By the time I made it upstairs, the crying had stopped. In the small nursery, the ancient crib that had housed generations of Carlyles and MacPhersons held nothing but a tumble of tiny soft blankets. Fear made my pulse speed up. Then I heard a quiet hum filtering down the hall.
“Mom?” I knocked quietly on the half-open door, relief rushing through me when I saw the bundle in her arms. I tiptoed to the wooden rocker and knelt beside her. “What are you doing up? You know the doctor said you need rest.”
I traced a finger over the soft down that covered my little sister’s head. Her mouth puckered and her minuscule nose crinkled, as if my touch tickled.
“I think she was just lonely,” Mom said. “The minute I picked her up, she went right back to sleep.”
“You know Moira says we’re spoiling her, holding her all the time.”
Mom and I exchanged a smile at that, aware that Moira was the worst culprit of all, often wearing Ellie in a sling cradled against her chest as she cooked and cleaned.
My mom still looked terrible. Even nearly two months after the rescue, her freckles stood out like pebbles strewn across a snowbank. She adjusted the baby’s blanket, and in the golden glow of the bedside lamp, I saw spots of blood staining the bandage that covered her wounded palm.
I scooted close, and leaned my head against her shoulder.
“Based on all the shouting,” she said, patting my arm, “I assume Lu broke the news that she’s agreed to let Doug come with you?”
“You know about that, huh?”
“Lu asked my opinion. I told her it was a good idea.”
Surprised that my aunt still consulted Mom on anything, I asked, “You really think he should go?”
She stood, still a bit wobbly as she cradled the baby to her. I jumped up in case she needed support. But she walked tall and straight as she settled the warm bundle into the yellowed wicker bassinet near the foot of the bed.
Perching on the mattress, she patted the patchwork quilt next to her.
I settled in beside her. “Hope.” Turning slightly so she could look at me, she said, “I made a terrible mistake, keeping the truth from you all this time. But I want you to know that I did it to protect you, not because I believed you couldn’t handle it.”
The scents of baby powder and floor wax filled my nose as I inhaled sharply. My fists squeezed the rumpled bedclothes. In the weeks since our return from the twelfth century, Mom and I had skirted around the truth of my . . . origins. She’d been so ill, so fragile, that I’d had to tuck away the anger and confusion that had eaten away at me all this time.
I glanced at the divorce papers on her bedside table. Before Lucinda had returned them to Mom, she’d let me read through the document. One phrase had burned itself into my brain. “Parental Rights hearing will be scheduled for Minors #1 and #2 pending DNA test of Minor #2.”
Dad wasn’t letting go completely, then. It was something we’d eventually have to face. Mom, Ellie, and I.
For now, Mom took my hand in hers and squeezed. I was amazed to see her looking almost peaceful. Her shoulders were straighter, as if a heavy blanket had been lifted from them.
“We’re going to be fine.” Mom glanced past me to where tiny fists waved above the edge of the bassinet. “The three of us. We have each other, and the rest of our family, after all.” My sister grunted as if in affirmation, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“You’ve been worried.” It wasn’t a question, but I answered it.
“Yes. You scared us, Mom. You scared me.”
She pulled me into her arms as she whispered, “I—?I know. And I am so very sorry, sweetheart. And though we’ve had to put Ellie on the bottle, I must admit that with the medication, I feel . . . lighter, somehow.”
She released me, but held on to my hands. “The Viators. Believe me when I say that it is a dangerous path to walk, Hope. You’ve earned the right to make your own choice. But please, please make absolutely certain that it is what you want.”
I looked up. My heart flopped as—?for the first time in over a year—?I saw her behind the blue eyes. My mother. Peering out from behind the ghost who’d been inhabiting her skin. I nodded. “I do, Mom. I really do. I think it’s what I’m supposed to do. Does that make sense?”
She squeezed my hands tight. “Then I must insist upon one thing,” she said. “Come home. Promise me that you’ll always come home.”
I smiled. “I will. I promise.”
She let go and took a deep, deep breath. When she exhaled, I could almost see the darkness fading. And maybe that was enough for now.
Chapter 13
CURTAINS CLOSED AGAINST THE NIGHT, PHOEBE, MOIRA, AND I clustered at one end of the library table, picking through boxes of newspapers, old letters, and telegrams from the Viators’ extensive archives.
Though mismatched lamps and the remains of a fire cast a cheery glow over the room, it did little to dispel the friction that had electrified the house since dinner. At this late hour, everyone looked exhausted. Empty, ink-smudged teacups sat before us, though no one had touched Moira’s famous lemon squares.
Stifling a groan, I lifted yet another stack of old newspapers from the cardboard box and began to sort through for anything relating to March of 1895.
I’d just suffered my fiftieth paper cut when something caught my eye. “Hey.”
No one looked up.
“Hey!” I said louder. “I think I’ve got something.” I folded the yellowed newsprint carefully, then slapped it down in the center of the table. “Voilá!”
“Is that . . . ?” Phoebe leaned over the library table to look at the aged newspaper photo.
“Aye.” Moira peered through her readers. “Good lass, Hope. That’s old Nikola himself, cutting quite the dashing figure in white tie and tails, if I might add.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And it takes place on the very night his lab burns. Look, says here he was attending a soiree at the Vanderbilt mansion. That’s William Kissam Vanderbilt beside him.” In his tuxedo, the trim, neat Tesla stood next to the slightly blurred image of a shorter man. A pin attached to Vanderbilt’s jacket had caught the camera’s flash, blurring it and creating a smear of light across the picture. Tesla’s face was clearer as he frowned at the photographer. I squinted, trying to make out the smudged edge. “Is that a woman’s arm tucked into his?”
“Could be,” Moira mused. “Though Tesla never married or had any female involvements that we know of, he was quite popular. Of course, people talked as people do. Called him unnatural. Whispers often circulated. That he was homosexual or deviant. And this in a time when that was a criminal offense. Why, poor Oscar Wilde was arrested and sentenced to two years of hard labor for his relationship with the son of a marquis.”