We followed Aunt Lucinda’s tall frame past crates bristling with swords, chests packed with bags of gold and silver coin, glass-topped cases brimming with ornate jewels. Warm, dry air gusted from multiple vents to keep the contents of the room free of rust or mold. The glare of fluorescent lights exposed thousands of not-quite-legal acquisitions, gathered by previous generations of Viators. Against the far walls, marble forms of half-naked Greeks and ebony statues with creepy jackal heads stood at attention. As we reached the door inset into the back wall of the stone vault, Lucinda called a halt.
“This is where we say farewell,” she said as we gathered around her. “As you are aware, the stairs are a bit taxing for me at the moment.”
The overhead light wasn’t kind to my aunt. Shadows the color of an old bruise ringed her eyes, and her face held a sallow tinge. Even the trek through the cellar and vault had caused sweat to bead at her hairline and on her upper lip.
She looked over each one of us in turn. A final inspect-ion.
I’d only ever seen Mac in jeans and flannels, but the tweed suit with bow tie and vest he now wore looked strangely right on his lanky frame. Lucinda gave Phoebe’s dark housemaid gown and gray cape a nod, while Collum bore her scrutiny of his rough wool pants and suspenders with his usual stoic calm. With a flat newsboy’s cap in hand and pistol holstered beneath one arm, he stared coolly back.
Only I fidgeted under my aunt’s attention. Moira had been kind when tightening the corset, only squeezing half my organs out of shape in deference to the journey ahead. Still, beneath the layers of shift, stockings, corset, and petticoats, all topped with a fashionable plum wool traveling gown and cape, I was already sweating.
Aunt Lucinda’s eyes, the tired color of overwashed denim, scanned me from head to toe. “A lady’s posture is one of her best features. No slumping, Hope.”
“As if I could,” I muttered.
“I realize we’ve discussed all this ad infinitum; however, I shall go over a few key points again, as they do bear repeating,” Aunt Lucinda said. “As always, keep your interactions with the locals to a minimum. Use every caution when dealing with Nikola Tesla. No matter what happens, he must be thoroughly convinced to destroy both the enhancement and the duplicate device, and to never attempt to rebuild either. Since it appears Celia has already broken the proverbial ice with Jonathan Carlyle . . .” Her already thin lips pinched in annoyance. “Use your best judgment where he is concerned. But offer no additional information beyond the specific mission.” I bristled when her sharp-eyed gaze snapped to Phoebe and me. “You are prohibited from making any mention of the unfortunate events that will directly affect Jonathan’s family. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
We had brought it up to her only once, two days earlier, as she sat sipping tea in her office.
“Can’t we at least warn the man?” Phoebe had asked insistently. “We could simply explain that they should never mess with any existing trees when they’re back in their past. We don’t have to go into specifics.”
“Please,” I pleaded. “What could be wrong with that? It would give those poor little girls a fighting chance, at least.”
Unwilling to even discuss the matter, Lucinda had shut us down in seconds.
“It may seem hard of me, even uncaring,” Lucinda went on now. “But I assure you that is not the case. The incident with Jonathan and Julia’s daughters has already occurred. It is in our past, regardless of the inevitability that the two timelines will—?temporarily—?touch. To tell him anything would be breaking the Viators’ cardinal rule—?a rule, may I remind you, that Jonathan Carlyle himself set down.
“This will not be easy,” she went on. “Buy Tesla’s cooperation, if you must. Our accounts at the 1895 Bank of New York have more credit than you will ever need. In addition, Mac carries with him enough currency and gold to cover any additional expense. Guard it—?and yourselves—?well. You all know your roles. Do well and come home safely.”
Not an emotional person by nature, my aunt’s chin still wobbled as she turned on her heel to sweep back through the vault. As the others filed through the narrow security door I watched her go, shooting up a quick prayer that she’d be all right. That they’d find a cure soon. I didn’t always agree with her, but I could not bear thinking what might happen to the Viators without her rock-steady leadership.
By the time we descended the many, many flights of stairs carved into the heart of the mountain, my thighs were screaming.
Though I’d been inside the strange cavern several times before, I couldn’t help but hesitate on the last step. The first time I stepped down onto the mosaic floor and felt that strange, prickling power of the intersecting ley lines surge over my feet, I almost bolted.
Only two things stopped me. A wisp of optimism that my mom might still be alive. And the two man-size towers on either end of the chamber. The instant I’d seen them, I knew their creator. Nikola Tesla. I’d always been fascinated with the man, and seeing miniaturized versions of his famous Wardenclyffe Tower kept me from running.
Hewn out of black rock, the cavern was roughly oval, the walls covered with carvings of ancient symbols and languages no one now alive could read. The closest translation—?“the Dim Road”—?seemed pretty accurate to me.
“Cutting it a bit close,” Doug, in his sober black valet suit, called. “We only have about seven minutes.”
Phoebe sucked in a breath as Doug’s fingers rose to his hair in a nervous habit.
I realized there was no longer anything left for him to tug. Doug’s finger-length dreadlocks had been chopped away, the remaining hair smoothed down and parted in the middle. With round, steel spectacles having replaced his normal frames, Doug Carlyle looked like a different person. He knew his mixed heritage and height would make him stand out. To make this journey with us, he had endured the most drastic transformation.
Phoebe’s hands were fisted at her sides as she stared. If I was startled, I couldn’t even imagine how Phoebe felt.
“What do you think, then?” he asked Phoebe in voice so soft I barely heard it.
“I—?you could’ve told me,” she said.
“You weren’t speaking to me.”
Her left eye twitched. The frown line reappeared. “And I’m still not,” she snapped, and stomped off to a corner to wait.