “Sister Prudence was supposed to speak an hour ago, but nature hasn’t cooperated.”

Behind him, a crowd is gathered around the base of the temple. Most are looking up toward a rectangular balcony jutting out over the main entrance, lined with balusters and surrounded by TV cameras. A microphone is placed in the center, with another one off to the right.

“This is the first public appearance by Sister Prudence since her brief stop at the Cyrist Inaugural Ball after the last election, and—” He stops and presses his finger to his ear. “She’s coming out.”

The doors open, and four men step outside, all dressed in dark suits. Two of them carry rifles. They move toward the balcony’s edge, looking out over the crowd. One motions with his hand, and several people on the periphery, also armed, move in a little closer.

The guy closest to the door wears shades, despite the gloomy weather. He looks familiar. As the cameras zoom in closer, I see that it’s Patrick Conwell.

Conwell reaches behind him to open the door again, and Prudence steps out, followed by a short, dark man in clerical garb who scurries over to the microphone on the right. Having just seen Prudence in London, I’m expecting the older version, but this girl can’t be more than twenty. She wears a white toga-style dress that reminds me of the one she wore at Estero the night Kiernan and I watched her “miraculously” transform into the new incarnation of Cyrus.

Except she’s very pregnant. Seven months, possibly more. And her expression isn’t alive like it was that night at Estero—it’s flat, almost vacant, similar to when I saw her with Simon during Kiernan’s show at Norumbega.

I glance over at Katherine. A tear slides down her cheek and lodges in one of the lines near her mouth. I reach for her hand, but she moves closer to the screen.

Prudence stands at the center microphone, head down. Her hair is longer than I’ve seen it, except in some of the paintings online, and the dark curls partially shadow her face. She’s thin—her collarbones and shoulders look like they could slice through her skin, making the belly in front even more noticeable.

She gives Conwell a nervous glance, then starts to speak. I can’t see her hands, but she’s looking down, like she’s reading a script. Her voice is softer than I remember, more hesitant, but then I’ve never spoken with her when she was this young.

“I come here today with a prophecy, but those who walk in The Way know it is more than prediction. It is truth.” She pauses, and the small man at the other microphone begins to translate.

When he finishes, Prudence continues, “The
Book of Cyrus
tells us there will come a time when the earth rises up to punish her careless stewards, those who borrow her resources but fail to invest wisely, those who refuse to follow the . . .” She stops, swallows, and starts again. “Those who refuse to follow The Way of Cyrus.”

Another pause for translation, then she continues in a flat voice, “Already there are signs, even here in Brazil, where you felt the earthquake and suffered the worst drought in memory. There is still time, but the hours are few. Those who do not repent will face the wrath of Cyrus, for the day of the Culling draws near.”

When the translator finishes, Conwell grabs Prudence’s arm, but she pulls away and looks out at the crowd. Her face comes alive for the first time. “Go!” she screams, her voice pleading. “Go to the temple and ask for the—”

The last few words are yelled over her shoulder as one of the men reaches out and cuts off the microphone. Conwell grabs her by both arms. She tries to wrench away, but he drags her through the doorway. There’s a faint flash of blue and another man joins Conwell to help subdue her.

The camera shifts back to the translator, who’s looking down at the paper in his hands. The written speech must not include the last words she screamed, because he looks confused.
“Ir! Ir ao templo e imp—”

One of the security guards taps him on the arm.
“Perdão,”
he says softly, hurrying back into the temple.

The camera shifts back to the newscaster, who starts recapping the event.

“Stop,” Katherine says, her voice almost a whisper. She’s crouching next to the desk, her eyes fixed on the monitor. “Rewind it. Back to just before she warns the crowd.”

Connor does, and we once again hear “. . . the day of the Culling is near.”

As her face turns toward the camera, Katherine says, “Pause it. Pause it and zoom in.”

Connor stops at the point where Conwell drags Prudence through the door. “I can’t really zoom in. I’ll make it full screen.”

I see a flash of blue and tap the screen. “Can you see this, Connor?”

“Conwell’s head snapping back? Maybe she landed a punch.”

“I see it,” Katherine says. “Only it’s not blue, it’s orange. Someone came in with a key. But that’s not what I’m looking for. Go back a little more. I need to see her face.”

Connor plays around with it until he gets to the clearest, closest view of her face.

Katherine stares at it, and I move closer to the monitor so I can do the same. My mouth falls open, stunned, because now I see it, too.

“It’s not Prudence,” Katherine says.

And she’s right.

The differences are subtle, but still enough to be noticed by a mother. Or grandmother.

A lotus tattoo is on the back of the hand trying to push Conwell away, but the knuckles on that hand are reddened and raw. The nose is a little longer, the face slightly thinner, the lips fuller. The eyes are not the blue-gray that Pru inherited from Katherine.

They’re green.

The girl staring back at us isn’t Prudence. She’s me.

∞11∞

A
POLLO
H
ALL
, N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

May 10, 1872, 8:45 p.m.

“King George III and his Parliament denied our forefathers the right to make their own laws. They rebelled, they won, and they inaugurated the government we have today. But men do not seem to comprehend that they are now pursuing toward  women the very  
same
 despotic course that King George pursued toward the American colonies.”

The hall is packed with hundreds of people, well over half of them female. They’re a motley group. Some are plainly dressed, clearly working class. Others wear more expensive, fashionable attire—including Dolly Varden dresses like mine—as though they’re out for an evening at the theater.

In some ways, I guess they are. Victoria Woodhull is very much in command of her audience—petite, pretty, and quite feminine, despite the austere black dress. She paces as she speaks, her hands shaping her words. Every eye in the house follows her.

Colorful banners line the walls with slogans that aren’t quite on the same page, although I guess they might be from the same general book on reform. One argues for government to protect and provide from cradle to grave, while others advocate for the abolition of interest and for direct democracy where all laws are made by the people. Still others are biblical—“Neither said any that what he possessed was his own, but they held all things in common” and “Jesus said unto him, go sell all thou hath and give to the poor.” These two verses, which I’m certain Saul never considered for his
Book of Cyrus
, are emblazoned in gold letters on the blue banners near the stage.

I stand on tiptoe a few yards from the stable point, trying to get a better look at the women near the front of the hall. The goal is to spot Katherine, so that I can steer clear of her, and Prudence, so that I can get her off to the side for a private chat. But between the horrid hat creations that fill the hall and the fact that I’m somewhat vertically challenged, it soon becomes evident that the only way I’ll ever see who’s at the front is to be at the front.

For the next ten minutes, I inch forward. Victoria is now talking about social justice and the need for unity among reformers. I’m wishing I’d jumped in a little earlier because she seems to be building toward a climax.

I don’t realize the woman in front of me is Katherine until someone behind me pushes and I stumble into her. She’s wearing a dress of yellow and black, with three different floral patterns. Daisies and black-eyed Susans decorate one side of a straw hat that actually does look a bit like the monstrosity on my own head. The entire costume brings to mind a bumblebee in a field of flowers. I fully understand why Katherine hated it.

Fortunately, she barely gives me a second glance when I mumble an apology. She’s engaged in conversation with three other girls about my age—about her age as well, since she’s in her early twenties or very late teens here.

I know I need to get away and avoid interaction, but I can’t resist watching Katherine for a moment. Was this before she was assigned as Saul’s partner, before she fell in love with him? I remember the video entry in her diary, after he used her face as a punching bag, and wish, as I often do, that things were simpler. I’d pull her aside and tell her to steer clear of Saul at all costs, that his supposedly charming exterior is cover for a psychopath.

Of course, I can’t. There’s no guarantee doing that would stop the events now in motion and every chance that it would leave no one in position to prevent them. I send a mental apology in her direction and turn away, but as I do I see another girl who’s also watching Katherine.

It’s Prudence. Her dress is dark and shapeless, with no hint of the bustles and frills the fashionable women in the hall wear. At first I think it’s navy blue, until I realize the black fabric is slightly altered by the medallion she’s wearing beneath it. Her shoes are men’s work boots, and I’m guessing she’s raised more than a few eyebrows with her hair, which is so short it barely covers her ears. I know Pru doesn’t have the CHRONOS costuming team—or any sort of team, for that matter—but it looks like she’s wearing whatever she could snatch from an unattended clothesline.

Her expression, a strange mix of forlorn and angry, leaves no doubt that she knows she’s watching a younger version of her mother. Combined with the haircut, it makes her look far younger than seventeen.

I’m even more certain, looking at her now, that the pregnant girl at the Rio temple was not Prudence. The last few minutes here in Apollo Hall were the first time I’ve had any degree of success with forgetting that scene, but now the anxiety and questions come flooding back. As much as I want to convince myself that I’m wrong, that it was the lighting or the camera angle, I know better. That was me in Rio.

I just don’t understand
how
. From everything we know, Saul’s plan for rebooting the world begins in a few days. Even if the pregnancy was one of those pillow things—and I don’t think it was, given the way the toga was draped—that girl was thinner than I’ve ever been. Older, too. While I find it comforting to think that I’m alive beyond this next week, that girl looked haunted. Who else that she loves didn’t make it? And whose baby is she—am
I
—carrying?

I’m jolted out of my thoughts when the entire auditorium breaks into thunderous applause. Well, almost. The exception is Prudence, who’s giving me a very odd look. My CHRONOS key is under several layers of fabric and inside the leather case. There’s no way she can see the glow, so she’s either staring because I’m the only person not applauding or because she’s noticed the family resemblance.

I immediately start clapping and shift behind the two women to my left, hoping Pru will forget me once I’m out of sight. Talking to her here would be a bad idea with Katherine so close.

Unfortunately, I can’t move. One of my human shields stumbles backward into me as a tall, stout man pushes past several layers of people and hauls himself onto the platform. It takes him a few tries to be heard over the crowd, even though his voice, when it finally comes through, is booming.

“. . . the hearty concurrence of every member of this convention. I therefore nominate, as the choice of the Equal Rights Party for president of the United States, Victoria C. Woodhull.”

The applause this time is even more enthusiastic. The women next to me are cheering and crying at the same time. In the tiny space between their shoulders and swooping hats, I see Prudence, still staring at me. Ours are the only eyes not fixed on the stage.

Unable to move left, right, forward, or back, I sink down, yanking out my medallion as I go. Buffered by a sea of skirts, I pull up Plan B and blink out.

C
ITY
H
ALL
P
ARK
, N
EW
Y
ORK

November 2, 1872, 11:00 a.m.

The closest stable point to Woodhull’s office is 10 Broad Street, the New York Stock Exchange. But as Katherine pointed out before I left, that one has a little
No Women
icon at the bottom. She says it’s never wise to ignore that.

The nearest equal opportunity stable point is at City Hall Park, by the fountain, about a ten-minute walk from my destination. It’s Saturday, so the park is rather crowded, and the location is more exposed than I’d like. There’s a hedge for shelter in one direction and the enormous fountain in the other, leaving two sides open. I’m glad I took the time before I left Katherine’s to pinpoint a moment where I could blink in relatively unobserved.

I arrive in the same crouched position as when I left Apollo Hall and glance around to be sure no one sees me. A young couple strolls by a few seconds after I land, but they’re too interested in each other to pay attention to the gaudily dressed girl trying to dislodge her skirt from the hedge.

Once I pull free, I look around to get my bearings. With City Hall in front of me, I take a left onto the path and then another left when I reach Broadway. I’ve only been to New York once, when I was eight and totally obsessed with
Beauty and the Beast.
A souvenir magnet from the show—the magical rose inside a snow globe—is still on our fridge at the townhouse. Mom and Dad split up later that year, so it was the last vacation we took together. We rode a taxi down this way, but the only things I remember are Dad pointing out Ground Zero where the World Trade Center’s twin towers once stood and eating sandwiches in a place I dubbed Zucchini Park. It was near an ancient church—gigantic, gorgeous, and gothic—with tall spires, statues, and odd sculpted heads sticking out of the building. It probably wouldn’t have made an impression except for the fact that I was excited beyond belief about seeing the play that evening, and the church reminded me of the Beast’s castle.

I did my usual cyber-sleuthing before this jump, but Google Street View isn’t quite as helpful when 140 years have lapsed between the time you land and the time their car rolls through with its big camera on top. Still, this part of New York City was well established by 1872, and the vast majority of the changes around me are cosmetic. The trees in the park seem smaller, and there are fewer tall buildings nearby. City Hall, across from the fountain, gained a few additions over the years, but the architecture is largely the same. So is the general layout of the streets around the park.

Broadway itself, which is paved with something similar to cobblestone, only more regular in size and shape, isn’t especially crowded. The sidewalks are, however, perhaps because it’s quite nice for November, with just a slight nip in the air. Less pleasant weather would’ve been better. The foot traffic makes me nervous. It’s harder to avoid conversation with someone walking next to you than with someone riding past in a carriage.

There are few unescorted women. Most are with men or strolling together in small groups. They’re dressed in brown and black, with the occasional daring soul in navy blue. Either this isn’t the most fashionable area of town or Katherine was right about the dress being a bit much for daytime wear. I pull the shawl around my shoulders and lower my head.

A newsboy is hawking papers at the corner a few blocks down. I give him a three-cent nickel—yes, that’s a thing in 1872—and tuck the paper under my arm. Hopefully I’ll be less conspicuous hanging around outside Woodhull’s office if I’m occupied.

Halfway down the block, I have to step into the street to avoid the hindquarters of a dead horse blocking the sidewalk. There aren’t many horses on the roads, which seems strange. Most of the carriages and carts are drawn by oxen.

A large cemetery across the street catches my eye just as I’m about to turn onto Wall Street, and I get a sudden flash of déjà vu. We walked down this street. I remember running my finger along the metal rails on that cemetery fence and pointing up at the church—the one that reminded me of the castle in
Beauty and the Beast
.

The cemetery looks the same, but the church is gone. In its place is a Cyrist temple. It’s not as awe-inspiring as the previous building, but it’s equally massive and shiny white like all Cyrist buildings. How many people does it take to keep it that clean when everything around is stained by smoke and soot?

The temple gives me a shiver of unease, and I keep my eyes on its doors as I approach the corner. That’s a mistake because I collide with a kid who can’t be more than ten. His grungy face is level with my chest, something that appears to embarrass him at first, but he recovers quickly, grinning and wagging his eyebrows as he backs up toward the shoeshine stand where several other boys are gathered. He whistles a few bars of a tune I don’t recognize as I walk away. It must mean something to his buddies, however, because they howl with laughter and clap him on the back.

I give the preteen Romeo an annoyed look and turn onto Wall Street, picking up my pace. The kids don’t worry me. They’re just goofing around. It’s that temple that has the hairs on my neck at attention. Wall Street dead-ends directly across from the temple’s entrance. The therapist I saw last year would say I’m projecting my fears onto an inanimate building, and maybe that’s true, but as I glance back over my shoulder, the entrance looks like an open mouth and the windows look like eyes. I feel like it’s watching me, and I don’t breathe easily until I turn onto Broad Street, two blocks down.

Broad Street is more crowded than Broadway, but I don’t see any women. Men huddle in clusters along the sidewalk, and from the few bits of conversation I pick up, they’re making business deals. Maybe illegal deals, given the way their eyes dart about.

One of them, a tall, husky guy in a poorly fitting suit, notices me, and when I pause halfway down the block, trying to find number 48, he flicks his cigar out into the street and steps in front of me. His eyes travel from head to toe, taking leisurely stops in strategic locations along the way. I feel the blood rising to my cheeks.

“Need some help?” he says.

“No, thank you. I see the office I’m looking for. My friends are waiting for me.”